Poetry gods

snowglobes I’ve been making these “snow Globes” the past couple of days and pat always asks why my crafty projects take so damn long because they do – I’m always straining my eyes toward the end of them, fingers burnt off from hot glue, sliced from scissors, numb. I dunno, I shrug covered in bits of paper, glitter, kosher salt; my back bent like a trunk sustaining years of wind or in my case hours of hovering over mason jars.
Christmas was wonderful, but I don’t really feel like writing about it – I’m too tired and now stuck at work while our family is out galavanting through the desert and I feel hopelessly cooped up and bored.
My heart has felt like it’s going to explode all day, a sore throbbing under my ribs, a beat up leather mitt and I thought coming here to release the valve would help a little, but so far what’s troubling me has no way of getting out. I’ve been trying for months to get it out and I just can’t.
There’s no hope of cutting out the things we’ve done, the people we’ve met, our experiences, griefs, triumphs. Right now I’m just trying to mold the aches into places more soothing than the surface of my skin. I’m trying to bury them a little deeper in shoe boxes and bring them out only when I can remember them fondly. It’s probably impossible – at least right now it feels impossible, but I’m hoping to adapt at some point, mold them to fit my body.

We went to church on Christmas. I’m not religious and there are times in past years I ducked out of the whole affair all together, but I decided to go to be with family knowing that as much as that old white man tried, he wouldn’t fill me with his holy spirit. I didn’t burst into flames, so that’s a plus, but I did make a joke about some cherub being the elf on the shelf and it’s possible I was docked a few points by that remark. Half the time I was staring at all the stained glass and trying not to fall asleep, the echoes of human voices has a serious lull. And the other half I felt like the priest was talking to children who were about 7 years old looking out at the crowd of mostly adults telling us to lose ourselves to God and explaining how to be a better person and how to befriend and pray for your enemies like he prayed for the Sandy Hook shooter. I thought, well I did too, how could you not pray for that poor kid and all those poor kids – are there really people out there who let their hate cloak everything they see? I suppose there are, but I guess I don’t see how church changes that intrinsic instinct in people. One hour every week of trying to be a better person is like trying to run a marathon without training.
I kept thinking how much poetry is my “religion.” Writing and reading poetry helps me understand the world in a way organized religion never has. It’s honest. It’s truth. It’s life. Everything you need to know about life is in poetry. Every question you have, you can find in poetry. It’s a connection between individuals and the land and other people. Sitting in front of an old white man has never inspired me. Spirituality is something we find in ourselves by ourselves because of our experiences with other people.
Poetry is my god.

(this is half-assed post. Forgive me, but I’m trying to get the hell out of work for a manicure my first manicure EVER and I don’t want to write anymore about old white men.)

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6 Responses to Poetry gods

  1. It’s no half assed at all. It is filled with pure truth. And this:

    “My heart has felt like it’s going to explode all day, a sore throbbing under my ribs, a beat up leather mitt and I thought coming here to release the valve would help a little, but so far what’s troubling me has no way of getting out.”

    Somehow it helps to have some say it so clearly, so that I can understand, yes, this is exactly how I am feeling. Maybe it’s the season? It stirs up the darkest imaginings. I am suffering with them today, and I can’t even find the words to exorcise them by writing. So to read here, it is a gift. Thank you.

    • rachvb says:

      Angella, I hope we write and others write to feel less alone. I know I do. Because the moment we say some truth aloud – someone in the world can relate and we are all connected that way. I’m glad I could help you pinpoint something. It’s such a mess inside (at least for me). Every so often the things I’ve compartmentalized in myself comes crashing off the shelf and I’m stuck dealing picking them up and examining them again. I wish they had an expiration date. And I suppose some of them do.
      Sending you love. I hope your heart is mending today. Mine feels better. xoxo

  2. forgive all the typos.

    not half assed at all…

    to have someone say it so clearly…

    well, you know.

    • rachvb says:

      Were there typos?? I didn’t notice =) Sorry it took so long to respond – man I’ve been tired the past few days! I got a shiny sparkly manicure for the new year and had a girls night with family last night. Thank god for the people in our lives who pull us up without even knowing.

  3. Ms. Moon says:

    You’re not alone. No, you are not.

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