The weight of snow

There’s something tugging on the trunk of me. shaking everything free. But it’s not as freeing as it sounds. I ventured out into the world today. I saw a middle-aged Hispanic busboy waiting patiently for two overweight middle-Americans to leave their table so he could do his job and clear their empty glasses. Of course they didn’t see him. they took their time, oblivious. And when they left he dumped the watery cokes, wiped the table and cradled the tip like eggs in his hands to get clean what was underneath. He set the folded bills down gently in the middle of the table for the waitress.
the roads make spines through the snow. I’m deep. without confidence. Unsure how to dig myself out of this one. Sometimes I feel I’ve drank too much of the water. I want to give up and then someone tells me to go deeper. But instead I go back to the beginning. Wonder what all the work was for. Hear myself say it’s for the next poem, but I don’t feel it. Not yet anyway.

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4 Responses to The weight of snow

  1. It sounds as if the snow itself is burying you, deeply in its cocoon, and you can’t figure how to get out. Sometimes we struggle to find the poem and it comes out looking scratched and raw. Sometimes, though it seems antagonistic to what you think you need to do, the best thing is to relax into the slowness, the quiet, and just listen. It’s Keats”s ‘negative capability’ where when the poet doesn’t know what’s next, that there is no striving after, no struggle, no need to wrangle or wrestle the language to the ground, but to sit, quietly, with no need to do anything but be quiet and wait, without anxiety. That last part is what’s most difficult for me. xo

    • rachvb says:

      yes, it is time for space. I swear there needs to be a manual for poets born into the world.
      But it’s time for me to get back to the garden, as Joni would say. Find a bit of peace.
      I think I’ll write about ponies and rainbows for a while. 😉
      Thank you. Your words are a great comfort. They help me rest a little easier.

  2. Dear Rachel
    I think the incubation phase of our work is vital to whatever eventually arrives on the page. For something will. Much trust is required. Much trust.
    Thinking of you in your digging space. Do write about ponies and puddles and rainbows for a while. xo

    • rachvb says:

      Trust and balance. They are always so hard to keep at bay. It’s been hard to incubate something so uncomfortable. I’ve wanted it out and over. But I think I’ve found a flashlight. I think spring will be a time to write about ponies and puddles and rainbows. I think now I’ll try to use the winter as long as I can. Thank you always. My thoughts are with you as well.

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