04. A poem and a prompt – Writing through fear
When you don’t want to write about the thing, and yet you do
The voiceover in which I realise I don’t know how to pronounce archipelago - keeping things perfectly imperfect, as always
If ever there was a prompt to spark an existential crisis at 3.30am, it was this one. In a workshop on writing through grief, we were tasked with responding to Mary Oliver’s When Death Comes.
Led by effervescent Scottish poet and writer, Michael Pedersen on behalf of Moniack Mhor, this month-long poetry course saw us voyage through an archipelago of atypical love poems, navigating loss and giving voice to animals and magical creatures along the way. Not your average January.
One of my biggest takeaways from the past few weeks is how wonderful it is to listen to poets read their work. I’ve been immersed in the world of poetry lately, attempting to give myself an apprenticeship of sorts, and to learn the landscape of a publishing industry that pulses to a different beat. During this time I’ve read a lot of poems and yet, it hadn’t occurred to me that listening to them could be an option. I live in a rural area and am a parent/carer, so getting out to the warm glow of spoken word nights isn’t the easiest. But it turns out there is a glittering collection of poetry videos waiting to be explored over on YouTube.
Another leap was experiencing a one-to-one tutorial, receiving thoughtful line edits and revelling in the way they elevated each poem. All while being inspired each week to write fast, share generously and give feedback to fellow poets. Writing can be a lonely business. To collaborate and create in this way sent visceral joy figure-of-eighting through my core.
As for the prompts. Moth voices I can do. Atypical love is my default setting. But when it comes to thinking about my demise, that brings up all the old death anxiety. Particularly as a parent to a child with complex support needs.
At first I thought of lost friends. Of the flamboyant floral shirt my big cousin wore and how I rushed to deliver a pint of water into the charm of his hungover hand. Of my horse-mad pal hanging upside down to wake me from the top bunk, before landing in a heap of laughter on the carpet. The way I would walk into the club and hear “Sis!” yelled across the sticky floors. My brother-from-another-mother scooping me up in his brown bear hug. Some things are too big to squeeze into a single poem.
We were given a week to write to this prompt. A gentle invitation, with a get out clause. I avoided thinking about it by day but it burrowed in while I was asleep, swiping my breath like the landslide of grief after that first moment of light. Three am fumbles for my phone, trying to catch lines already threatening to leave.
I rebelled. Decided to reject this creative offering and tried to craft a research protocol instead. Told myself that due to the recent loss of my mental equilibrium, I would be opting out on this occasion. And, of course, that’s when the words came. With less than an hour of the ‘homework’ deadline left, my fear of not delivering, combined with ADHD last minute magic, sent my pen flying across paper.
So here it is. My response to Mary Oliver’s When Death Comes. Hers mature and majestic, mine trying not to think about the enormity of it all and utterly failing.
When Death Comes - After Mary Oliver - When Death comes I will ask to see her ID, can’t be too canny. Safety princess, my ten-year old taunts. How are you keeping? I’ll enquire, see Death’s face contort with confusion shadow of a simmering grin. When Death comes I will slip into my silk moth dress, no more saving sublime threads for special. Let’s go dancing, I’ll coax, you & me throwing marvellous shapes under a celestial mirrorball. Just think of the selfies. I’ll carve kisses into the cracks of palms, weave a sumptuous suit of self-worth, shield my love from her gristly breath, when Death comes.
If you’d like to have a go at responding to a poem this week, here are a few to consider. You could take the title and use it for your own, or try using the first or last line. Alternatively, go rogue and see where the muse takes you. Remember to share your favourite line, or the entire poem if you’re feeling brave, in the comments - I’d love to see where you land.
When Death Comes - Mary Oliver (spoken version - written version)
Forsythia - Ada Limón (spoken version - written version)
Patient Intake Questionnaire - Caroline Bird (spoken version - written version)
Hello, I am Scotland - Michael Pedersen (spoken version - written version)
And if you find yourself having a(nother) mental health wobble, then be sure to support yourself in whatever ways you need to. The words will be waiting when you’re ready to return. This winter is long. But poetry is forever.
Looking for more ways in to poetry? Paid subscribers get access to the Chasing Words And Wonder archive, including the other pieces in this series and more musings on the creative process.
LOVE LOVE LOVE
So good 👆🏻🧡