Creativity, poetry, poets, Self Identity

What Stimulates Your Creativity?

This morning We Wanted to Be Writers newsletter popped up first on my reading list. My eyes landed on a headline highlighting a poetry collection by Clare Martin.

For me, few morning rituals are better than a great cup of coffee while perusing a thought provoking poem or article.

Ten poems filled the page.  I ended up reading all of the poems twice, some four times. 

Luis Alberto Urrea, author of Queen of America, says (her poetry is) “dark and lovely and full of a deep organic pulse. Like the landscape of her beloved Louisiana, her work is alive with mystery. You could swim in this hot water, but there are things down inside its darkness that might pull you away forever. It is an exquisite drowning.”

I couldn’t get two of her poems out of my head. Images swirled until I observed the scenes in the poem unfold.

Woman sitting on the edge of the ocean-gettyimages.com
Woman sitting on the edge of the ocean-gettyimages.com

SHE WALKS INTO THE SEA

She walks into the sea, out of the sea, into the sea, swinging her arms. Casting the net, her hanging breasts are like soundless bells. She crouches on an outcropping of rocks holding the line. If the nets are empty, her children will feed on night—fill their mouths with clouds, devour stars. She shovels star lit pebbles with a bare foot. She faces the moon, pulling hard. She pulls to her chest, pulls with her back, her thighs, and the muscles of her neck. Her face stiffens with anger. She breathes and desperation breaks. The haul is large, glittering. Spiked fins slap her calves. She bleeds—

Children gather for the slaughter.

First published in Lily Literary Review

Male purple sunbird-gettyimages.com
Male purple sunbird-gettyimages.com

MUSE

We marry into grief
and the poems pile

up against our ribs.
Secrets hold to us

and we hold to them.
We are bound to endings

as the culmination
of light binds us.

Darkness: a berry,
blood on the tongue—

It has been a long time
since we have written poetry.

Why do we wait?
Fault-lines split the earth.

The ink of the crow
marks the cloud—

Shall we not muse
upon its bantering wings?

Clare Martin’s debut collection of poetry, Eating the Heart First, was published fall 2012 by Press 53 as a Tom Lombardo Selection. These poems are from the collection. 

Several things can help stimulate creativity: walks in nature, a bubble bath, music, looking at a photo, or just being quiet. So what gets your creative side glowing?

poetry, Travel, Wordsmith Studio

A Poem of Preparation

Airliner in danger-Gettyimages.com
Airliner in danger-Gettyimages.com

Can you prepare for possible  death? 

In the gap between the “heads up, you may die,” and your actual departure much goes on with the mind, body, and soul.

Heavy stuff, I know, but I began thinking of this when I read that the weekly writing prompt, over on Wordsmith Studio, is “Preparation.” 

I immediately thought of a trip my mother and I took to Paris several months ago.  We boarded a plane from LAX to Washington D.C and changed planes to proceed to France. We had several rocky minutes, bouncing up and down, before the Captain’s voice erupted loud and clear over the microphone.

I began jotting words in my travel journal.

The second time the Captain spoke is when I, and probably everyone else on that plane, experienced our own preparation. My first thought was to pray through the apprehension around me. My mother and I linked hands.

This is Your Captain

“We are having mechanical difficulties.”

Headphones off,

passengers alert,

mechanical difficulties?

The video screen shows a map of the east coast,

Atlantic Ocean and Europe.

The tiny plane marker is a quarter of the way over the Atlantic

on the USA side

Shivers and shakes mark the minutes

Turbulence grows strong,

“Due to these difficulties we are adjusting our plans…”

speaker crackle, then silence

“We are redirecting to Washington Dulles airport..”

several murmurs, what’s, why’s

“Redirecting is necessary, we are over the ocean,

too much space to cross..”

people stand, anxiety floats,  babies wake

zippers open, purses readjust, whispers abound

The plane tilts to the left,

breath catches in throat,

Another dip, a rumble,

tremors beneath our collective feet.

“Please…oh no…”

fingers grip seat arms,

our bodies shift to attention

to appease the quaking thunder
“Crew take your seats,” the pilots voice is strong,

direct, like a father saying “Kid’s stop it.”

Passengers glare, foreheads pull down,

lips squeeze over tight teeth.

The plane dips,

a roller coaster for half a second,

“oh…ahh…shit… no,”

escape from parted lips no longer pink

gasps that feed fear fill the air,

babies cry.

We returned safely to Dulles, went through hours of rescheduling while listening to rude passengers yelling to the customer service agents about the delay and the fact that we had to stay in a hotel overnight.

I didn’t like it either, but compared to what could have happened I was easy-peasy.  My mom sat in her wheelchair and dozed while I took care of business.

I’m certain she was still praying.