art, creative, process, writing

making of….day one.

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One of the first things on my list is ‘Eve and all our Grandmothers’ a spoken word show I hope to be sharing in 2016, but before that I thought I’d post a poem about struggling with processes – because it’s ironic that the day I start a blog is the day I’m feeling quite so struggling and stuck.

My child has a language disorder which causes a lot of breakdowns in communication, this poem is about one moment but also reminds me of the struggle I feel sometimes to get past my own frustration and figure out what it is I’m getting at.  When you want to get something and your inner toddler stands in your way, or screams and kicks on the floor.

Today my inner toddler is rebelling, I have a cold, everything feels like it’s against me and anxiety is pressing on every move. But I’m not the first creative to get stuck, or the first mother to see my child as a mirror to my soul.

Today I am pushing through mud, today I’m taking an hour to boil an egg.

Why it takes an hour to boil an egg.

For breakfast you want egg

You say ‘e’ and stand hands together in prayer

Around the ‘o’ to show

Egg.

 

‘What kind of egg?’ I ask

Scrambled, fried, boiled, poached?

I mime, you nod. I repeat with whisking whirring palm.

You nod.

 

And when egg arrives

Golden whisked with love

Gleaming like a fluffy snowfall

No smile

You cry, hulking sobs

 

‘Normal!’

You scream

tears and fists fly out

I try to calm with anti-intuitive

whispers against the rage of your storm

 

We make signs to each other

Hands throwing shapes

Ravers bouncing against

Walls of misunderstanding

Please let this be it

Hands in prayer around an O

 

Tears dry as the new egg arrives

It is boiled egg that is normal egg

Translated

And another attempt at communication

Begins with a hug.

 

 

 

 

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