Burn

"We write to communicate to the hearts & minds of others what is burning inside of us. And we edit to let the fire show through the smoke."

~A. Polotnik~

I have been writing. Hard things. Things that ache up through the fingers of my left hand, gripping the pen for all its worth....There are things I am scared to touch, even just on the page. Memories I don't want spilled because I wonder if the past will bleed out of me once the skin has been cut and, more importantly, if the scars will scab back over and become invisible again beneath the careful layers I arrange about my tender heart.

But this writing feels alive to me...a force of nature, something I'm not fully in control of but feel lighter, by degrees, with each line I get out. On Tuesday, I went to the magic cafe and turned a flash of memory I had into a full, long poem I called "Rapunzel" on impulse. When the regular group assembled to read, as we do each month, I hesitated before opening my notebook. There is this part of me who has defenses locked "on" and doesn't want to reveal a single vulnerable point. This has become a tough shell for me because of the life I've had and the people I have known. But, I am also shot through with these sparks of light and all I want to do is express...is to say: here, THIS is what it was like for me--THIS is what happened.

When my writing friends looked at me expectantly, I made some apologies and then plunged into the beginning of it:

"Don't bother telling me

how you admire my strong backbone

the courage of my neck

refusing to bend for you

like a velvet-petaled pansy does

for soft rain.

Don't think that your fingers

in my hair are the only ones

my scalp--like my heart--

responds to being touched

first, with fire--

then iced-over numbness."

It goes on & on from there, cutting fairy-tales with some dark-thicketed memories and though the poem itself is fairly shadowy and dense, I felt luminous and plain after I read it. When I looked up at the group, though, there was a heavy silence for a moment and my heart pounded. There you go, I thought to myself, getting too naked...saying too much...exposing yourself and your inky secrets. But then beautiful L. breathed and said, "That was one loud and powerful shout" and the others started speaking back to me what lines hit them right between the eyes and as they talked, I nodded and exhaled again, not even realizing I'd been holding my breath. C. nodded and said, "Thank you. I mean that," and I felt her really, intently looking at me and instead of wanting to retreat and hide out behind self-depreciating humor or embarrassment, I held her stare and said, "You're welcome."

This current vein of work isn't polished and it certainly isn't pretty. But, it is moving through me all the same. I have my second novel already 200 pages deep and have a full notebook of character sketches for a third. The first is "done" and making its rounds but these poems cut with essay fragments are also blistering through my pages. I am in a time of total transformation and mystery in my life...both on and off the page.