in the temple of night
the only audible benediction
sweet hymn of your breath
Archive for September, 2024
One Wondering About All that Goes Unheard
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged breath, night, sleep, temple on September 30, 2024| 4 Comments »
Baking Cherry Chocolate Cake with Jack
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged baking, cake, love, nephew on September 29, 2024| 6 Comments »
It takes five times longer to bake
a cake with my nephew, and I love
every minute of helping him clean up
the mess of the egg which is somehow
splattered across the counter, love
how excited he is to scrape the sides
of the bowl, how somehow he turns
buttering the pan into a game.
“That was fun!” he shouts as he leaves
the kitchen, his mop of blonde hair
flopping as he lopes away, and
I feel the great squeeze of ache
that comes from loving someone
so much we almost can’t bear the loving,
and yet it’s the only thing we want.
Y-Linked Inheritance
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged brother, father, football, legacy, love on September 29, 2024| 4 Comments »
My brother paces the length of the football field,
following the play, unable to sit. I watch him
pause in the end zone, hands in his pockets,
eyes focused to the game, chin up, body tense.
How many times did I watch my father watch him
the same way he now watches his own sons play?
“Hold your blocks,” he yells, his voice hoarse
and deep, full of certainty from his own days
in cleats. “Come on, Defense,” he growls,
half admonishment, all encouragement,
and I fall in love all over again with my father,
now dead, and my brother, so alive, how they give
of themselves as if every moment is a goal line.
I hear how every hoarse syllable, barked out
in harsh urgency, carries inside its violence
an almost unbearable tenderness,
a spiraling toss of light.
One Ongoing Dance
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged connection, love, sunflower on September 27, 2024| 6 Comments »
in a field of dried weeds
you the golden sunflower
I the bee
Ode to Digging Potatoes
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dirt, earth, gardening, grief, harvesting, potatoes, soil on September 27, 2024| 11 Comments »
Go play in the dirt, she said,
and tonight, though I call it
harvesting potatoes,
what I’m really doing
is “playing in the dirt,”
the quickest way I know
to recalibrate the soul.
The potatoes are a bonus, really,
though I say they are why I am here.
Each firm, red-skinned round
I pull from the earth is a small proof
of how things can grow in the dark—
the way a woman, too,
can grow in conditions
when she forgets for a time
there is light.
I sift the cool soil through my fingers
as I pull my hands through the bed,
and I fall in love with this substance
made richer by what is dead,
this basis of all that lives,
this home for the kind of treasure
I honor now more than ever,
the kind that needs darkness and time.
After All These Years
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged aging, body, self-compassion on September 25, 2024| 15 Comments »
Once they were slender,
this arm, this waist,
and I loved them
when they were slender.
Though that’s a lie.
I did not love them.
Never once did I think
they were slender enough.
But I was happier then
with my body, wasn’t I?
When it was lean and smooth
and strong? No. It’s a lie.
I was cruel to that body,
and pushed it and starved it
and glared at it in the mirror
with hateful, critical eyes.
It’s so strange that the body
I’m learning to love is the one
that once disgusted me.
This one with its strange roll
around my waist, this one with its
thick upper arms that stun me
in photos. This one with its
marbled flesh. Is it true
I am learning to love this body?
Perhaps it’s more true
I’m learning to love the one
who is learning to love this body.
How gentle it is, this learning.
How layered. How slowly it arrives.
How quiet, the invitation
to turn toward the one
who could despise this body
and not push her away.
To wrap her instead in these
thick soft arms and choose
to love her.
Nocturnal Hyperhidrosis
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged biology, body, menopause, praise, sweat on September 24, 2024| 15 Comments »
I do not love it, the way I fall asleep cold
only to wake in a flush of heat.
Do not love the soaking, the drenching
the damp, then the clammy.
Not once in those small dark hours
have I thought to praise the eccrine glands,
the aprocine glands that secrete the sweat,
so much sweat, the sweat that makes me
shove down the covers and seek
a dry towel to lie on. The cool
night air never quite cool enough.
I don’t love it, the way the warmth
steals me from dreams and returns me
to the demands of body, a body
that’s changing, that’s aging,
a body with an exquisitely sensitive
hypothalamus that worries my body’s too warm.
How quick I am to complain instead of praise.
How hard to remember in these hot and sodden
hours that I admire the wisdom of the body.
Let me now remember I’m a being made of water,
a pond of a woman returning herself to the air.
I am at the mercy of evaporation.
How natural it is, though I do not love it,
this teacher in what comes next.
This is how I practice how
to disappear.
Hypertrophy
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged grief, humility, weightlifting on September 24, 2024| 12 Comments »
Perhaps it is like lifting weights,
the way we learn to carry grief.
At first we cannot lift it at all,
crushed as we are beneath it.
But then, because to live
we must move, we move
just the smallest measure.
With our lungs, it so happens.
And breath by breath, we lift grief
the tiniest increment.
That’s how it begins.
Oh the muscle of stubbornness.
How life longs to live through us,
even when we would rather give up.
How strange that the only way
to rebuild our strength
is first by breaking down.
The ache is great. Everything tires.
But eventually, the body repairs
what is damaged, relearns
how to carry what at first seemed impossible,
until we are familiar with the weight,
conversing with the weight, even smiling,
even laughing, even playing with the weight.
It’s like the way a mother’s arms
strengthen the longer she carries
her child. It’s like the way I once
could barely lift the barbell,
and then it was not that the weight
became lighter, but that I developed
until I could work with it better.
Does the weight ever lessen?
I don’t know. But I do know it’s easier now
to carry it. And sometimes
I need to change the way I hold it
in order to go on moving.
And sometimes I am simply
so humbled by grief I must
put the weight down and all I can do
is breathe.
And so I do. So I do.
In the dream I discover
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dance, dream, letting go on September 22, 2024| 8 Comments »
I’ve left all the bunnies
in a cupboard for two days.
Why would I put them
in a cupboard?
How is it I forgot them
after rescuing them?
They tumble out, every
shape, size and shade of bunny
and I fall in love with them all
as they explore the room.
They seem no worse for my lapse,
but I am so distraught,
my husband wakes me from
sleep as I whimper.
Hours later, I still wonder
what precious and vital thing
have I locked away?
I don’t want to wake up
to my life tomorrow or next year
or ever to discover I have
not cared for the treasure
entrusted to me. All day,
there are no rabbits, no cupboards,
no locks. Only this life
with its tendernesses,
its vulnerabilities. All day,
I open every door
of the mind, of the heart.
No doubt there are more I can’t find.
I feel for the doors with the fingers
of my heart. Whatever’s inside,
I want it to breathe.
Everything seems
to depend on this:
not only that I care
for the treasure,
but that I let it free.
After Difficult News
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged aftermath, healing, mountain, woods on September 22, 2024| 7 Comments »
It’s enough to wander
alone in the woods
while the aspen
turn their leaves
into shimmering light.
This, too, is aftermath—
the brilliant red
of rose hips,
fat and sweet.
The clean scent
of rain. Holy fluff
that was once
yellow flowers.
The vast gold
field of grass.
Because the Frost Is Late This Year
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged aliveness, blooming, living, nasturtium on September 20, 2024| 16 Comments »
The nasturtiums have flourished enough
to escape their bed, and long, round
stems stretch down from the wooden
box and run between rows along the garden
paths, and it’s a freaking insurgence
of blooming, a mutiny of beauty, a
rebellion of splendor and my god if
I don’t just stand here in the paths, stunned
by the unlikely blessing, cursed with my
knowledge of how quickly it all can die, but
today, just look at it, today, I don’t even
try not to praise it, instead I stand in
the midst of improbable glory and fall
in love with all these gold and orange
petals and wide rounded leaves, barely
able to breathe past the ache of how all
we love will leave us—even the wildest
of blossomings, even the most unruly
of beauties, even what looks as if it’s
so alive it could take over the whole world.
When She Asked Me About Prayer
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged annihilation of the separate self, prayer on September 19, 2024| 9 Comments »
I don’t know, but maybe
it has something to do
with sitting on the roof
and watching what’s left
of the lunar eclipse while
crickets sing silence
into ecstatic buzz
and joy spills into my cells
till the idea of self washes away.
Or, when I’m shucked by loss.
The self in tatters. Raw.
Naked. Unable to know.
Utterly flayed. Then.
That’s when I pray.
Book Launch on Sunday, September 22!
Posted in Uncategorized on September 19, 2024| 4 Comments »
To register for Prelude to Praise on Sunday, click here!
To pre-order The Unfolding, click here.
To pre-order a signed copy from my local bookstore, click here.
“Like so many, I turn regularly to the work of Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer when I need to believe again that the world is still a kind and welcoming place, alive with compassion and full of singing even in the darkest of times. From the very first poem of hers that I read, I was led more deeply into myself, suddenly feeling that so much was possible, the field wide-open once more. In this latest collection, The Unfolding, her words become ‘searchlights / that will help us find / what we don’t yet know / we are looking for,’ teaching us how to hold sorrow and beauty, grace and grief at the same time. Rosemerry Trommer is a fearless poet of the heart, and she possesses the exceedingly rare ability to turn even the simplest of moments into sacred lessons we can carry into our days, helping us to recognize—even when we’d rather turn away—the holiness that keeps unfolding at the center of our own very human lives.
—James Crews, author of Unlocking the Heart: Writing for Mindfulness, Courage & Self-Compassion and editor of How to Love the World: Poems of Gratitude & Hope
“I don’t know how she does it. In The Unfolding, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer opens her arms and heart and voice so wide, everything we experience comes inside to be held, to shine. The greatest grief, our unexpected nudges of memory, the way the world goes on despite everything—she finds a way to weave continuance, embodiment of love, which may change shape, but never disappears. ‘After I did not die the first minute, / I lived the next minute. / More truly, life lived me.’ These powerful poems are anthems of clarity and ultimate care.”
—Naomi Shihab Nye, Paterson Poetry Prize recipient and author of Everything Comes Next
“The Unfolding re-opens our hearts and consciousness to the beauty of life and love, even amidst the shadows of devastating loss. Trommer warmly welcomes us into her orbit by offering us a glimpse into her most intimate memories and where we, too, can see ourselves and our own experiences. She fosters a loving solidarity for those who are searching for connection, particularly in the aftermath of loss. If you are searching, this is where you—your love, your bewilderment, and your aches—belong.”
—Joyal Mulheron, Founder of Evermore
“The individual poems are brilliant and beautiful, but also the book as a whole works as a praise-song for the world, the lives we’ve been given, and the brief time we have to hold those we love. Very rarely do I see a collection so consistently wonderful as this one.”
—Michael Simms, editor of Vox Populi
“Rosemerry Trommer’s new collection of poems is saturated with dark beauty. There is an exquisite ache inside these poems, reminding us of the eternal embrace of love and loss. Trommer blesses us with what she has gleaned from her prolonged vigil in the underworld, revealing a language riddled with a vulnerability that pierces our hearts. The Unfolding breaks us open to what it means to be human, what it means to love.”
—Francis Weller, author of The Wild Edge of Sorrow: Rituals of Renewal and the Sacred Work of Grief
The Ripening
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged fruit, imperfection, marriage, patience, pears, ripening on September 19, 2024| 11 Comments »
At the roadside stand,
I buy you a flat of pears.
They are hard and slightly
scarred, lumpy as Bartletts
often are, still wearing
the deep green of unripe fruit.
Some bear a garish red blush
on their shoulders where
the leaves did not hide them,
and all are stippled
with freckle-like dots, each one
a small celebration of imperfection.
There will be a day soon
when the pears will golden
and the warm kitchen air
will be thickly strung
with the scent of pear,
sweet and floral,
a scent that reminds
me of walking the rows
of the orchard in long ago summers
gleaning the smallest fruits.
Sometimes what is left behind
has the chance to become sweeter
than what first seemed more prized.
Remember how we’d pull tree-ripe pears
from the branches to our mouths,
white juice baptizing our chins?
I like the way you lift one now
from the counter,
feel its heft as if testing
for goodness yet to come.
We are no strangers to patience.
Year after year, we have watched
what is hard become treasure.
We have taken the lesson into our bodies,
these imperfect bodies, slightly
scarred, more lumpy with every year,
but oh, the ripening.
We Are Told to Make Our Own Way
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Brooke McNamara, follower, friendship, leader, nature, path on September 18, 2024| 10 Comments »
But also, I consider the importance
of following, as today
when Brooke guided me
through dense plots of homes,
past tall dead trees
where red-tailed hawks
like to land, then down
through the shrubs
on the thin dirt path
to where we crossed the creek
on three rough stones
only to climb into a park
of manicured grass,
and I was aware of how good it is
to be led by someone I trust,
to see paths I would never
have found, to wander in fields
full of someone else’s stories.
How grateful I am
for all who have led me
through the fields of their hearts,
beneath the branches of their losses,
into the alleys of their wonder.
How grateful I am for the times
the journey was made possible
because someone extended their hand
and led me toward exactly what
I could not have known
I longed to move toward.
for Brooke McNamara
The Un-Journey
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birthday, day, journey, surrender on September 17, 2024| 8 Comments »
—for Hannah
Sometimes a day,
like a mountain,
has no road,
no route,
no trail,
no map,
no right way,
no signs,
no directions,
no guide,
no promises,
no cairns,
no place
to arrive.
Sometimes
the only
step
to take
is not
to take
a step.
How humbled,
how human
we are then.
Naked as birth.
Raw. Unmasked.
So far from
any path
we might
wish to set.
Such a terrible
generous day
to conceive:
when nothing
is asked of us
but to be
the dust
that is
breathed.
One Day Later
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged compassion, fear, tears on September 15, 2024| 2 Comments »
after drying the tears
her fear
still wet
I Couldn’t See the Elk, But
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged animal, autumn, creature, elk, human, scent on September 15, 2024| 11 Comments »
I smelled them, that sweet,
viscous scent that falls somewhere
between musk and vanilla,
between urine and cut grass.
The kind of scent that makes
me crinkle my nose in almost
disgust, then inhale deeply
as if the body can’t get enough.
Primal scent. Animal scent.
Scent I can’t find inside walls.
Scent that reminds me I, too,
am a creature. And there
beneath the blue autumn sky
I felt reclaimed by the earth,
reclaimed by the goldening
meadow, reclaimed by the boggy
wallow in the valley’s shallow cleft,
as if I might leave behind forever
the land of pavement and frying pans,
car troubles and saran wrap.
As if I, too, might roll around
in that slick stretch of mud
and become who I was
before I knew how to want,
how to thank, how to plan,
how to pray.
Before Turning Toward Light Again
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged altar, friendship, healing, light, shadow on September 14, 2024| 6 Comments »
for K
On the altar of healing,
I would place a blade
of grass to represent tonight
lying in the fresh cut lawn.
You in the cooling shade.
Me in the low, warm sun.
The late summer green.
Distant hum of river.
Your tear as it slipped
toward the grass.
Our laughter about
I don’t even know what.
The way the earth held us,
asking nothing in return.
Your knees on my knees
as we curled in for warmth.
Your fear. My fear. Your trust.
My trust. The way we could
say and hear anything—
anything at all—as the world
turned slowly toward dusk.
Self-Blessing
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged holiness, self-blessing, wind on September 12, 2024| 9 Comments »
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing
—Galway Kinnell, “Saint Francis and the Sow”
Let this version of me splayed out
on the ground like a wrung out rag
know this moment, too, is holy.
This terrible moment.
When I cannot fathom my own divinity.
May whatever is sacred move through me
so the hand that blesses me
is my own trembling hand.
So the tender voice that soothes me
is my own broken voice.
My own, but not my own.
As wind makes the leaf dance.
As wind makes the branches sing.
I wish it were as simple as being touched by wind.
Is it not as simple as being touched by wind?