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Posts Tagged ‘uncertainty’

Hello friends,

I hope you can join me in a four-week poetry discussion class on living with uncertainty.

Week 1: Accepting Uncertainty as a Part of Life

Week 2: How Inviting the Unknown Helps us Live More Richly

Week 3: How we Find Ourselves by Getting Lost

Week 4: The Generative Power of Not Knowing

The class is offered through Weehawken Arts in Ridgway, Colorado, 12-2 p.m. on Wednesdays. To read more or sign up, please click https://www.weehawkenarts.org/classes/22-classes/creative-arts/153-living-with-uncertainty-a-poetry-discussion-series-with-rosemerry-wahtola-trommer

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Between us a silence

so fragile that half of me

fears it will shatter

 

and cut us, half of me fears

it will erupt and we’ll burn,

and half of me thinks

 

if I stay still enough,

something beautiful

might emerge.

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between the question

and the answer is the garden

where the rose is still open—

soft-petalled and fragrant—

regardless of what comes next

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Yesterday, I spoke with KSJD radio in a 10-minute interview about how poems–both writing and reading them–might help us navigate uncertain times. You can listen to the interview here.

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One Curiosity

 

 

eavesdropping on my own heart

wishing I could understand the whispers—

rustle of golden leaves

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You do not need to know what comes next.

There is always another storm, and you

cannot hang the tent out to dry before

it has gotten wet. You cannot shovel snow

that has yet to fall.

 

Put down the shovel. Breathe

into the dark spaces of your back,

feel how they open like cave doors

to let in the light.

Let your face soften. Let the creases

fall out of your brow. The mind,

no matter how clear, will never become

a crystal ball.

 

The wisest part of your body

knows to run when it hears

the first crashes of rock fall.

It does not pause then to consider

metamorphic or igneous,

nor does it hesitate to wonder

what might have pushed them down.

It is no small thing to trust yourself.

 

It’s okay to cry. It is right

that love should shake your body,

that you should find yourself trembling

in the rubble and dust

after all your certainties come down.

 

Your breath has not left you.

Here is the morning rain. It opens

the scent of the leaves, of the air.

All around you the world is changing.

 

What are you waiting for?

Here is the cup of mint tea

growing stronger in itself.

Here on this cliff of uncertainty

there is a stillness in you

so spirited, so alive

the wisest part of your body

is dancing.

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Short Letter

 

 

Uncertainty,

help me remember

you always come

with chocolate in your pockets,

sometimes even

the kind I like.

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One Definition of Faith

 

 

 

toeing the edge

of everything

we think we know

building a nest for us

on the other side

 

 

 

 

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Not even a gust
tonight
and for no
apparent reason
the heart
blows open
and just
like that
innumerable stars
rush in
not to mention
all the space
between them

of course it’s
miraculous,
and on the other,
well, after marveling
there’s nothing to do
but invite the universe
in for a cup
of decaf chai
then tuck us
all in
for a good night’s
rest

who knows
what could happen
tomorrow.

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I don’t know the name of the flower
about to bloom beside the trail,
but it has the leaves of a lily
and a single bud that hangs heavy
off a long bent stem.

Just as I don’t know the name
for the feeling I have when
I want you to act a certain way
and I have not yet realized
that my wanting is the problem.

Neither of these things matter—
the names, I mean. We like to think
that by naming a thing we know it.
But I have stopped believing that.
Whatever we can name, we start to overlook.

The heliotrope, for instance.
I greet it as we walk by, but I do not
stop to investigate its tiny white flowers,
nor do I rub its leaves between my fingers
to better understand their shape.

Imagine I did not know your name.
So every time we met I would
gather everything I could about you—
the scent of you, the shape of your hands,
the weather of your moods.

And imagine I forgot me, too,
and in discovering you, I’d see
myself anew. And I would be unfamiliar
with words such as happiness or forgiveness
or wound or wife.

Ah, to meet each other like that, the way we meet
this strange flower. More inquisitive than convinced.
More curious, less sure. Less like gods,
omniscient, commanding, more as if we are the ones
with so much opening left to do.

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