In honor of National Poetry Month, I share with you this poem inspired by the winter we’ve just had and the spring that’s taking her time.  (It’s also inspired by a prompt given by my mentor, Kimberly Cloutier-Green, poet extraordinaire, to our poetry circle.)

No Longer This and Not Yet That
~ Mary Lou Hamilton Bagley

What season this? Not Winter, yet not Spring.
An icy bite and sudden snowflakes form
and dance around, obscuring stark, bare things,
then light upon the crocus’ pointed corm

as sunlight breaks from just behind a cloud,
showering us with brightness but no heat,
and makes us gasp with wonderment out loud
and lift our arms and stamp our booted feet

that we can stand here, thus, immersed in both —
in weak but blooming sunshine and in snow —
while still a dream, the greening and the growth,
and still an echo, temps of well below.

The wheel seems stalled.  The Equinox has come,
with equal parts of darkness and of light,
turning now more toward the sun, not from,
as days grow ever longer than the nights;

and yet, deep winter lingers in the air.
Still full of what’s been lost, it clings to me.
The ground, once clothed in white, is mostly bare
while dirty mounds hide what is yet to be.

My yard is littered — branches, twigs and sticks.
Dry crackling leaves from maples, oaks and beech
skitter across the landscape, chase, and mix,
and, dervish-like, in whirling eddies reach

up toward the sky in search of deeper blues
beyond the belly-heavy clouds of white and gray,
to where the birds can see with unobstructed view
that Spring is truly on its warming way.

This in-between time speaks to me of pause,
reminds me of the not ‘twixt in and out,
the gap that lies between effect and cause,
what space between each breath is all about.

Played out each day at twilight and at dawn —
that almost light between the night and day,
that violet hour when birds sing evensong —
that spaciousness that lives, and then gives way,

is showing me that I need never fear
when asked to simply be and hold to trust.
If all I’ve been and known should disappear,
I’m not to grasp at shadows, cling to dust.

The natural world reflects my inner state;
yet I, alone, resist what’s underway.
The suffering that I’m feeling, I create:
beg Spring to come; bid Winter not to stay.

Okay, now it’s your turn.  Please accept this as an invitation to write a poem (any style or length) of your own.  Haiku is always fun.  It’s made up of three lines, with a 5, 7, and 5 syllable count, and is usually nature-themed.

When you’re done, go out and read it out loud to your backyard, a favorite tree, the birds, your plants, your animal companions, or to yourself.

Celebrate National Poetry Month with one of your own, won’t you?

Easter morning and it feels like Spring is actually here in Maine. Time to begin shaking out the contracted, drawn-in energy that has kept us warm through the long white winter. Time to move and stretch and bend and loosen. Time to freshen our approach to the mornings of our days.

How do you begin your day?  Do you have a routine that sets the tone for the day before you step into it?  Being the creative soul that you are, perhaps it might be beneficial to create one or to revisit and refresh the one you already have?

Just for fun, here’s a little ditty that demonstrates how simple it can be:

Morning Ritual

I awaken, but don’t rise.
I lie breathing with closed eyes.
Breathing in, I take in peace.
Breathing out, all cares release.

Simply breathing, in and out.
Breathing simply, out and in.
Simply breathing, in and out.
Breathing simply once again.

Stretch my body, still in bed.
Clear the cobwebs from my head.
My intention for this day:
to be present, come what may.

I place my feet upon the floor, but
don’t go rushing out the door.
I pause a moment in the NOW.
Hands to heart, I humbly bow.

In the kitchen, I’m alone.
Time to set a peaceful tone.
At the table, set my place,
light a candle, welcome Grace.

Thankful for this morning tea.
Thankful for this time for me.
Thankful for this sacred space
amid my often hectic pace.

I take my pen and start to write.
No time to think, or get it “right.”
No time to ask what it’s about.
Just let it flow. Just get it out.

… My morning pages now are done,
not meant to share with anyone.
My hand’s now loose, my mind’s now clear.
I’m now present, fully here.

No matter what may come my way
as now I step into my day,
I know I’m centered in my heart
because I gave my day this start …

Breathing in, I rest awhile …
Breathing out, I simply smile …

Okay, so this won’t win any poetry prizes, but it’s light and airy and has the sing-songey rhythm I was looking for. It’s in keeping with my uplifted state on this Spring morning.  It’s just what I needed to make my point. And so, I’m happy with it.

Uplifted and enlivened, that’s how I intend to step into each day.  As a writer and creative, I intend to make choices that best support my wish to engage fully, richly, and deeply with this incredible life I’ve been given — one glorious day at a time.

So, how do you begin your day?  Is your morning routine supportive of the creative life you wish for yourself?  Care to share a brief description of your morning ritual? …

A friend, discouraged and feeling pressured to justify her writing time, recently said to me, “Maybe I’m just not a serious writer.”

What does it mean to be a “serious writer,” anyway? Is it about how often one writes? Is it about whether or not one earns a living at writing? Is it about whether or not one is published? Or, is it simply tied to one’s ability to self-identify as “writer?”

The question of how serious she is can only be answered by her. I suspect she’s in a place of doubt and disillusionment just now. I suspect her confidence is flagging. I suspect she could use some encouragement from an agent or publisher; or, better yet, a voice from the heavens saying, “The world awaits your stories.”  Maybe she just needs a friend to say,”The process – the act of creation – is the only thing that matters. That is the only measure of time well spent. So step into that space wherein you lose yourself in the story and the writing of it. Step into it daily, if you can. Honor your gifts, and write.”

I am a writer. I say it out loud. I am a writer with a sometimes irregular writing practice. I live by the motto: nulla dies sine linea – never a day without a line (Horace); yet, I’ve been known to count my to-do list on a busy day as my line. Though I’ve taught writing, published short stories, essays, and articles, and I’ve been commissioned to write everything from letters to personalized pet poems, I have no income from my written works at the moment. I am focused on writing my first novel with no agent or publisher in sight. Yet, I am a serious writer.

As a serious writer, I read, open myself to new learning opportunities, and stay connected. I read novels, books about writing, and books about writers. I read poetry, pamphlets, and tea bags. I attend workshops, classes, conferences and retreats. I have a circle of writer friends with whom I stay connected. I wander and ponder and day dream. And I write. I put my seat to the seat, and I write.

Actually, I can’t not write. And I know my friend is the same way. She’s been writing most of her life: magnificent stories, delicious poems, and humorous letters. She wants very badly to be published and occasionally submits. She may lack a regular writing schedule. She may have a tendency to write mainly when inspired. But, she’s a writer.

Another friend said to me, “What if you spend a year on a novel and then it doesn’t get published?  That’s all that time wasted. How do you justify the time?”

To that, I say: That year will go by anyway. At the end, I will have had the experience of writing a novel, or not.

Seriously.