![]() ![]() When poets become parents there’s such a strain, such pain! Woe, woe, woe! Too existential, too sensitive, we can see it coming from miles away! I’m generalizing, exaggerating, maybe not all poets, but when Rich expresses pain and suffering she becomes a mirror for me, allows me to look at myself. My son, Thomas, is eight-weeks-old today, and I’m reading Adrienne Rich’s Of Woman Born, which really might be a mistake! Not a mistake, but by reading it right now I’m definitely opening up a big can of worms for myself. And motherhood, no surprise, is the most complicated place I’ve ever been. ![]() What is an essay but a little mind pile? A poem a littler one still? Maybe by writing I’ll settle something. Simplicity? What was I thinking? Nothing has ever been simple! Not one single thing! My mind is a labyrinth of complexity! Can’t find anything in there – and it’s only getting more and more muddled! That’s probably what all the writing is about really – I’m always trying to sort stuff out, make piles, get my wits about me. I never expected my transition to motherhood to be easy, but I did want it to be simple. ![]()
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