we do not birth stones all things born must bend like stubborn weeds through concrete young sapling hearts pliable and tender dancing bending bowing fragile and resilient but charcoal was once a tree whose dancing was burned away we must not forget that hardened hearts are manufactured that the flames they spread started not with them nor will they be their end but charcoal when not alight can also soften into an artist's pen there is no hardness stronger than our ability to bend
poetry
Antidote
Once more the venomous refrain comes to plague my weary brain: I am nothing. I am nothing. I am nothing. But I have found within each poison note lies concealed the antidote: I am I am I am So if upon your ears alight her onerous whispers in the night: You are nothing. You are nothing. You are nothing. Find the truth within the lie and perchance upon your lullaby: You are You are You are @amnotpoetry
You can also find my poetry on Instagram:
A Random List of Confessions
A random list of confessions:
-I read books out loud when I’m alone. And by read, I mean “act out emphatically.”
-Sometimes I tell my kids “no” when they ask for a cookie, and then eat one when they aren’t looking. It’s kind of a power trip.
-I struggle to read fiction about violence lately. And cheating. And prejudice. And death.
-I struggle to read or watch anything lately.
-In grade 9 I had a crush on my stage manager. Until now, I’ve only ever told one person about her.
-I think superheroes are the problem, not the solution.
-I’m pretty sure you don’t like me. You think I’m an annoying flake. Not you as in anyone specific, just specifically you.
-I think you’re right.
-I’m still sore about not beating my ex-boyfriend at Mortal Kombat after he assumed I hadn’t seen the movies because I’m a girl. “You wouldn’t get it,” he said.
-I didn’t read most of the books in university and still managed a decent grade. Most of the books were about war and rape.
-I’m very sensitive. Half of me thinks that makes me a better person, half thinks I’m just weak.
-I think you think I’m weak.
-I know you think I’m a disappointment because I decided to graduate without my honours. “A waste of potential.”
-I think it was the right decision.
-I want to succeed as a writer so you think it was the right decision.
-I think it was the right decision.
-I don’t trust my own opinion on anything.
-In grade 3, I brought a snow globe I loved for show and tell. I put it in my pocket and it broke during recess. On the bus home everyone thought I peed myself and laughed, but I refused to tell them the truth because I was so ashamed.
-I talk about myself so much not because I’m full of myself, but because I’m so empty and I think your validation will fill me. Probably there’s a hole somewhere I should fix.
-I’m not sure if this is a poem about me or you.
-I’m not sure this is a poem.
-I think raisin cookies are better than chocolate chip ones.
Before and After
Before the pandemic I attended community potlucks. I folded my anxiety into a handkerchief, something to fiddle with in my pocket, as I planted the seeds of friendship. After the pandemic the potlucks were cancelled. Some members came out anti-science and my seeds have all failed to yield anything more than broken confidence. Before the pandemic I made my first ever parent friends. We met at the park most mornings, shared meals once a week, and took turns filling oxygen tanks. After the pandemic the housing market got so hot they left the country to cool down. Parks and tanks are left empty now and my lungs are learning to adapt. Before the pandemic we had library and market days. Familiar places, friendly faces, comforting routine and connection. A safety net of welcome and belonging. After the pandemic we found desks, stalls, and smiles vacant. I stretch my anxiety around my neck, a scarf to protect against the chill, and let my husband do the talking. Before the pandemic I didn't have many friends to talk to, but I called my Granny every day. After the pandemic I watched her get sick. Her number doesn't reach her anymore. Before the pandemic panic attacked once or twice a year. After the pandemic it has learned to hunt in packs. Before the pandemic nausea, dizziness and pain meant I was coming down with something. After the pandemic they mean that I am awake. Before the pandemic my husband and I talked about growing old together. After the pandemic he wonders if I'll make it through the week. Before the pandemic I believed in a future. After the pandemic. After the pandemic. When is After the pandemic? Before the pandemic there was no Before or After. Before the pandemic I didn't need to wait for an ending to begin. Before the pandemic is gone. And all we have to work with is now. At least that much hasn't changed.
**Author’s Note**
If you want to check out the visual version of this poem and a lot of other poems that haven’t made it on the blog yet, make sure to check out my Instagram account @amnotpoetry.
Dark Days
Mid-autumn shrinking of days:
waves of midnight blue
lapping an island of grey cloud.
I watch their constant approach
and retreat, and think of how
my Granny used to call them the
longest days of the year.
To wake in the time-shrouding
darkness and not to know
whether you’ve slept early or late,
to pass the hours in a smothering
dimness that seems to seep
into the tiniest crack and expand
so that every interaction,
every experience, is muffled and flat.
I pretend this embrace is a comfort,
isolation an inspiration, but it is not.
I want to make beautiful things,
to weave words into brightness
that can outshine the fog,
cleave the day in two the way
my Granny’s phone calls used to.
Yet here I am complaining
about the weather because
the days are just too short.
Or maybe they’re too long.
Or maybe my Granny was wrong
and the days aren’t longer or shorter,
but heavier, so that even though
we carry them the same distance,
we are consumed in the effort.
And her calls made them so much
lighter because, for a while,
I didn’t have to carry them alone.
Why I only have panic attacks after the kids are in bed.
I dive so deeply into days
flooded with motherhood
eyes closed
breath held
that by the time I surface
the dusky light burns my eyes
silence pierces my ears
and my atrophied lungs stutter
starved for oxygen
I tell them to pace themselves
but they are ravenous
in out in out in out
until I am drowning in rest
Creative Process
My creative process
is a bomb defusal
in a crowded room
where the people
keep wandering by
to peek over my shoulder.
My mother cringes
as I touch the red wire,
so I drop the pliers
and pick up a screwdriver.
Left, left, left —
until the screw wiggles
and I hear my old professors
sigh in unison
— right, right, right.
I pore through the pages
of a tear-stained manual
but can’t concentrate
amidst the impatient chatter
of an Instagram following.
I press a button on a whim
and brace myself.
A gasp. A cry.
But nothing happens.
For a moment
I think this might be luck,
but as the voices die
I hear it in the silence:
tick, tick, tick.
The trickle of time running out.
I check the manual.
There is a whisper.
I whip the book to the floor.
A muffled clatter.
A tut and a groan.
I pick it up again
and get back to work.
Tomorrow
My every day is balanced
on the knife point
of panic.
Tonight I lost my voice,
my words refusing to file
neatly in line,
rushing so quickly
that they caught in my throat,
my breath trampled beneath them.
My husband found me
on the floor
drowning in a scream
so vast that it left me
silent.
I am not okay.
Life is a trap:
just when I think
I’ve got the knack
of shrinking myself
a little bit smaller,
the walls close in
a little bit tighter.
And maybe the daylight
will make things look
a little bit brighter,
a little bit wider,
but I am not ready
to surrender today
to get to tomorrow.
So I guess this is me
tearing up my white flag,
claiming victory
with the words that sought
to suffocate me:
I am not okay.
I am tired.
I am angry.
I am grieving.
I am afraid of tomorrow.
But tomorrow will come.
I think I am ready now.
Because the universe is not obligated to tell me of your passing
One moment you will be here
and the next you will be gone.
There is a line somewhere,
as fine as spider’s silk,
that divides a world with you
from a world without.
I am afraid of stepping over
that near-invisible crack
without even noticing,
until I look back
and find it has grown
into a canyon.
Photo by MARIOLA GROBELSKA on Unsplash
I want to talk about anime, not what I do all day.
I am the shadow of my motherhood.
I am what comes after the stroller,
so that you already know
the shape of me
before you’ve really looked.
I am cast with the waking of the sun,
and warp around demands
much bigger than the mouths
that make them,
stretching and shrinking as needed.
So please excuse my melodramatics
and the volume of my voice
when I talk about politics, science, poetry,
video games, or anything but my kids.
I’m just trying to cast the shape of myself.
Photo by Johny Goerend on Unsplash
Amy Notdorft 