Wheeling Suspension Bridge over the Ohio River looking toward Ohio. Photo credit: Betsy Lynne
I recently joined a writers' group in Wheeling, W.Va., near my home town across the river in Ohio. We meet at the local library to share our writing, swap critiques, and breathe a little easier in each others' company — after we get past our collective imposter syndrome.
At the last meeting, the organizer, Christina Fisanick, a local author, historian and English professor, said she felt compelled to reintroduce a writing component to the Wheeling Arts Festival, which was coming up the following month. Within two weeks, she had secured an indoor spot for writers to meet adjacent to the outdoor festival and planned an entire day of writing activities, including on-demand poems by West Virginia Poet Laureate Marc Harshman, tables for authors selling their books, scheduled readings, various workshops and an open mic. Christina is a force.
Before I had time to deny myself this opportunity, I asked if I could be a reader, and she graciously granted me a spot. I had 10 minutes to fill. Now what?!
At first, I thought I would just read a couple of my favorite parenting columns published in our local newspaper during my former life as a journalist. It was only a few years ago, or six ... six years ago. Wow. Still, I thumbed through my clippings and landed on a few that weren't too corny or preachy. I also decided to share an angsty bit of poetry I wrote in high school that has stuck with me through the years. It's ten lines of dashed hope that remind me my optimism and relative success have been hard won.*
What could I share that's new, though? What have I written lately? Nada. So there I was on Friday, the Arts Festival was a day away and I had nothing new to offer. It wasn't necessary to share fresh work, but I felt compelled to try.
This poem is the result. I was thrilled that my family and friends showed up to hear me read it, along with my other pieces. Writing it felt like putting on an old leather glove at the bottom of the forgotten plastic bin in the attic, stiff with years of scorching heat and neglect. As I continued turning each thought out onto the page, it was as if I were pressing my hand farther into the glove, loosening it from the inside out, coaxing it to stretch with my efforts. I can smell the rejuvenated leather on my skin, even now.
GRAY
Gray
river fog
lies thick like cotton batting
tucked into the valley
gently covering the
breathing,
rippling,
shivering
Ohio ...
Gray
sky
protects
my blue eyes,
promises
life-giving rain,
provides respite
from the
unrelenting
bully sun ...
Gray
painted plaster,
nubby rugs,
decorative pillows,
comfy deck shoes,
favorite pants
that pull on easy
and go with
everything ...
Gray
sprouting from
my scalp
reminds me of my years —
not cruelly,
less violently,
more organically
than the AARP
welcome letter waiting
to strike like a
snake
in my mailbox
Gray
is
unpopular,
uncomfortable,
unacceptable
when applied to
Politics-
Gender-
Race-
Morals-
Taxes-
Gray allows leeway,
blessed ambiguity,
but people picket in
absolutes ...
Gray is
my favorite.
Ideas percolate,
decisions germinate
... or don't.
Gray is
deep breath,
heavy sigh,
rest,
rejuvenate,
comfort,
calm ...
Gray ... is.
*At the risk of embarrassing my Inner Teen, here's the other poem I read Saturday, circa 1990:
Untitled
I cling
like dew on the grass
clings
until the sun soaks it up
into her warm embrace.
But no warmth collects me.
I stay
and turn to frost
because in my depths
I'm lost.
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