When Poetry Enters In

the medicine of words

Do you remember the first time a poem entered in, and what happened when it did?

Mine was Margaret Wise Brown, from the words of Goodnight Moon:

a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush

and a quiet old lady who was whispering “hush”

goodnight stars, goodnight air

goodnight noises everywhere

I remembering staring at the illustrations by Clement Hurd, imagining myself inside that bedroom, swaddled up tight in that bed, someone whispering to me as I fell asleep peacefully.

I was a vivid dreamer, a kid who had nightmares and wild dreams that stayed in my body long after I woke up. I was scared of the dark, scared of so many things, that even as a teenager, reading poems at night was replaced with watching tv and setting the sleep timer to turn off long after I’d fallen asleep. I needed something, someone to help me enter into the dream world at night, no matter how scared I was to go.

Reading Goodnight Moon at night was a balm when I was young, the words and characters my companions.

Today, when I can’t sleep, I use the Calm app, and the sleep stories or the sounds of crickets, birds, a bonfire or flowing water guide me toward rest.

Poems and words-- they are our guides, whether it’s the lyrics of a song, a children’s book, or our own poetry spilling from the pen to the page, from our fingers to the keyboard.

I started writing my own poetry when I was young, a continuation of the words that entered into me and changed the landscape of my own childhood.

One night recently, while putting my youngest to bed, a poem entered in. It stayed a while, as the words floated out of me to the Notes in my phone, as I watched my child glide into sleep and rest there. This time, there was no fear, no wondering what nightmares might come. It was simply a moment of us, and the calm of the evening. There was simply the medicine of words:

You don’t even know, do you?

That you hold a universe inside your body?

I can feel it when we are still enough,

like galaxies are quietly swirling in and out of existence

just beneath the surface of your soft skin.

You, my little one, hold it all.

You don’t even know

that you are the future generation

and every single one after,

a constant reflection

of those who came before.

You hold multitudes in your smile.

You don’t even know

that the soft curls

of your long hair are perfect--

holy, even.

I think you know this, though:

You know there’s something special about staring out a car window when we’re in motion.

You know there is treasure in the simplicity of a moment, in the sharp punchline of a joke.

You know that tenderness doesn’t come easily to everyone, so we must practice tenderness even on the difficult days.

You know that the universe is always pulsing under the surface of everything.

You know that God is an idea we can barely grasp, yet a friend we already have.

You know prayer is a constant, as constant as the stars are bright.

You know the magic of being alive.

And suddenly, I realize--

I don’t even know, do I?

Friends, don’t forget, most of my writing will remain free, because I believe that sharing my words with all of you is what creates this community. For free subscribers, you’ll still get access to my essays and some original poetry. 

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Onward, friends, into good medicine.