The day when I lost all of my poetry and didn't freak out

How far I've come :)

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The gift stays. Vexing and haunting, pulling me out of bed in moonlight. When it’s not pouring poetry through me, it’s dreamstuff. Either way. I am a poet.

I was on one of my cleaning sprees. Slashing and burning my way through the hard drive because I refuse to buy more space in the cloud. The file, which was called, "Poyms - my poetry” must’ve been accidentally swept up in a pile of other files that started with P - photos, pencil sketches, peculiarities. Or maybe, a part of me wanted it gone. Wanted to shake things up - to see if, after those poems were not there, things might change.

I’d named the file “Poyms” because that is how my mother used to pronounce the word ‘poems’ and my sisters and I would laugh, fondly, about that, after we were grown up and liked to spend time remembering (even when she was alive) how frustratingly strange and yet remarkable, our mother was. I called it Poyms to honor that mother - who was, like me and my sisters, born a poet, with the gift of imagery and the same interior compulsion to write down the images that never stop.

Anyway, poof.

The file was gone. I didn’t notice until I reached for it and found nothing…
lost tooth, hole in the world where my poyms used to be. And that place in my lower belly gave a hard pinch: Ouch. My poyms are not there, where I last touched them. Not there, where I set them down so I could continue to run around pretending not to be a poet.

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Of course, I am a poet. Well, more like a ‘poyt’ - a woman who makes fun of her mother (even now) and can’t stop stringing words together into patterns. This is an aspect of the gift of imagery I don’t talk about much. Until it goes missing. The poytry, I mean. The gift never leaves.

The gift stays. Vexing and haunting, pulling me out of bed in moonlight. When it’s not pouring poetry through me, it’s dreamstuff. Either way. I am a poet.

I didn’t worry (much) about the missing file. I trusted that my poems would return to me. I would find them, one by one, distributed through my notebooks and papers and blog posts or I would remember them. That’s starting to happen now. Poyms drifting back one by one. I’ve recaptured two of them now.

This one, In the Beginning: A Prose Poem for God.

And this one, Ode to the End of the World, which is a spring poym but why not? This morning, I’m feeling celebratory. My poyms are still out there - and they are on their way home to me.

I found another one today, hidden in a notebook. They will all return to me. I trust them. My poyms.

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Photo by Shot by Cerqueira on Unsplash

At School of Magic, we are getting organized around a new campfire.
Finding our favorite tree stump to sit on - or a soft cushion beside a soul friend. I invite you to stop by and see if this feels like the kind of place you'd like to stay awhile. There's warm apple cider brewing. I'd love to see you in the circle. Come see!

(Photo: Little me and my mom. Two poyts. In raincoats. In Brooklyn.)

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Sending you all the blessings of this season, the dark light of the soul places, deep dreams and fat blankets to cuddle under; warm fires, hot beverages - all of this, I wish for you, and all the gifts of poytry.

xxoo
~ Amy