Volcanic.

I know you want me to say “mni7a”,
but today, ana mish mni7a.
Ana volcanic.
Ana ktir volcanic.

My mighty forceful freedom flowed
through fertile valley, lush life abundant,
powered by euthymic eudaimonia

a tribute to the mother of mothers,
Mother Nature, nurturing the wild with
the wholeness of wisdom, swallowing whole
everything that is, for everything to come.

And so I swallowed my days whole,
feeding life with life (death is but a detour),
so that, as Mother showed me, all would thrive.

In the fertile valley where life feeds life,
Where the raging flow of freedom feeds
the soil, the grass, the birds, the trees,
disruptions stronger than death are rife –

and their force, too, was made in Mother’s image.

A mountain sits atop the force of my disrupted flow
Formidable weight contains the gurgling red hot urge to blow

Will the mountain hold steady
as it has done for years already

Or will the force beneath the surface break through and join the force above,
swallow mountain and valley whole in a fiery consummation of Mother’s love?

The detour is the path to what comes next.

Poetry is just saying things that happen.
It’s not a poem if it doesn’t rhyme.
It’s a poem if it means something.
Meaning shmeaning, poetry is about feels.
Poetry is language shaped into art.
I don’t know what a poem is, but it’s not that.
Who puts a full stop in the middle of a line?
I once knew a person who was a poem.
Anyone can write anything and call it a poem.
If it’s memorize-worthy and recite-worthy, it’s poetry.

Who knows what a poem is?
I don’t claim to know the answer.
But I know who definitely does not know.
My husband, Pencil.

I ordered a poetry book by a poet I discovered by chance through a viral meme and it arrived today. I excitedly showed him the book. He sat on the couch next to me and opened it to a random page, and began to read. I am in love with his voice and I could listen to him read poetry aloud all day. About halfway through the page, when I was starting to get properly invested, he snapped the book shut and said “this is not a good book, this is not poetry.” I tried to find the page again but I couldn’t. To be fair, I didn’t try very hard, I was distracted by Pencil’s very strong opinion about this book based on half a page of (honestly reasonably interesting) writing, lol. We talked about it a little and didn’t end up agreeing (this is a normal outcome in our conversations).

Funnily enough, I once read a poem that Pencil wrote in his younger years. It moved me deeply and I still think about it from time to time. He says he doesn’t like his own poetry either.

Who am I to tell him what to think of his own poetry or anyone else’s? I know what I like and that alone is my business.