What We Called the April Poems

There is something to be said of celebrating successes, no matter how small they may be. During the difficult days we've faced throughout the last few months, this feels more important than ever.

In an attempt to celebrate my friends' birthdays, I collected the 30 poems I wrote during April into a book. Now titled Things We Left on the Mantle, I couldn't help but include the additional moniker: or What We called the April Poems. This name was lovingly given to these gems in the months since being written exclusively on my iPhone’s Bear app.

This book is dedicated to the bests who live on opposite coasts, but never fail to come together on FaceTime to remind me that goodness can obliterate even the darkest of days. But it must be said, that the endeavor to follow National Poetry Month to its end would not have been possible without the daily feedback from Amanda K. and Uriah, the additional words from Amanda M., and to the fellow writers from One For One Thousand for their existence and unknowing reminder that photos can do wonders for framing narratives.

Through compiling those daily words and poems into a tangible book, I found myself celebrating not only the accomplishment of persevering, but also the beauty of vulnerable words, some true, most only half, but penned into existence nonetheless. And though this collection is unpublished, unedited, and perhaps only temporarily titled, it became real the moment the words left my mind.

So why are these specific poems so special if they're unpublished, unedited, etc?

I think too often writers and non-writers alike get caught up in the validation of someone else proclaiming words matter. Or that those words are only important once published and placed in the world. Don't misunderstand, dear, reader, the feeling of publication is a uniquely boasting and bashful beast, one which continues to thill every time. However, I've come to the point in my writing journey when I know enough to take a breath and a minute to revel in my ability, to feel gratitude for my perseverance, to agree when people tell me they love my big, beautiful brain. I love it, too. I'm trying to find that happy medium between humility and pride, and I think this book has struck that balance.

What makes this year noteworthy?

You didn't really ask, but I suppose it's something, dear reader, that you may wish to know. While I attempted to write poems throughout the months of Aprils past, this was the first in which I accomplished one every day for the entire month.

But where does such a compulsory urge to write every day come from?

Well, such an entreaty always feels necessary during National Poetry Month. It's my way of honoring my life as a poet, as a reader of poetry, as someone who picks apart song lyrics in the hopes there might be lyrical poetics beneath the production. The more poems I wrote, the more I wanted to write. I found safety on the page.

What made this April so different from those in the past?

While staying safe inside the walls of my home, I found the need to escape into words more desperately than ever before. Working on the daily poems felt profound and cathartic and steady during the early weeks of upheaval. For the first 8 days of the poems, the narrators never ventured beyond closed doors. At the urging of one of the bests, I took April 9th on a road trip just to feel like I, too, was experiencing the outside world while maintaining social distancing. And there was a sense of the exceptional each time I followed the rules I set forth.

Why would you impose rules on yourself?

Great question, dear reader! Some many years before now, I started sending stream-of-consciousness writings to the other best. Many poems came out of such efforts. To make these more difficult, we started assigning words for the other person to incorporate. Thus the first, but most useful rule was integrated into my month-long project.

Rule #1: Three words

Some days there were more than three, but every day had words provided by someone other than myself. Only one word was left out, but I promise, it was quite difficult to render within the writing, and that was after I was able to successfully include the word necrophile. There is a thrill I get at finding a rhythm to the writing, being guided by those assigned words. Sometimes it felt like a steady rainstorm, other days an endless spiral.

Rule #2: Stream-of-Consciousness

This seemed like the most obvious to apply, as it ensures the ephemeral is captured on the page without overthinking. I'm habitual in my need to overthink, but staying true to the fleeting feel of words being written all at once without editing helped hone my voice and strengthen the craft of the poems as the month progressed.

Rule #3: Don’t look back

While this may seem like it goes hand-in-hand with the second rule, I can assure you, this extends beyond the moment of writing. Throughout the month, I didn't look back to find a theme or central character or to edit any previous days' poems. But most interestingly, my obsessions were still there, certain characters and stories and themes all found their way to the page regardless of my manufacturing. That, dear reader, is the true magic of writing.

What comes next?

Well, dear reader, I hope Jonathan Groff narrated that message in your mind. Now I take a minute to read through the collection as is, relishing the tangibility of pages, thinking back on the photos that only added to the challenge of crafting these 30 poems. After that, the real work begins. I’ll revise. I'll submit to literary magazines. One best friend will edit the hell out of the writing and maybe help arrange these poems. Or maybe the poems will remain in date order. Another best friend will listen to me narrate this collection over the phone, though she is many states away. And when it's time, I will send out the full collection, and hope for real publication.

And when that day comes and this book is real for you, too, dear reader, I hope you will find words that break you, if only just a little, stanzas to heal the hurt, memories to reflect on three years from now when we only whisper about the tragedies beheld in the year 2020.

Until then, reader, I hope you are well and safe. I hope you are paying attention to the world and speaking up as we battle injustice and hurt. I hope you are healing and growing and becoming better in every possible way.

One last thought in regards to what I’ve called these April poems. There is a reason we leave things on the mantle, dear reader. We wish to remember.

This book is me remembering.

Chasing Answers to Something

Despite the many rejections of last year, I knew almost instantly what word I would choose to carry me into 2020. In the past, there was CREATE, BELIEVE, BETTER, PERSEVERANCE, and DREAM. Those choices took much thought, aiming for perfection. But alas, I’ve been trying for better instead of perfect. It’s a struggle, and maybe it always will be.

Historically, February is a difficult month. While it would’ve been more than easy to write these words on the first day of the new year, I think some part of myself knew I would need the reminder now. I’m sure there are too many reasons why, and maybe in other years, I would’ve convinced myself of some falsity instead. But not this year. Perhaps as words penned by someone extraordinary explain: “I’m chasing answers to something I’ve already figured out.” 

Maybe I’m tired of hunting whatever this may be. Or better yet, I think I’m done outrunning what I already know to be true. And so this year, the choice to wait until February to proclaim my word for the year seemed a necessity. I needed to know I could make myself believe the power of my word before sharing it with you, dear reader. 

And that word is: THRIVE. 

I am reminded of this as I look back at photos shared last month following the devastation of the Australian fires. Amidst the blackened tree trunks, rose-colored buds bloom. They thrive despite destruction. 

And so too must I, despite darkness and heartache, rejection and doubt and this often frustrating inability to stray too far from the path of the dream, however nonsensical it may seem. 

I will thrive. 

I’m getting better about trusting my roots to stay planted no matter the storms. I’m learning the limits between striving for success and settling for self-destruction, because the latter seems familiar, and by association, comfortable. And on days when the thunderous thrum of anxiety tries to upend my steady shelter, I’m finding a way to listen only for the rain. To relax. To talk myself through without making a list of everything that will and would and could go wrong. 

Despite everything against me, I am immeasurably grateful for the generosity of my people, the ones who seek to remind me of my strength when I question it, the ones who share an entire year of stories in one journal, who discuss mythology and meditation and all the ways to breathe again. Here’s to the ones feeling just as lost, willing to sympathize with similar plights. To the ones climbing mountains while I’m still navigating hills. To my mother. To my sister. To my best friends. To all the many fierce females in my life who helped me write a line about the worlds we women must carry on our backs. 

We will do so much more than survive this year. 

We will thrive, because we must.