Not Ruined
Like everyone, I’d planned to live
a perfect life, free of mistakes.
In my garden, I’d plant everything in time
into well-amended plots.
There would be no seedlings gone crisp
in their pots, no ripping up wrongs
by the roots, no invasives
whose unseen seeds rode in on the wind
or hid out in birdshit, their progeny
popping up along the road
a decade later.
I would not regret my roses,
the ranunculus, or the spacing of stems;
all my failures could be explained
by referencing weather.
You see: I was going to live
in love and break nothing
but bread. But here I am, alive
among a decade’s worth of death
by neglect. Here I am with one
broken hose and a host of starts
that never took. Here I am,
with weeds taller than I’ll ever be,
bleeding between the toes
from a broken poppy pod
whose hardened crown sliced me
like a paring knife. Here I am, somehow,
with more than one chance.
This is a poem I’ve been working on for about nine months as I’ve been thinking about mistakes I’ve made in my life, when I’ve acted rashly, hurt people by accident, hurt myself unnecessarily, made assumptions, said the wrong thing (sometimes LOUDLY), put my needs before others, asked for more when I already had enough, oh oh oh the list goes on. It feels like the right poem for this moment in time, the dark, still part of the year when we must do the root work so that we can bloom in summer. It’s the inward time.
Maybe you too have made mistakes in your life that you feel shitty about. I hope you forgive yourself for them. Easier said than done, believe me, I know. I hope this poem makes you remember that you have more chances to get it right. You actually do have more chances. If you are alive, then you have more chances. I had to type that out three different ways and also write it in a poem, to really hear it myself. But it’s true. This shit (life) isn’t over yet. You can still turn that ship around.
This isn’t a self-help newsletter, but I am actively trying to help myself and other selves I love at all times. I am trying to help you find books to read and love, and I am trying to help myself grow up and grow strong. I am trying to help us all understand the world by writing poems. I am trying to help, in some small way. I hope it helps.
What I’m Reading Or Just Read:
The Latinist by Mark Prins: A disturbing but pretty enthralling tale of a not-quite-love-story between a professor and a student, with a whole lot of Latin and academia thrown in. He’s a little too intellectual for his own good sometimes (some of his verbose sentences made me roll my eyes), but the story was really riveting.
Collected Works of Jane Kenyon: She lived in NH with the poet Donald Hall and wrote about a landscape that is somewhat similar to mine, and was often flattened by depression. I did not read every single poem in this large collection but her spare language and attention to the details of her life speak to me. Here’s a poem I like from the collection called “The Clothes Pin”:
How to Write an Autobiographical Novel by Alexander Chee: Alex lives nearby and shops at my store and I keep feeling like I don’t have the right to fully engage with him on his sweet potato purchases until I read his work. So I bought this book of essays and I LOVE IT! He has this very tonally even and beautiful way of speaking about what has happened to him in his life. My librarian told me the other day, “You are pretty far on the literary side of things” in terms of my reading habits, and I think this definitely falls in that category: it’s literary. I haven’t been able to put it down!
When Women Were Birds by Terry Tempest Williams: I’m rereading this lyrical and beautiful book that has this enticing premise: the author’s mother, before her death, says, Don’t read my journals until I’m gone. Once she dies, Terry (the author) goes to them: a whole shelf of her mother’s innermost thoughts, recorded. Except that when she opens them, she finds that they are all blank. (!!!) The ensuing book is a way of filling in all that space —the space left behind by loss, the space of wild places that Terry has always been drawn to, the space of womanhood, and more.
Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver: Barbara really knows how to write novels; I tend to reread Prodigal Summer every couple of years just for the sheer fecundity of the thing. This newest book is a delight—you will love the protagonist, a kid in Appalachia with a wild and sometimes painful story that is always lightened by his personality and perspective. You will also learn about the evil and strategic way that pharmaceutical companies introduced opioids into rural populations in order to get them addicted and make millions. It’s a big ole book you’ll probably want to own so you can lend it to your aunt, because she’ll like it, too.
Awakening the Soul by Michael Mead: I listen to Michael’s Living Myth podcast when I want to feel spoken to by a rabbi. Michael Mead’s goal is to help us understand the world from a mythological perspective, and as it turns out, that is how I best understand the world as well. This is a great read for anyone plumbing the inner depths this winter—it’s generous and takes a very wide angle on human suffering with the goal of helping us feel connected to the struggle of all humans and remember that pain gives us information about what we love and that the ring of fire is what we must walk through on our way to the peaceful place.
American Sonnets for my Past and Future Assassin by Terrance Hayes: DAYYYUUUUUM Terrance! How are these sonnets so good?! I’ve loved Terrance since grad school and have this poem of his memorized. I’ll read it to you here:
All the sonnets in this book have the exact same title (bold move), but each one is a different dense little package of rhythm and righteous and Really Good. He inspired me to write three sonnets! One about my high school English teacher, Mr. Blum. One about Misha making dinner. One about a dream I had about my dead friend Connor.
Quickie Kid's Book Roundup
Charlotte’s Web (a little slow & didactic); James & the Giant Peach (love it all the way), The Heartwood Hotel (in the middle of it—tiny orphan mouse happens upon tree stump forest hotel for small critters, omg), Little Witch Hazel (Phoebe Wahl, heaven heaven), Babar the King (puke in a bowl).
“Buy Now”
Do you like this month’s poem? Buy me two virtual lattes & tell me your address & I will send a broadside of it to you. That’s $10 for a big poem in a big envelope, sent from the hills of Vermont to your home, where you can frame it or use a wooden slacks hanger to hang it on the wall. Exhibit A is below: the poem in the home of one of my bestest bests, Sarah. She is a professional photographer and her house is one of the most beautiful spaces I enter regularly.
Call & Response
I encourage you to respond to this email if you feel so moved. I am not famous and the list of people this newsletter goes out to is not large. If something speaks to you, I would love to hear from you.
LOVE,
Taylor
That was good stuff. I guess as long as the ship is afloat, it can be turned around, so that's hopeful. thanks
Thank you for sharing. Interesting to me because I never planned my life to be perfect or imperfect or in-between, which is where most of us end up. I let life lead me around by the nose and follow by instinct, good or not-so-good. Sometimes planning can lead to disappointment so not-planning gives me free rein to go with the flow. Life seems to have a way of dishing out pleasure and pain, sometimes in unequal portions and not always fair.