I’ve been in a very poetic mood lately, writing a poem practically every other day over the past two weeks. It’s amazing to feel this inspired… but also very distracting when it comes to getting my homework [which is NOT poetry] done by the due dates.
Since I’m not ready to share these new ones publicly yet, I decided to post a poem I’d written a couple of months ago in my Comedy & Tragedy class.
This was a pastiche assignment requested by my professor, which I wrote based on the structure of Yusef Komunyakaa’s poem, “My Father’s Love Letters.” We had the privilege of reading this brilliant piece of verse in our course; a big eye-opener to varied stylings of poetry, I must say! Outside of the word count and structure of the poem, there are no other similarities between Komunyakaa’s brilliant piece and my own. I just like to say his name. Komunyakaa. Koh-mun-yah-kaah. I think that’s how you say it.
Her stomach bulges, immense globe under a sheet.
The doctor says it won’t be
Long before the babies come. She gasps as the contraction
Sends a shudder down her spine.
He holds her hand tightly, caressing.
Praying, he wills the pain
To leave her body and
Enter his. The nurse checks on
The monitors, unaware and without a care for
The suffering nor the joy
That is to come for them.
Sweat, agony, tears – the minutes,
Each ticks by slower than the
One before. He feeds her ice chips.
The cold slivers melt
Upon her tongue, the relief ephemeral
For the discomfort below.
“It is time!”
The doctor shouts, the nurses gather
And the room fills with cacophony.
“She is crowning!”
Excited, provoked, the world around them
Seems raging with flight.
“Push, baby, push!”
Monitors beeping, IV dripping, panting breath-
She pushes with unbridled might.
In the hope that her daughter will
Soon be in her arms,
She doesn’t hear the doctor’s whispered lament.
One more push, but it’s
Too late. The father weeps
For the daughter born still.
Keep pushing, they bellow, and she
Obeys, for a son needs his
Mom! Final push, her jaw clenched
Until his blessed cries fill the air.
With death comes new life. With sadness comes new joy. May I always be grateful for what I have.
~ Victoria Elizabeth Ann