A Gift of Flowers
It might have been tulips. I think they were yellow.
A smiling man handed them to a woman in a crowded bomb shelter.
I saw the picture over the shoulder of some talking head on my screen.
Thousands of miles away in my bedroom I’m thinking of these stories I’ve been writing about Florida and Texas and Ukraine and maybe Idaho
And I’m thinking of friends who are struggling with big changes and big questions, and how all I want to do is hug them and promise “It will get better. It will be okay.”
And I can’t do any of that. The hugging. The promising. Nothing.
In my head I hear Bob Dylan singing “the times they are a-changing,”
While the words “L’dor v’dor-from generation to generation,” rattle around up there
If hope is the thing with feathers, mine is some garish cartoon bird
Not sleek like a penguin
Nor agile like an emu
Not swift like an eagle
Just some mismatched evolution between dinosaur and bird tripping over feet falling from the nest shedding sequins like scales
Poetry vs. Essay
Poetry is one of my favorite things to write. I don’t share it here very often–more often it’s current events, or human interest topics. I tell stories from my life and hope that someone is listening. And if they are listening, I hope they’re moved by the stories.
But poetry is different. Poetry takes me to a different place.Sharing poems exposes me to a different kind of vulnerability, Writing poems draws out feelings, emotions in a different way. When I write essays, for example, I sit down and think about the story that I’m trying to tell, who are the characters, what is it that I’m saying and how do I get from the beginning to the end? There’s a sense of motion to the writing. With poetry, I am focused on a sense of time.
“Don’t Call me a Poet” Says the Person Who Can Stop Writing Poetry ANY TIME THEY WANT
And yet, in spite of all that, I argue with Adam when he calls me a poet. Which he usually does when, for example, I’ve done things like gotten a little flowery in my language on something he’s editing. Or when I get hung up on trying to perfectly describe minutiae. When I see things like the way that Middle Cat and Big Cat breathe at the same rhythm while they sleep. One is warm, resting against my leg or under my elbow, and I can feel the rhythm as I watch the other, a few feet away. Upon noticing this, I’m overcome with a sense of peace and an awareness of the connection between everything. Sometimes it’s about the little details I see in the world and how I can honor, remember and even share them.
The Little Things… like Flowers
Those little details are what inspired this poem–a news story on my computer screen on International Women’s Day showed a man bringing bright yellow flowers to a bomb shelter in Ukraine. In this dark, frightening scene, these yellow flowers stood out, much like the colored area does when someone takes a black and white photo and filters just one part of it. You could see joy in the faces of people on the screen, what I can only guess was relief at a moment of normalcy among such terror and tragedy, That bright detail stood out, and I wanted to share it.
The poem contains a a nod to Emily Dickinson. But I was actually reminded of William Carlos Williams’s poem “The Red Wheelbarrow” as I looked at the scene. The contrast between bright and dark. In this case a momentary joy amid terrible things. It’s quite different from most of the other poems I write, too, both in its focus on a singular moment rather than a broader experience or emotion and in the fact that it spilled out nearly complete all at once. This is a sort of Polaroid take on a moment I just didn’t want to lose.
Poetry isn’t Fancy
Poetry feels a little fancy. Elegant. Even a little indulgent. Especially when I look at the list of things I have in my notes file to explore or the pieces I’ve started and abandoned for now. I hope you don’t mind this deviation from my usual storytelling here, but if you do, I urge you to read the next few sentences very carefully.
Writing all of these intense stories week after week is hard. It involves digging deeply into emotions, history, feelings. Mine and others. It involves introspection and serious examination. It’s emotional work as well as physical. And it takes a toll on me. I love doing the work, but it’s also important to remember to be aware of my own physical and mental well-being as I do it. And I can’t wave the self-care banner enough here. For me, that means occasionally stepping away from the kinds of intense stories I’ve been writing for the last several months and choosing to share a poem instead.
Erika Grumet, MSW
Erika Grumet, MSW (she/her or they/them) was born and raised on Long Island. She earned a Masters in Social Work from Stony Brook University.
She has been researching and writing essays and poems about mental health, physical disability, sexuality (particularly bisexuality), rape and sexual assault, gun violence, the writing process, and a variety of other topics. In addition to writing and managing content for the website, Erika brings her experience as a social worker and educator. She works with writers to help them manage or overcome issues that prevent them from bringing their best writing.
Erika was recently chosen to Lilith Magazine’s “The New Forty” cohort. You can also find her published in Bi Women’s Quarterly, Kveller, and Lilith, with a forthcoming publication from Spoonie Journal.