At the same time, I know there is a healing power in writing and reading that poetry. I once took a class on trauma writing. The whole course was based on the assertion that healing comes through self-expression. Some argue that revisiting just causes trauma all over again. But for me, there are few better ways to work through the pain than by expressing it, putting it to paper. My master's thesis went one step further and explored the healing space created by fiction. But as for writing, there are few ways to try to approach my pain and deal with it faster than through poetry. I don't believe in rhymed poetry. I may use alliteration to tie together sounds, but truly rhymed poetry rarely works well for me unless the author is William Shakespeare.
But how do I tell which is objectively "best" and, therefore, most deserving of someone else's attention? Poetry is so very subjective. Is it best because it most vividly conveys the emotion to the reader, because it uses all the poetic conventions, or because of something else I can't possibly know? It all hurts. It all helped me through hurt. There was a time I would have compared my writings to children. I would have asked how I could choose. I don't make that comparison anymore. There is no comparison. I would lose 100 hard drives with 100 carefully written, award-winning novels on each before I would choose to have one miscarriage, one child loss of any sort, again. All I can do is use poetry to express the pain of child loss. Not that any words quite capture that pain. They can't. The pain of child loss is beyond human words. But here is a poem that takes me back to that first day, the day everything was so fresh that I thought I would die of the pain. It's simply entitled "Pain." Objectively, it's not a great poem. But anyone who has ever lost a child ought to recognize the emotions:
"Pain"
Pain
Blinding, numbing
Burning like a volcano
And clouding out everything
From my vision.
Everything tastes like dirt or salt.
I choke it down to fill the emptiness
But the real emptiness remains.
Everything I see, touch, think about
Links back to chubby toes,
Chunky little legs
Soft little cheeks,
Bright blue eyes
Staring at me from around the breast,
Peach fuzz across the soft head,
Round little bum
Aimed at me for a change
Preparatory to eating.
Where are you, my angel?
I long for you.
My every thought is for you,
Wondering how yesterday could have gone
If I’d have been just a little more careful
With your fragility.
My only comforts,
Your older brother and sister,
Your daddy
And above all knowing one day
You will fill my arms again.
So back I go to staring at mediocre expressions of loss and healing, hoping to guess right, to find the one or two or three or four out of so many that may help someone else feel something of what I felt in that moment. Because I guess the real truth beyond poetry, or any writing, is that unless you make the reader feel something, you've missed the boat. Your writing will fall flat. Here's hoping I find something that takes shape in the reader's mind and helps them find a little healing, too.
