The Gift of Poetry: Motherhood Poems by Annie Flavin

May 7, 2014 By Kelle

This Sunday is Mother’s Day. In celebration of mothers everywhere, some poetry to start your day:

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Annie Flavin is a new friend of mine. I met her at Doe Bay–more specifically, in Anacortes, at the ferry station while we waited to board the boat and head to Orcas Island. Nobody knew each other. Hesitant participants emerged and introduced themselves, Annie one of them. She brought her husband and children with her (and later described, as in the first poem shared here today, how her babies made her feel more secure in a new setting) and instantly earned herself the title of the warm one, the smiley one, the one to make everyone feel at home.

She read the first poem here to the group that weekend, and it resonated with many. Talking later with her about her writing goals, she told me about how she fell in love with writing simple poems–most about motherhood–and her commitment of writing one poem a day. I wanted to read more and somehow became lucky enough to be a recipient of each poem, sent via text at the end of the day. I’ve been reading these poems for two weeks now and look forward to waking up and finding another one on my phone. Many times, they’ve been exactly what I needed to hear–simple reflections scraping up the exhaustion, worry, demands and mundane tasks of motherhood and magically spinning them into powerful truths to which so many can relate.

I’m honored to have Annie in this space today. Her poems are gifts–the kind of words you print out and tape to the refrigerator or forward to a friend after a long day.

Thank you, Annie, for sharing them with us.

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From Annie:

Of all of the ways motherhood has changed me, I would have to say that becoming a person who writes poetry is the most drastic difference from who I was before my kids entered my world.

I’m an attorney by trade and a get-to-the-point-er by heart, a logically-minded thinker who normally doesn’t have time for speaking in flowery, descriptive sentences. I’ve always loved to read, but in the five years that I’ve had three children, I haven’t found as much time to read a regular book as I’d like. I found myself wanting little snippets to help me focus, to give me the feeling of having read while not taking the time that reading takes. It’s sort of pathetic, really, but I believe that good things can come from pathetic beginnings.

I started writing these poems for myself. To focus. To remember. To reflect.

If you love poetry and you can spot the difference between a haiku and a sonnet, then honestly, you may want to do yourself a favor and skip these. These are poems of a sort – snippets, really – culled from a collection I’ve been writing in between naps and dinners and sharing with Kelle.

I hope they resonate with some of you, those of us on too little sleep and too much caffeine. I hope that they can cut through and help you to focus, remember and reflect on this journey that is motherhood.

My Gifts
by Annie Flavin

They are my woobies.
My baby blankets,
my favorite stuffed animals,
my lovies,
my pacifiers,
my protectors,
my good night songs and
my good luck charms.

I don’t know when
what I am supposed to be for them
became
what they are for me.

I don’t know when
their spirits started
filling the cracks
that were in my own.

When “she’s beautiful”
became
“I’m beautiful.”

When “he’s brilliant”
became
“I’m brilliant.”

I don’t think
it’s good or fair or right
to use their lives
as caulking for my own.

But, what do you do
when their life’s spirit
is the most beautifully brilliant piece of work
you’ve ever created?

You give it to the world.
They are them.
I am me.
Each life unique.
Each its own.

Sentimental
by Annie Flavin

“You’re so sentimental now.”

I respond defensively at first.

But then,

I think,

how would I otherwise

make it through?

I pour myself

a glass at 5pm,

or meet friends at a park,

to laugh off the day.

But then,

when it’s the middle of the night

and the bottle’s empty

and the friends are asleep,

but my baby is awake,

what then?

When I’m so tired

that anger is the first emotion

I feel

when the few minutes of sleep

I’ve gotten

are interrupted,

I stop myself.

I’ve dreamed of you.

I’ve wanted you.

You are everything to me.

If I don’t take a moment,

to watch them while they sleep on me,

how can I deal with them

while they’re awake?

If I don’t take a moment

to notice and remark

on their tiny hands and pudgy feet,

how can I stand

the trail of disaster

they leave in their wake?

Is a toddler whiney?

Is a teenager moody?

A mother is sentimental.

I’ve seen the mother

of older kids

glancing at me in the grocery store

as I corral my children.

She looks

wistfully

at the chaos

and says,

“Enjoy it. It goes by so quickly.”

She’s a sap, too,

like all of the mothers before her.

Just like me. Just like you.

Just like all of us

when we remember

our baby asleep

on our chest.

Bitches Get Shit Done

by Annie Flavin

It’s 4pm, also known as

Mama’s So Tired and Kids Are Crazy o’clock.

I want nothing more than to hide on my couch

with the covers pulled tightly around me.

I want to close my eyes

and drift off

with no other human body

touching my own.

There will be none of that, though.

They are heckling me

with arguments over scraps of paper,

or garbage,

if you were the judge,

and complaining of

hunger and

weather and

clothes that are not just so.

Where is their mother?

Oh, that’s right.

I rise up

even though I am

bedraggled,

befuddled and

so, so weary.

He won’t be home soon enough that I can coast.

The TV isn’t cutting it.

I channel

women who are not me;

wise, strong, capable, creative, nurturing

mothers

who push through difficult times and

get shit done.

I channel them,

I become them,

I am them.

I march into the kitchen,

I turn on music and

I find something, anything,

that looks suitable enough

to be called dinner.

They flock to me now:

do I sense a bewilderment in their eyes?

Mom is moving. Mom is happy.

“Mom, I’m a super hero! I save people from pirates!”

he yells as he zooms

around our tiny kitchen.

I am, too, I think to myself.

I get shit done.

Snapshots

by Annie Flavin

I take a picture of her

in my mind.

I record her words

in my heart.

If I can, I snap a picture.

If I can, I write it down.

I do this for the day

she yells at me,

or mumbles under her breath

if she’s learned anything at all,

“I hate you”

or “You don’t understand me”

or “It’s not fair”

in ten years.

Please,

let it be ten years

before that is here.

It will still feel like it is tomorrow.

I do this for tomorrow

when she melts down into a puddle of a child

before nap time.

I do this for myself so that

I can calmly scoop her up

and into my arms

because

I remember her.

She,

in her pink tutu and ruby red slippers,

frolics down the street

brushing the blond wisps of hair

out of her blue moon eyes.

“Mama, I love you like a rainbow loves.

Big and colorful, and so big.”

Hop, skip, twirl.

Light, free, joy.

The sun shines brightly

on what’s left of her blond pig tails.

I use these snapshots to pad my heart.

For all of the tomorrows to come.

In the Closet

by Annie Flavin

I sit down to take a bite –

the first bite,

the last bite;

they want it all,

except if it’s on their own plate.

I would give them

any organ in my body,

any breath they needed,

my life.

Yet I hide

in the kitchen,

in the pantry,

over the sink,

and eat my food –

shovel my food –

into my mouth

before they can ask for it.

“Mama?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Why does your mouth smell like chocolate’s in there?”

“There, there, sweetheart.

Go to sleep.”

Each Time

by Annie Flavin

Each time

I put them down to rest,

I kiss them good-night,

I kiss all of my screw-ups good-bye,

and I vow that

when they awaken,

we will all be new.

We can begin again.

We can start fresh.

Each and every moment.

If we can ditch

our own hang-ups and hangings-on of where we’ve failed,

and give fresh love

and serious attention,

they’ll rise right to us.

In fact,

most of the time,

they’re waiting for me

in that fresh, new space.

I just have to join them.

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More coming soon to annieflavin.com

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