Made in secret

A poem of mine, written in 1995 when my daughters were very small, has taken on a life of its own. It was first published in 2002 in my friend Elisabeth Hallett's book, Stories of the Unborn Soul: The mystery and delight of Pre-Birth Communication. In 2013 it has reappeared in an anthology, mostly poems and a few stories, collected by Eve Olive, Cosmic Child: Inspired Writings from the Threshold of Birth. My copy arrived in the mail last week. There it is: "Made in secret", p. 20, four pages down from Mary Oliver and two up from Rumi. How strange! Who wrote this?

It falls into a category of star poems, a theme that has run ever since I found my poetic voice in 1994. Another one, "Starlight", has been written into a choral piece by composer Mark Sirett but unfortunately not published. I have not made much effort to get my poetry published, despite the fact The Poet is the role I feel most deeply. I am mostly content to write verses as they come, that is all, but it pleases me that at least one or two will continue touching people after my consciousness dissolves. Ironically, I find poetry harder to write as I become more at peace with myself. The bulk of it, 500 poems, was written during the three most turbulent years of my life (1995 to 1997) as I experienced devastating depression, marriage breakdown, coming to terms with my sexuality, spiritual abuse, ostracism by my church and the loss of traditional family life to which I had aspired.

I am not the same 30-year-old who wrote these lines. His tent had a gaping tear through which the universe blew. He could not stand the cold, noise and turmoil and had to sew it shut. Yet I miss his hints and glimpses of The Beyond. I admire (or envy) his bewilderment.

Made in secret (1995)

They line up
little people yet to be.
Unborn faces in a crowd of futures.
None of them exist apart from a miracle
and yet how does that make them
so different from me?
They are all in halves now.
A few dozen in her, determined.
Many millions inside of me
still fracturing in multitudes of possibilities
each one ready to collide with certainty
deciding a body
and framework of a personality.
The combinations could give forth one more
or maybe three
into full life and birth.

Yet now I can't help picturing them
all in a line waiting
in some shadowy star-shined
vestibule in space
pacing quietly, slowly
maybe hoping
praying
that we will seek them.
Already we have reached out
arms blind
taking and holding three
one that went in silence and mystery
two who have flourished like green shoots
as different as rose and sunflower
both lovely beneath the summer heat.
How daunting the task
of shedding all my sunlight for their nurture!
Can my garden
hold even these two blooms?
Yet how enticing the thought
of calling another bursting seed
across the boundary
of blood and flesh.

Youth?

Another surprising thing about Eve Olive's lovely anthology, which I mentioned earlier, is that from a brief scan of the volume I seem to be the youngest writer represented there (b. 1964).