Category: My Poems

Storing September

DSC_1867 copyMy Mother gave me a book of poetry by Elizabeth B. Rooney and I was reminded of it today, with fall on its way.

Storing September
by Elizabeth B. Rooney
You ask me what I did today.
I could pretend and say,
“I don’t remember.”
But, no, I’ll tell you what I did today —
I stored September.
Sat in the sun and let the sun sink in,
Let all the warmth of it caress my skin.
When winter comes, my skin will still remember
The day I stored September.
And then my eyes —
I filled them with the deepest, bluest skies
And all the traceries of wasps and butterflies.
When winter comes, my eyes will still remember
The day they stored September.
And there was cricket song to fill my ears!
And the taste of grapes
And the deep purple of them!
And asters, like small clumps of sky…
You know how much I love them.
That’s what I did today
And I know why.
Just simply for the love of it,
I stored September.

Splintered Truth


…

Originally uploaded by M e l o d y

This is not the end.

It is just another day.

A bitter clutching.

Somehow she will love, enough.

And will continue to speak truth.

Their voices are her voices

which hold power for her, only

if she listens

to the clutch of their ancient lies.

Murky in message, mighty in corruption.

She will not surrender to their splintered truths.

This is just another day

to hold on to her children’s laughter,

to their questions, to their need.

These she grabs on to fiercely

and holds on another day;

telling herself the truth found in wanting

[laughter, questions, need]

more than ancient lies and madness.

She is strong.

As she speaks there is found a certainty

in the granules of this goodness, pure and sweet.

this epic grief

this Epic Grief

September 13, 2009


Minutes tick.  Limbs twitch.  Covers are tangled & awry.  I think I am almost under, when I realize that I have been awake for hours.

It is too late.  Sleep eludes me.

In the darkness I lay back again.  And again.  And  again.

My mind full of  shadows; ripples of awareness & memory.  Weariness.  Need. Needing anything besides my irrational, wild, anxious thoughts. Have I always felt so lonely?  Have I always had this epic grief?

It seems as if I was born lonely, afraid, ashamed. distrusting.  My heart in pieces.   One of my strongest childhood memories.

But hold on.  Pain must have a beginning.

Was it there before I was?  There in the hearts of my mother and father?

Was it as real to them? The waking dream.  The dreamless sleep.  A quiet pulse, ever present.

Did they pass this madness on to me, through blood and tears of a generational grief?

I am sleepless and crazy with sadness that in times past I would have gladly drowned with alcohol, or any other intoxicant.

But dry, I am left with this epic grief.

Days and years. Years and days of working at sobriety.

Because dry, without the work, I am simply left amongst my dreams.

Left

with this epic grief.


Writing poetry helps me feel something to its extreme.  To go as far as the madness allows and still remain sane.  And then — somehow — come back to a place of semi-sanity.  It helps me to write.  And I hope that it helps someone else as well.  I think that is why I share though some would say “A cry for help.” Ha, ha.  That is so.

Random Sadness (a poem)


God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks to us in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: It is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.     C.S. Lewis

Random sadness cannot be shaken

or filled up with things that may have worked before

food or drink,

distractions of children,

hard work,

general busyness,

exercise,

or even photography.

Random sadness, following me

like a weight on my neck and shoulders.

Sleep, my usual solace only brings bad dreams.

I cannot run from this

random sadness

which will be my constant companion today.

Melody Hanson
1 Nov 08

We are all falling.

So much beauty [in the world].
And so much pain.
Often it is easier to see the atrophy of humankind, on our planet and in our lives.

Today I am blessed by someone passing along this poem by Rainer Maria Rilke.

Autumn

The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,
as if orchards were dying high in space.
Each leaf falls as if it were motioning “no.”

And tonight the heavy earth is falling
away from all other stars in the loneliness.

We’re all falling. This hand here is falling.
And look at the other one. It’s in them all.

And yet there is Someone, whose hands
infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.

I have never read that before today. It is perfect in its description of the almost inevitable atrophy or collapse of life and I can’t help but think our efforts to fight it are so vain. And the beautiful way that he talks about our Creator. I liked it a lot.

Thank you to my friend.

Thank you to the Someone who is holding it all together.

eulogy to life


There was a time, when to wake with a pounding head

meant total indiscretion the night before.

On this day, the one year anniversary

of my choosing relief and power,

the day I rejected my empty Thirst

I can celebrate my life.

There is shame in being a drunk;

total confusion and self-contempt.

I do not remember to glorify it,

for it was pure wretchedness, and I still

sometimes feel disbelief that this is my story.

But I cannot, dare not, blot out the memories.

It happened.

There is  guilt, humiliation, self-disgust,

but I dare not forget.

I choose sobriety.

I choose to be aware of my cravings and needs.

I am an alcoholic who chooses  — every day — her Life.

What is suicide — picking up the glass knowing it is death, for me.


What is Life?

Awareness.

Humility.

Service.

Love.

Life is facing down my demons,

knowing the dark times will come.

Life, is wanting something more.

Power comes in the choosing.

Choosing more Love, choosing Life.

Even as I remember,

I choose this day to Live.

I choose my Life.

July 17, 2009

What I Didn’t Learn From My Parents … or Did I?

From my parents, I didn’t learn how to have or be a friend.

I didn’t learn to trust people.

I didn’t learn how to stick with a person, even if they are unpleasant or difficult, or to work at a relationship even if it is imperfect.

I learned how to be alone.

I learned how to mistrust.

I learned how to fear and to look for rejection.

I learned how to use people to get what I needed and wanted.

I learned how to break promises.  I learned to lie, mostly to myself.

I learned to be afraid, to find comfort in being alone, to be anxious, and to be unpredictable.

I learned to look strong, while I covered my fears with work, or illness, or alcohol, or sarcasm, or wit, or intelligence, or knowledge and arrogance, or competence, or whatever was near that made it go away, for a time.

I didn’t learn how to need, to depend on others, to be open, to give and take.  Me, me, me!  Always, what mattered was how everything impacts me!

I learned how to take from and use people — I didn’t think I had anything to give back.

Isolation equaled strength somehow in my parents.  Fear people, because they will let you down, hurt you, disappoint you, or even need you too much.

I didn’t learn from my parents and what I did, I am trying to unlearn.

Written 7/11,  Sunday, 2009

Tuesday, July 13

Ah, the wretchedness of focusing on yourself and your internal distress and grief.  Upon further thought I am truly ashamed.  How self-centered these thoughts are and how sorry I feel for myself at times.  Yes, all that happened but I also know, without a doubt, that what I learned and didn’t from my parents has made me the person I am today.

If anything, in the midst of my selfishness of thought, I am assured that I am not them.  I am my own person.  And although I am disgusted and ashamed of my parents’ behavior (and my own) at times,  it came from their own pain and disappointment with their parents.  My parents did not feel loved by their families, not a little, not a lot,seemingly not at all.  And although intellectually I know I was loved, it always came with a sense of conditions, whether spoken or not, that I could not live up to.  Not a little.  Not a lot.  Not at all.

I have made many, many mistakes already in my life.  My addiction to work at one point in my life, and even my giving in to an addiction to alcohol, and came from lineage of broken people.  Strength in the broken places was a mantra my father lived and I think he believedbut somehow he never changed; he never put a stop to passing on his pain, fear, isolation, and disappointments.

If I have any strength it comes from naming the sin of my selfishness.  To continue on hurting others, or even blaming, would be the ultimate lapse of character and so I take my weaknesses, my awareness of what I did not learn, and what I did and reach out.  For out of my fear, distrust and isolation come a raging and inconsolable need for Place.  For Belonging.  For a sense of Home, if you will, that I never knew as a child but crave as an adult. As I reach and extend my heart to others, I am trusting that we will each be strengthened by the risk-taking.

If it feels like jumping off a cliff, the terror unimaginably vivid, I am even more resolved! As I get outside of my doubts and fears, I can do something else with my life!  Sometimes that is as simple as answering the phone, returning a phone call or email, replying lovingly to an inquiry and a revealing a little more of myself, or more importantly caring enough to ask questions of others.

Isolation only brings what I seem to always be looking for, which is ‘proof’ of others’ betrayal.  I want others to reach toward me!  What I am learning is to get outside of myself, to consider others before myself.  Oh,I don’t do it perfectly, or even regularly, or even often enough; for the impulse to close in on myself is almost as natural as breathing.  And yet although I breathe, that is not being alive.  That is death in itself, to live hour-by-hour for myself and my own needs.  It is to others that I am called or else this life in not worthwhile, not a life worth living. And I do want to live fully, as complete and whole as I can be.

In the end, this isn’t about my parents.

It ends with my parents and begins with,

jumping off the cliff,

today.  Life in free fall is scary, but pretty great!

The Journey In Between

In my journey between belief and disbelief, I have found Truth to be something I choose not to argue about, but to be what I have experienced in the mystery of the flesh-and-blood of the incarnation.  My encounter with Truth is the Story — my responses, reflected in word and image, are but a ripple in the ocean of that mystery.

After a recent exhibit at an artist showcase at my church, I found that I was ultimately ambivalent about it.  One image I preferred, titled Sinkhole, seen below, truthfully expressed the dark lull of depression which is a reoccurring struggle for me, but the rest of my images were drivel.  After searching within, and asking for guidance, I found inside myself a desire which I came to understand as this:

I want my photography and poetry to reflect the improbable and shattering experiences I have had encountering Jesus — encounters between my grubby and muddled life and Truth.  These moments aren’t at all pretty; my struggles with a life-threatening depression (the sinkhole), the death of an abusive yet charming parent, a loathsome self-esteem, the tensions between my passions & my search for ultimate purpose, and the shame & fear in acknowledging my alcoholism, are all relevant to my faith journey.

I am living with the tension of wanting to create beautiful, excellent art and to reflect the sweat and toil of my faith.  To honestly reflect the sweet serenity of unconditional love & laughter, as well as suffering, pain and broken heart I have from things chosen and unchosen in my life.  The satisfaction I have experienced in my slow, bittersweet surrender to believing God is who he says he is and can do what he says he can do!  The heart’s quickening by the spirit of God which is earth shattering and good.

I’m fully aware that my writing and photography will never have the Answers to the Questions people have — but if it can be a simple witness to my experiences and a nudge toward Truth, I will be satisfied.  Knowing Jesus promised that those who seek will find.  We can trust him.  He meant what he said.

I want my Art to be a connection that cannot  help but push one toward God. I need to make this kind of art, need it desperately.  And I hope in the act of creating, whether through a lens or written word., some restitution will be found.

Is it too much to ask that Art heals, directs, and in the end is a tiny inkling of God’s Truth?  There is a certain anxiety or fear involved with the attempt.  Not wanting to be marginalized by the world for making “Christian art,” I feel reluctant and yet strangely compelled! What other option do I have?  If my art is relevant to the entirety of my experience, from the dazzling to the profane moments, then it just may be relevant to the people around me.

This is my wish.

MHH

Some of my thinking was inspired by: http://www.relevantmagazine.com, http://www.insidecatholic.com, as well as by the writings of C.S.Lewis. Teaching at Blackhawk Church, http://www.blackhawkchurch.org, has been a catalyst in this profound change in my life over the last seven years.

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my poem: no dignity

There’s no dignity in panic.

It stops your heart from consuming any sensation, real or otherwise.

Your brain hums, but it’s got no tune. It is an off-key drone.

You can’t breathe, your lungs forgetting their purpose,like a pillow over your face, it suffocates.

Your feet are leaden; won’t walk, won’t work.

In fact, decency and decorum would help a lot right about now.

This moment, you wish was a memory.

But in fact, you have no magid wishes; not one, two or three.

Your brain, heart, lungs, legs are corrupted, having forgotten their purpose.

This is the simplest and worst of betrayals.

You are offensive even to yourself.  Sickened by your fear.

There’s no dignity in panic, nor any humanity or decency;

only a crippling,fractured, dismembered day,

hour-by-hour

endured.

No self-respect;Until somehow

Wisdom anchors to your soul.

And you let it go. Not to forget,

but for now to breathe, think, move until the next

most unwelcome panic.

4/15/2009

Written by Melody Harrison Hanson

I need a filling (a poem)


…Originally uploaded by M e l o d y

It’s difficult to face

some days.

Yesterday was like that

simply

because I was face-to-face

with my [faithless and revolting] need

for Substance.

And I vowed,

again, as I do many days

to offer my need to God, the ultimate Other,

asking for a filling.

I need a filling dear Lord, I need a filling.

written 4/13/2009

by Melody Harrison Hanson

Addict

Being an addict catches me by surprise.  Today,

seemingly innocent things — a drink, a smoke, a purchase, food, even exercise can become

urgent

need.

In the time that it takes to feel a flash of happiness, sadness or regret;

less than 60 seconds of my life

and I remember,

I am an addict.  How could I have forgotten?

Today I must ask what brought this on?

For tomorrow I must fill the need

with OTHER.

As for yesterday, I can only look back and remember

I am an addict, but I am stronger than my need.

And as for this moment — I know I am an addict;

I am. I was. I always will be, always will be

an addict.

ADDICT written april 9, 2009 by melody harrison hanson

Those that have no background in addiction look at the word ADDICT and the word alcoholic as kind of wicked and weak.  Face it, our culture doesn’t understand.  But if you’ve been there, if you live there, if you love someone who does or has you know exactly what I mean.  And I thank you for understanding.

Meeting Patrick.


humbledOriginally uploaded by M e l o d y

It’s been a while since I’ve posted.

This is worth re-posting (from April, 08 on my flickr account.)

Humbled. It isn’t often that I meet someone who I instinctively want to protect; to grab hold of and hold on tight. And take them home with me to keep them safe. Take them home to my warm house full of laughter and hugs, and a home cooked dinner at 6:00, with books, music and photographs, a warm cozy bed with a fluffy pillow and most importantly love.

I met that person today and he knows who he is. It seems overly dramatic to say I’ll never be the same, but I think that is true.

Perspective. My life with its ups and downs, even my struggles to heal my mental health, my life is good. I have shall we say ‘issues’ and I find it difficult to find balance, but my life has been a cake walk compared to so many people’s. And I am grateful.

I am loved unconditionally. I am accepted for who I am as a woman, a wife, a mother, a feminist, a person of faith, a white person, and a heterosexual. Oh sure, I didn’t exactly feel unconditionally loved by my parents, but I think in retrospect I was accepted, encouraged, and affirmed. I was safe (mostly.) Those things that are huge to a child. At a minimum, what every child deserves. But they deserve better than just food and shelter, they really do.

People need to be accepted. I am aware today how as you live and work around people you never know their challenges. They may not have the next meal, they may not have a place to live. They may not have anyone in their life that loves them unabashedly.

I keep thinking about how blind we can be. We need to care for those around us. Do we truly accept friends and family just as they are and not expect them to change for us or for any person or institution. I certainly don’t do this perfectly, but at least I am aware of my own propensity to want my kids to ‘be smart’ to ‘do better’ or ‘behave according to standards’ or ‘be x, y, or z.’ I’m aware of it and because of what I’ve been through, and because of people like the person I met today, I will continue to fight against that thing inside me that says ‘fit in,’ ‘don’t make choices that will alienate you from Society.’ Okay, I’m dancing around the issue of our children’s sexuality something we have no control over. Oh, I know there are debates about whether sexuality is nature or nurture, a choice or biological. I’m not having that conversation simply saying love each other damn it!.

Unconditionally loving others. It is a profoundly difficult way to live but so important.

Enough preaching.

A poem I wrote a while back about growing up NOT feeling loved.

It returned, again
The dream that continues to visit me
Night after night
Year after year,
Unbidden. Uninvited
Not unexpected, but unwelcome.
A dream that says
You are unwanted.
Question yourself.
Question love.
Doubt everything you know to be true.
Nothing is real.
A solitary thought that says
Night after night
In various, complicated dreams
You are Unlovely, unlovable.
The fragile peace that comes by day
Is broken during the dark hours of sleep.