Poetry | Grief

I Force Myself to Write

For you, Mum

My heart is numb and oh-so grey since the day my mum passed away Gone too my will to write Pray this prittle* sets things right

I’ve not published anything for three weeks — not since the day my mum passed away — not since the time when, from somewhere in a sleep-deprived, adrenaline-driven surreality, I tapped into a poetic seam I didn’t know was there and penned a tribute poem for her. It was mere hours after I had kissed her forehead, stroked her still-warm hand and whispered my parting goodbye.

Any poetry portal I might have had then has been steadfastly stuck shut ever since. Creativity cremated. Ashes to ashes, words gone to dust, lost and afloat in an oh-so grey void of numbing nothingness.

I try to conjure words from an infinite vacuum — dare to defy laws of physics and create something from nothing and fail. The sum total of nothing is perpetually nothing. Always nothing. The words are simply not there.

How can a poet be a poet without words? I’m a poet in exile from my life force — the society of words has renounced me. I’m bereft all over again.

If this is grief, I’m alive and dead at the same time — a wordless, indefensible, living death.

So I force myself to write. I force myself to think of you, Mum. I see you there in your usual place. You smile and ask me how I am. I smile right back and say, “Okay”. We both know I’m not. I’m not okay but you have to ask. It’s what you do. I love you for that. I’m okay with that.

I’m not okay with being numb.

© Carolyn Hastings 2023

Needless to say, this has been an excruciatingly difficult piece to write but I’ve done it. I’ve finally done it.

If you’ve read my more recent stories, you will have gleaned there’s a lot going on in my life. My mother’s sudden, but not entirely unexpected passing, adds to the burden of grief that has visited me many times over this past year.

I’m not a person who seeks drama and chaos; on the contrary, a peaceful, happy co-existence with self and others is what I crave. It seems life has other ideas and has set about to put me to the test.

That’s why writing — and especially poetry — is so important to me. It’s my escape route, my safety hatch, my authenticator, my redeemer. When I have nothing else, I have my writing. When I can’t write, I defy the laws of physics and become less than nothing. It’s not how I want to be.

I would like to thank those who have read my stories over the past three weeks and have kept my stats ticking over. 🙏 💕

I wish to apologise to the many who have left comments on my stories to which I am yet to respond. Likewise, I must with all sincerity apologise to the writers whose email lists I subscribe to and whose stories I have neglected to read. 🙏💙

Finally, it is with heartfelt gratitude that I give thanks to the poets who have submitted their stories to Paper Poetry — not only have you kept the publication going; you have kept me going too. The interactions we’ve shared by way of PNs and comments, have been the glimmers of hope that ‘this too shall pass’. 🙏💛

“No matter what happens, or how bad it seems today, life does go on, and it will be better tomorrow.” Maya Angelou

* prittle — a twittle-prose poem combo; a twittle being a 100-letter quatrain.

Thank you, as always, for being here. 🙏 💕

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