avatarWry Welwood

Summary

The text is a reflective poem that marvels at the miraculous nature of life, from the birth of the poet's child to the intricate processes of nature.

Abstract

The poem "What Kind of Magic?" by Wry Welwood is a contemplation on the wonders of life, both human and natural. It begins with the poet recounting the dramatic moments of his daughter's birth, her initial blue-gray skin turning pink as she takes her first breaths. The poet is struck by the profoundness of life as he cuts the umbilical cord and holds his newborn daughter, Cally, who has a full head of dark, spiraling hair. Despite not having a womb, the poet acknowledges that all people, regardless of gender, possess an inner capacity to nurture life's mysteries and conceive sacred truths. The poem then shifts to the poet's experience of sitting against a tree, feeling the life force within it, as he reflects on the scientific processes that sustain it. The poet concludes by recognizing that life's most profound moments often occur just beyond our perception, in the quiet, unseen growth and transformation that nature undergoes constantly.

Opinions

  • The poet views the birth of his child as a series of terrifying yet miraculous events, highlighting the transformative power of life.
  • There is a sense of reverence for the natural processes that sustain life, as the poet equates the tree's lifeblood with human experiences.
  • The poem suggests that the capacity to create and nurture life is not limited by gender, as the poet, a man, feels connected to the life-giving processes of the world.
  • The poet finds a spiritual connection in the scientific explanations of natural phenomena, seeing them as part of life's inherent magic.
  • The poem conveys a sense of awe and humility in the face of life's unfathomable complexity and the everyday miracles that often go unnoticed.

What Kind of Magic?

poem on mundane miracles

image by Julia Bondarenko from Pixabay

I’ve seen my children born after ages of my lover’s suffering; my daughter’s first post birth act was to terrify me with her blue gray skin. Second, she coughed, gasped, wailed as expert hands drew fluid from her mouth. Third, she pinked up quick enough to shame any chameleon.

Then I could breathe, welcome and name her. I was handed shining scissors, shown where to safely cut the twisted cord. Finally in her mother’s arms, Cally had thick, dark hair that spiraled, drew me to that place which has no name.

As a man I have no womb, yet we all carry cauldrons deep inside, to catch the life we swim in, concoct surprises, sacred truths and holy lives. Where else could our best moments come from?

When I sit against a tree I feel cool clear blood moving in currents beneath the bark, somehow flowing up, down, all around. Osmosis, capillary action, respiration and other schoolhouse words. Soil and water meet the light, quickening to life behind our backs. It always seems to happen just beyond our vision.

~ Wry Welwood written 1990 something, edited April, 2021

Literary Impulse
Poetry
Editing
Sprituality
Birth
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