This glorious day my faith in poetry, long wandering lost, has returned.
As a child, with candid faith, I worshipped often in the house of rhyme. My Book: the words of poets from old and modern times. I held their lines, cherished as divine, in the tabernacle of my mind. I read and happily received the bread of beauty, of loss and love, the wine of wisdom, of nature and peace.
Then weariness sewed seeds of unbelief and soured the wine, made stale the bread, blew out the sacred candle in my head. I shunned in silent self-reproach my belief in verse; I decided its airy lightsomeness proves all together frivolous among the heavy burdens of this earth.
I shelved my dog-eared faith as fit for fools.
I left that house of grace and locked the door behind. So long, farewell to bleeding rhyme.
Twenty five years I held my spirit to the grind, ground nearly gone, to prove my worth. I amassed an armory and displayed prowess on the battlefield of base success.
I am not a superfluous ornament in this world.
I am not a dewy-eyed, dreaming girl.
But somehow, exposed to the pelting elements amid my mad pursuit, the lock eroded. The temple door fell open. The ripe, cider-sweet lines, fermented in darkness over time, called out to parched lips and hungry mind. With utter relish I drank.
And now here I am, back inside the banished shrine, the prodigal poet, sneaking furtive, greedy drafts… savoring the warmth that blooms in my chest. I grow heady and flushed with the words.
I have fallen off the wagon of sensible pursuit.
I realize that, unbeknownst to me (so intent was I in my drive to prove solidity) lines, lines and wonderful lines were writing themselves all these years– weaving over and under, around and within all the rushing moments of my life like an untiring stream, carrying along the sediment of every sentiment I’ve felt; smoothing the jagged edges of treacherous rock, quenching the hot, angry sands, caressing in bubbling murmurs the aching rapids rushing in search of solace…and sitting still as glass over deep, pensive pools.
Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. Lines. Words. Verse. Like God, and love and light. Everywhere!
And now, like hope, these words spring forth unstoppable. They are as real and profound as anything I’ve ever earned or spent, this flowing record of sentience.
Give me pen, ink and time that I might depict in rhyme the essence, nature of my soul; Like Michelangelo in the chapel of my mind, I’ll paint my own salvation in poetic lines.
CARRIE DANAHER HOYT is a life-long lover and writer of poetry. It is her humble opinion that poetry is the highest form of human communication. Poems (she says) at once highlight what is unique and what is universal in humanity; the bond between writer and reader is intimate and sincere (kind of like Facebook, only better).
Carrie lives in Massachusetts where she is a wife and mother of three school-aged kids. To pay the bills (as her poems don’t yet do this) she works as an estate planning attorney. Beside family and poetry, she loves travel, volunteer work and concerts.
-TWITTERIZATION NATION: 8-12-2017