Nostalgia

Nostalgia

When I dream about my childhood home,
red brick and built on a hill,
it’s always surrounded 
by devastation,

by some fresh dystopia
like a world that still
circles the sun, but has
turned on itself
so long it’s flattened
and folded. 

Last night, only my dog was with me.
I locked the door to my parent’s bedroom,
pulled down the blinds, unpacked my
emergency duffle, stuffed
with fleece pajamas.

He stretched himself like a
rug across my feet as I lifted the
corded phone and called 
everyone I love.
“So this is the end?”
I asked,
and for once,
we all agreed.

The Prompt

When I first started writing poetry, I had no idea what I was doing, so I would just pencil a line into my notebook—any line, whatever came first to my mind—and then I’d let words unspool from there. Often, the poems didn’t hang together at all. I began with whimsy and ended with anguish or started out chattering about zebras and ended on microchips. (Okay, I totally made that up. I have written exactly zero poems featuring either zebras or microchips, but you get the point.)

Two years in, I still have no idea what I’m doing, but sometimes I think I should know, and I put pressure on myself to write something worthy of all you lovely readers. I get in my own way. The truth is, though, that I didn’t start this Substack with the expectation or intention of having a bunch of people read or like my poetry. I started it with the hope of forming a little community where we could share our poems and reflections with each other without worries about measuring up. A handful of you have been here with me since the beginning. Your kindness and your generous sharing of your creativity has given this little community wings. We’re growing and traveling far beyond my expectation.

To write today’s poem, I went back to my earliest habits and intentions. I had zero ideas for poems to write, so I just burped out the first two lines without worrying about where they might lead. The second two lines surprised me, because I hadn’t made that connection before, but as far as I can remember, it’s accurate: I dream every now and then of my childhood home, always as a retreat that I escape to and hunker down in during some sort of apocalypse. This tells you a thing or two about how lucky I was as a child.

From there, I began to recall little details of my dream from the night before—my dog, locking myself in my parent’s bedroom, a bag full of fleece pajamas, the corded phone. I remember that I called my brother, but I don’t remember any details of the dream beyond that. And yet the last stanza poured out of me as readily as a dream—which is to say, with no concern for factual accuracy and a deep commitment to saying something true.

A part of me reads the news or tracks the weather and sees the end of everything I love. A part of me senses this same fear in so many others. That part of me wanted and needed expression in this poem. She’s not the only part of me. I am also sturdy bricks and cozy pajamas. I am also a voice reaching out, nourishing connection with other voices. But my fear wanted and needed to find expression here. I released the urge to get in her way—to bend her into something more upbeat or mold her into something more poetic. I just let the poem be what it wanted to be.

For today’s prompt, I invite you to open yourself to a bit of surprise from your own subconscious. More specifically, I invite you to come up with a seemingly random first line, commit to it, and then see what happens. That first line might be grounded in something mundane from your life: “I went to the grocery store again today, and the wheels of my cart kept on squealing.” It might be inspired by something lovely in nature. Maybe you pull it from a dream you remember. Maybe you draw “inspiration” from a truly horrifying news headline. Maybe you’ve got nothing, so you just start with “I’ve got nothing.” The key is to start without seeing what the middle or the end might look like.

Once you get that first line out, filter and sensor as little as possible. Give yourself permission to write the worst poem of your life. Give yourself permission to tear it to shreds when you’re done. Give yourself permission to go in any direction from the light anchor of where you began. Where does the tide pull you? What part of you or part of your experience is seeking expression right now?

If you write a poem that you’re up for sharing, I am more than up for reading it! If not, I’d still love to hear what this process felt like for you. Does this mirror your usual writing process, or did it feel like new territory? How do you usually approach writing a poem? Has that changed over time? I welcome your comments, reflections, and poems! Thank you for being here.