Saturday, April 6, 2019

Write a Book a Year by Deborah Digges

Ten years ago Deborah Digges took her life, jumping off the top of a stadium.  I like to think she flew.  Being a poet is a painful occupation—-we feel too much.  
Happy Poetry Month (which is all year at my house).

Write a Book a Year by Deborah Digges
Well the wild ride into the earth was thrilling,
really, scared as I was and torn and sore.
I say what other woman could have managed it?
My life before then
picking flowers against my destiny
what glance, what meeting,
who was watching, what we don’t know we know,
the hour we chose and we are chosen.
And suddenly the dead my mission,
the dark my mission.
He’d find me pounding out the hours.

Spring is for women, spring clawing at our hearts.
We are pulled forward by our hair
to be anointed in the barren garden.

I want the dark back, the bloody well of it,
my face before the fire,
or lie alone on the cold stone and find a way
to sleep awhile, wake clear and wander.
From:  “The Wind Blows Through the Doors of my Heart”





5 comments:

Kelly said...

I did not know Deborah Digges died that way. How sad. I remember when they put my sister on Prozac while she quit smoking, she couldn't wait to get off of it. She said she NEEDED her highs and lows to write!

Happy Poetry Month, Marion. It's also Jazz Appreciation Month!

PhilipH said...

Another sad lady poetess, not unlike Sylvia Plath in that each took their leave of this cruel world so early in life. A strong poem.

Snowbrush said...

I'm reminded of a local woman who went to the ER one night and said she was suicidal. They denied this and told her to go. She crossed the street to the hosspital's parking garage and leaped to her death. Another woman hung herself by a rope from the hospital's large--and exterior--statue of the Virgin Mary. May they both have found peace.

Do you still want me to visit your blog?

Marion said...

Snow, you are always welcome here. xo

poietes said...

Happy poetry month. Good post.