Grieving Dreams - Poem with a Linocut

"Grieving Dreams" 4" x 6" Linocut Print

 I actually had to wait a bit before posting this. Partly because I needed to print the lino block I had carved, partly because I needed to crawl out of the pit I was in for a few days. I just wanted to be left alone to work through the natural feelings that come along with massive life change and I didn't want well wishes and offers to go for coffee to talk out my feelings. This was an inner battle. Feeling more optimistic now and moving forward again. 

 That being said, I have a back log of posting because in the course of my recovery I feel like this story is best told in chronological order. (of course clicking on that link leads you to most recent meningioma blog post first, so you'll just have to back track if you are new to this situation and want to read more about my crazy world).

 The above image is actually meant to illustrate a poem that I wrote, so it came second (which is different for me) My husband asked "why did you write a poem?" to which I helpfully responded "I don't know." then there was an awkward pause. Writing poems is also different for me. I am not one to express emotions and personal stuff using words. Or rather, I should say "I WASN'T one to express emotions and personal stuff using words" because everything is different even though everything looks the same. Things I get to grapple with using previously under utilized parts of my brain. 

 In the interest of getting this posted, I am just going to transcribe what I wrote with minimal editing. If I wasn't in recovery mode, I would knock this poem around for a while, honing it to where I want it to be and then I would set it in lead type and print an accompanying edition to go with the linocut. Or print them together. This all feels too hard so you get the rough copy. Oh yeah, I didn't write this in my sketchbook. I seem to have lost that somewhere in my house. I've had too many words lately and some are too personal for this blog, so I moved that crazy train over to a standard notebook. 

 I've asked myself many, many times in the past week "why bother?" I have also seriously thought about just wrapping up this part of my journey and unlinking from the sidebar on my blog and going back to making art. I'm refraining at the moment because I'm not posting poetic ruminations for attention (so if it looks that way, stay with me for a moment) I committed to the experiment of "what happens if you take an artist and then perform brain surgery on them?" and I want to see this through. Even though it looks like a pity party sometimes. Or I write poems. 

 In some ways this has been difficult to process because my physical recovery on the surface has outpaced my processing of the past few months. However, I am not fully recovered physically and the Pandora's Box of "what the heck is my life now" has only just opened. So I have ugly days occasionally. My husband astutely noticed that when I have a breakthrough day (i.e. carving a lino block for the first time, going running a little at the track etc) I very often am a wreck the next day. Physically, mentally and emotionally. Progress comes at a steep price. Now that I know this, I am being more careful on how much progress I let in at once. 

 To frame my poem, it came from my visualizing exercises that I've been doing. I kept coming back to a weird visual space that was like a storm on a beach. So I put words to the mental image, then I illustrated it. Please note, I am not a poet nor am I looking for poetic critique. Please also note, this is kind of raw and it makes me uncomfortable with sharing it, but maybe it'll help to understand the process of getting better. I'm okay now and I repeat I'm not looking for a chance to get together and talk about our feelings. We can just text each other dumb memes instead. Like we usually do. 

Grieving Dreams

One night a small boat washed ashore
The sky purple and flashing
As I went to investigate
Puzzle over its purpose

I noticed beside it
In the shallow crashing waves
Many of my dreams and those of others
Succumbing to the water

Some had expired a long time ago
Their corpses fetid, bloating
I hadn't noticed them before for some reason
I laid them on the sand, rescued

Others were newly deceased 
Some so small and full of potential
Some so large they were difficult to pull
From the sea on my own

On the beach I made a
Morbid procession of these ideas
I noticed some weakly floundering, barely alive
I put them in bucket to save them

Turning back to the lost
I found a box to fit each one, provide shelter
Re-purposed for this funeral
Colourful cardboard betrayal

It didn't do them justice
Just hid the awful reality
So I carefully chose thick cream paper
The colour of brides

I covered each box with stiff paper
Making sharp creases
Hiding the truth, giving it honour
Sealing in the decay

Then carefully as if lifting babies
Deep in slumber
I placed each box, acknowledged
Into the awful, tiny boat

At last I pushed the boat
Into deep water, like a pyre
I let it drift away, to the past
Released into the future.