Abby E. Murray: “Because of the timing (Mother’s Day weekend), it seems this poem is occasional. But I wrote it in response to new data that shows birth rates are down in the United States, and the ensuing conversations about whether the pandemic is to blame or some other ‘trend,’ such as—I’m just throwing these out here—lack of jobs or housing, violence against women, unequal pay, racism, broken systems meant to protect mothers and children, broken healthcare, or thriving sexism. I know I’m not the only one who suspects Captain Obvious edits most newspapers (‘people aren’t wearing masks and Covid is getting worse!’), but I wrote this to remind myself that I am just as valuable to this world for being a mother as I am for my own life, just as I am loved for loving others and naming what isn’t right.” (web)
Abby E. Murray: “On Monday evening, Marvin Bell (author of the Dead Man Poems) died in his home in Iowa. He was my professor at Pacific University, where I got my MFA as part of a half-baked survival plan during my husband’s combat tours. A veteran, Marvin convinced me I was a delight even when war left me feeling shipwrecked; he gave his students the sense he was tickled to be trusted with our poems even as he shredded them, asked for more, praising us, glad we made it—because it was so good we had made it to poetry. He could tell a story about anything, coax joy out of anyone, play longer and with more conviction than a dog at the beach. And I have to admit, I am feeling a little shipwrecked again. When someone this influential dies, I find it useful to inventory what they left behind for us to handle their absence. He taught me to be unafraid, even when a gaping absence scares the water from my eyes. I cried to write this. Not the poem. This.” (web)
Abby E. Murray: “Saturday marked the end of the first week of Advent. My favorite season, though every year it seems harder to remember what light everyone is waiting for and whether it will arrive in a way we can see and feel. Light, like poetry, is something we can carry and wear like armor. I like that idea, instead of armor as burden. In my meditations, I wondered how many people spend this time of year waiting, being twisted and pulled by need, and how many of us spend the day trying not to show it. So much of what I do in my neighborhood, in particular, feels like a performance of loneliness. My neighbors don’t talk much, or, more specifically, just not to me—I’m too political, too tall; my dog is too aggressive. I’ve been told a hundred times at least that I am intimidating. If I am, I have no plans to change, but I don’t think I am. I’m spending these weeks waiting for light.” (web)
Abby E. Murray: “Someone toppled, burned and drowned hundreds of thousands of bees in Texas, and a NYT headline read: ‘There goes my honey flow.’ It made me think about how our reactions to nonstop news stories centered on loss are wildly different, creating what feels like an even wider distance between all of us. I didn’t think of honey or even pollination when I first heard about this, but the way it must feel to be drowned in a sinking structure you cannot escape, like a beehive thrown in a pond, or a sinking ship, or a burning democracy. Every day I peer into the news feeling certain I can hear it all, hold it all, that I must, but where can I keep it? I don’t write concrete poems often, but I wanted this poem to be a container for the news of honeybees burning—a fantastic, tragic image.” (web)
Abby E. Murray: “This morning, the radio told me about the upcoming presidential alert text I’d be receiving. Later, everywhere I e-turned, there was an article responding to this alert, whether it was emphasizing the absurdity of this current administration’s reach or the impending fear we should feel when notified of an attack. Some of the responses were funny. But the line ‘No action is needed’ really stuck with me. (Isn’t this the message of so many people afraid of their traditional roles and practices being shaken?) I realized I wasn’t half as concerned about a text being sent to millions of people as the other fires we currently have roaring on every corner. I realized that, behind each of those fires, there is someone (or a group of someones) calling for no action to be taken.” (web)
Abby E. Murray: “A third of Americans dread political talk at Thanksgiving, but the past year has made me feel—strangely—more grateful and angry than I’ve ever been. I can’t stop seeing my country as a place prepared for our daughters, prepared for all those who have yet to claim their voices. I am worried. I am angry, and I’ve spent every day since the 2016 election acknowledging this and trying to heal, trying to protect those around me and acknowledge them. Maybe this is what it means to age. Maybe this is what it means to listen and hear. In either case, I wasn’t asked to say what I’m thankful for at the table this year. It was a very pleasant dinner.” (website)
Abby E. Murray: “I’m marching in Seattle this weekend in solidarity with those who have been openly threatened by the incoming administration. At first, I planned not to bring my daughter; she’s three and won’t understand; she’s potty-training; she’s innocent—all the reasons. Then, when I realized I had no one to stay with her because her father will be overseas and all the people I trust are also marching, I knew she’d be part of the march as well. I am nervous and a little proud. The structure of a pantoum made me feel more secure.” (web)
You must be logged in to post a comment.