WILL SMALL.

Thoughts on Faith, Fatherhood and Creativity.

An ode (of sorts) to Mary Oliver

12/1/2022

 
I am frequently paralysed by 
    the choices of the modern world:
    from how to spend $50 
    to how to spend my own life
    which streaming service to keep?
    which show to binge next?
    Leaves me flailing
    on my back,    
        like a slater

Perhaps this has always been a problem        
on some level,
    no doubt exacerbated,
    by optical fibre
    but, how do you choose what you do 
    with these ticking hours? 
Mary Oliver phrased it beautifully; 
    ‘What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?’
But sometimes I want to say back to Mary
    ‘What is it you plan to do with this one wild
    selection of Netflix originals?’

Of course, 
    Mary Oliver,
    Saint that she was,
    probably wouldn’t have made the first choice
    to even entertain the notion 
    of the Netflix scroll
She was just choosing which flower        
to write her next poem about
    and would probably
    gently encourage me 
    towards the hum out the window
    of life pulsing electric
    through stardust and soil

Ghost Mary reminds me
    the choice was never just
    whether to rewatch the Matrix trilogy
    or try something new
The choice was (and is)
    to show up and write
    some words on this page
    or to distract myself,
    from myself    
    catching up to 
    myself.

Of course you can watch movies 
    and show up 
    to your creative life
    (arguably, it’s essential)
    but I know when my own scales
    are tipped.

So Mary, 
    here I am
    beneath a thumping fan in the kitchen 
    writing.
    I want to write the poems,
    like you. 
​
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Self-talk with your shadow

9/1/2022

 
Every now and then
in quiet moments,
the desire for ‘greatness’ wells up to my surface
    and takes the open mic in my mind’s stage

‘Where is your magnum opus?
Your mass following?
Your literary agent? 
Your flowing royalties? 

What have you been doing?!
How come you have not been ‘found’ yet? 
Why have you not toured the world yet?
Why are you not publicly adored yet?
Well…what will you do about it?’

It is like my ego
    has had a few too many drinks
    and become narcissistically confident
    and deeply self-critical
    simultaneously 

I feel both berated
    and intoxicated
    remembering that I
    am apparently someone special
    Worthy
    of best-seller status
    and viral TED talk fame
    a bulging bank account

Though I have also
    slacked off
    missed the boat, the train, the spaceship 
    I have turned at the wrong times
    paused when I should have moved
    moved when I should have paused    
    
I have failed
the all-important and never-satisfied god of hustle.

The crushing weight     
    of my not-so-specialness
    presses down upon me    

And I’m washed by a wave of
    disappointment
    anxiety
    sadness
    that I have not become great yet
    that I have not yet risen 
    from the ranks of apparent mediocrity

I’m still just here
    where life is happening
    steadily and quietly

And then, 
    I pour my ego a glass of water
    gently caress the microphone    
    from his trembling hand
    sit him down at the bar

I slap him
hug him,
look him in the eye and say,

You are loved.
    and forgetful,
    and arrogant,
    and afraid. 

Do you think something is only great
    if a million people see it? 
Do you think being known by strangers
    would make you feel more seen
    than the eyes of your own children? 
Do you think there’s anything out there    
​you don’t already have, right here? 


Do you really think
    the wildly successful version of you
    in an alternative universe
    isn’t still losing sleep over your crap?

Sober up, 
Chin up. 
And let’s keep walking
    the beautiful path before us.

He drinks his water,
    wipes a small tear from the corner of his eye
    and nods.

I breathe deeply 
in the wonder of my life
and walk outside.
​
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Nothing to be casual about.

5/1/2022

 
It is happening just like they said it would:
    they are growing up fast

I used to hold him like a football
Yesterday he kicked one over the fence

He used to know no words
Yesterday he told me he could see 
‘The soft-feathered wings of the day’
    6 and he already spins better poetry than me

His brother,
    dresses up like a pirate
    like a paramedic
    like an astronaut

And I’m still wondering
    is he dressing up as a 4 year old?
    or has that much time actually passed
    since we first met? 

They are growing up fast

And you find yourself uttering that phrase
    even though you know how cliche it sounds

And I wonder, 
    if it is just an easy-to-reach-for substitute 
    for things that are more difficult to say

If you pause too long to ponder
    the volumes you’ve already forgotten
    the mispronounced words
    the day before walking
    the night after coming home
    it’s dizzying to think about
    the rollercoaster tracks in the rearview

And when I say 
    they’re growing up fast
I think what I really want to say
    is that I’m horrified by how casually
    I am passing through this gift shop

And I know,
    it’s easy to be sentimental
    when the household is asleep
    and you are writing poems in the quiet hour

And I don’t want to romanticise
    the slog of it
    the shit of it
    the thousand little deaths of it

There are honestly days when I fantasise about
    going back to before
    back to morning sex
    and midday movies
    and deciding to go to the beach
    and then just going, straight away

And, maybe
    this is what horrifies me
    more than my kids growing up

It’s the curse of casually spending every season of your life
    wanting to space-jump
    backwards or forwards
    when the miracle, in all its bloody wonder
    is always and only ever happening
    where you are now. 

And you casually let it play 
    like background music. 

You are skim reading the body of your life
You are swallowing without chewing your life
You are driving on auto-pilot through the rich landscapes 
    of your one life, 

Sometimes I feel
    like every poem I write is the same
    I only really talk about
    trying to be present 
    trying to see the wonder
    trying to live and give
    from a deep well of gratitude

I write about it so often
    because it is 
    as important
    as it is difficult

And the best things are often so
    like raising these kids
    who are growing up
    at the pace of growing up

And maybe all you can show them
    is that none of it is casual
    none of it is granted    
    none of it is cheap

Every time oxygen fills those God-given tanks
Every beat that is thumped from that drum in your chest
    every blink, 
    every tear,
    every word, 
    every touch 

It is all more dazzlingly wondrous 
    than any Sci-Fi reality anyone’s ever dreamed of
    
It is nothing to be casual about.

This everyday miracle.

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