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A few years ago, my teacher Jill Carter shared with our class that her community, the Anishinaabe, would not record history through time—when did that happen? Like an '83 Camaro that. But I am interested in finding out what might change if I learn to befriend these many selves. Earlier today, I made a hot water bottle and a mug of sweet milky tea and wrote my Morning Pages. I got a giggle out of a writing prompt about new year's resolutions. Sincerity is disarming. And I wasn't going to say anything but, for some reason I can't explain, I need you to know that I haven't forgotten myself, that I think I'm going to write a novel, that I think I can do this, that I am running into a new year with my heart and mind and arms wide open and a door that will sometimes be closed, okay?
I am running into a new year, I remind myself. Maybe my love will grow wings. What do you need to let go of? Matthew G. I'm walking into the new year. The lovely people in the sweet little writing group liked the idea–the idea of the short story–and so did I, and one day I realized with delight and apprehension: "This is not a short story. Poem beginning in no and ending in yes. Going faster than I can. Yet nothing's finished. I've tidied my desk. Crazy horse instructs the young men but in their grief they forget. I'm going to try to try. The making of poems. There is no "changing" or "bettering" myself.
Quilting (1987-1990). But I am running into a new year, and I beg what I love and I leave to forgive me. Floods, and I have never…. I like that it offers no answers and includes no period. And, you know, like I said, the new year is - it's very real in the sense that we've all agreed to it. And the poem is all in Haiku. My friend Asad asks me if I've ever been in love. And that poem's on fire.
All those chances for reinvention, rethinking, repairing, rebirthing. Was the start of your leaving the quiet quitting the ebb of you. In Ms. Budzileni's 8th grade class, we read Lucille Clifton's "[running into a new year]" and thought about how we're moving into this new year through these complicated times. I am running into a new year and I am not looking behind.
Just today, my sister's sister-in-law walked by me and smelled exactly like my late aunt. I'm scared that suddenly it will be December and I'll be looking back on yet another year in which I didn't even try. NPR transcripts are created on a rush deadline by an NPR contractor. Tennyson is actually the poet who wrote ring out the old, ring in the new. May 1933—but through place—where did that happen? Barely any sleep so now im the slow one. Two-headed woman (1980). I read Chessy Normile's "And Send A Bird" because I just finished her collection and Asad likes birds. I wish you could hear this spoken by my dear friend Laura with such heart that you could not fail to be stirred, but since you cannot, do read it aloud yourself to get the effect. And yet, here I am, again. New Year moving fast. It will be hard to let go. Insert compelling, relatable story about self-doubt and self-sabotage, anxiety and depression, inertia and indifference, and a global pandemic and my 9-5 and social media and watching TV shows I've already watched again and again and and and and and…. 1. at creation... them bones.
I can sit and read the back of a cereal box as my nephew chatters behind me, making a mess of his boiled egg breakfast to the tune of "Baby Shark. " I'm embarrassed by all my old promises and the unrealized resolutions of so many Januaries. Here we find ourselves on the first day of a new year, and all that newness brings with her. Accuracy and availability may vary.
And perhaps that's why New Year's Day is a great day to start to think about reading poems. Napped half the day, no one punished me. Alexa G. I am running into the new year. I photographed this caterpillar the other day as it was eating its way across a milkweed plant in my garden, and I realized that I too am hungry for change. I trade my joy for presence. Subscribe to Crème de la Crème to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.
Your material world is a canvas…an angle from which we can see the colors on the palette. Today, my family will do a burning bowl ritual, where we'll burn our regrets from the past year, honor our losses, and, perhaps, 'let go of what we said to ourselves about ourselves. Like I'm a hibernating bear. And, now, I find myself telling you the same thing I told him: "I know you've heard me say this a thousand times before, so part of me wasn't going to mention anything….
That i catch in my hair. As I became more intentional about some of the personal work I was doing, it became clear how harsh I was with my younger self. The other day I learned about Tales & Feathers Magazine and slice-of-life fantasy, which reminded me of Studio Ghibli, Ocean Vuong and kishōtenketsu. In Poppy War, Chaghan says to Rin, "You think calling the gods is like summoning a dog from the yard into the house. Whose being forced to run.
Birdsong wafting in through the open windows. And they are sort of imaginary states that we're cultivating in our self. The lesson of the falling leaves. An ordinary woman (1974). I learned not to put the hot, melting candle in the bowl with the paper! I told my partner that if the door is closed, that means something. Don't talk to me about cruelty. It usually takes me at least a month to read a book of poetry, if not longer.
The wind is in my hair. What the mirror said. I attended a reading she gave back in 2004, and when I stood in line to get her autograph… I asked her to sign this poem in particular. What the grass knew.
In that old wooden classroom by the park.