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Invisible Work
Because no one could ever
praise me enough,
because I don't mean these poems only
but the
unseen
unbelievable effort it takes to live
the life that goes on between
them,
I think all the time about invisible work.
About the young mother on
Welfare
I interviewed years ago,
who said, "It's hard.
You bring him to
the park,
run rings around yourself keeping him safe,
cut hot dogs into
bite-sized pieces for dinner,
and there's no one
to say what a good job
you're doing,
how you were patient and loving
for the thousandth time even
though you had a headache."
And I, who am used to feeling sorry for
myself
because I am lonely,
when all the while,
as the Chippewa poem
says, I am being carried
by great winds across the sky,
thought of the
invisible work that stitches up the world day and night,
the slow,
unglamorous work of healing,
the way worms in the garden
tunnel
ceaselessly so the earth can breathe
and bees ransack this world into
being,
while owls and poets stalk shadows,
our loneliest labors under the
moon.
praise me enough,
because I don't mean these poems only
but the
unseen
unbelievable effort it takes to live
the life that goes on between
them,
I think all the time about invisible work.
About the young mother on
Welfare
I interviewed years ago,
who said, "It's hard.
You bring him to
the park,
run rings around yourself keeping him safe,
cut hot dogs into
bite-sized pieces for dinner,
and there's no one
to say what a good job
you're doing,
how you were patient and loving
for the thousandth time even
though you had a headache."
And I, who am used to feeling sorry for
myself
because I am lonely,
when all the while,
as the Chippewa poem
says, I am being carried
by great winds across the sky,
thought of the
invisible work that stitches up the world day and night,
the slow,
unglamorous work of healing,
the way worms in the garden
tunnel
ceaselessly so the earth can breathe
and bees ransack this world into
being,
while owls and poets stalk shadows,
our loneliest labors under the
moon.
There are mothers
for
everything, and the sea
is a mother too,
whispering and whispering to
us
long after we have stopped listening.
I stopped and let myself
lean
a moment, against the blue
shoulder of the air. The work
of my
heart
is the work of the world's heart.
There is no other
art.
for
everything, and the sea
is a mother too,
whispering and whispering to
us
long after we have stopped listening.
I stopped and let myself
lean
a moment, against the blue
shoulder of the air. The work
of my
heart
is the work of the world's heart.
There is no other
art.
~ Alison Luterman
~
~
(The Largest Possible
Life)
Life)
Alison Luterman (? - Present)
Alison
Luterman is a poet and essayist living in Oakland, California. Her
poems, short stories, and essays have appeared in magazines and
anthologies, including Poetry East, Poet Lore, Whetstone, Kalliope, Oberon, The Sun and The Brooklyn Review. Her first book of poems The Largest Possible Life won the Cleveland State University poetry prize and was published in 2001. Her second book, See How We Almost Fly, is forthcoming in 2005.
She's
worked as a poet-in-the-schools, a theater teacher, a freelance
journalist, an HIV test counselor, and a drug-and-alcohol prevention
counselor, and has given poetry readings and taught writing workshops
for adults across the country.
Her BLOG at: seehowwealmostfly.blogspot.com/2007/09/okay-i.