A(nother) birthday poem

For my second May baby (and a little discursive on poetry as a regular part of life)

For Jonathan (a.k.a. "Jonathan Swift"), on his 15th birthday

Faster than your siblings three who dawdled at the door, 
You haven't slowed since you arrived, my child numbered Four. 
I sometimes wish you would slow down, but it's been so much fun 
To see your blonde head pass me by, bright shining in the sun. 
Mothers often learn the most from babies they have raised; 
From you I've learned what it means to run and keep the pace. 
So don't slow down. Keep running hard. Keep pounding feet to grass. 
And I will cheer (too loud) so proud as you go shining past.

Jonathan on the left, Photo by me

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A brief explanation/apology

I don't typically post twice in one week because I don't want to clutter up inboxes and make myself a nuisance, but I am making an exception for our family's Spring Birthday Week. I've started a tradition of giving poetry as gifts on special occasions. Not favorite verses from established poets, but verses from me for a specific person in honor of life events. I recently gave a friend a prayer-poem for her new baby, I gave my daughter her birthday sonnet yesterday, and my son will get this with his gifts tonight.

There is a part of me that feels like it is borderline arrogant to give poetry I have written as a gift. I don't think I will ever not feel that way, at least to some degree. But I will still give the poem if I feel it is a poem worth receiving. I love when artist friends give me things they have made as gifts; why should poetry be any different?

I believe that this gesture could be a real way to make poetry a normal part of our lives and culture again. I don’t think my little habit is going to change the world, but this is my small stone to add to the cathedral foundation, so to speak. It's not much, but I believe in the importance of poetry, so I am adding my little brick to the larger structure.

This birthday poem isn't profound but it is true, and profundity isn't usually what I am aiming for when I write anyway. Poetry befriends the mundane and elevates it to Something More, or more accurately, it reveals the Something More that is already there. There is profundity woven into the mundane. Poetry helps me see it.

And not just reading poetry, but writing it. When I put my life into the setting of metered verse, I see the patterns better. I see the glint of Something More. I pause, I take it in more deeply, even if only a tiny bit more deeply. Yesterday, as I wrote the sonnet for my oldest daughter, I thought about her, as she is and was and might someday be, as who God has made her in herself and apart from (but still a part of) me. And today, as I wrote this verse for my son between flipping batches of pancakes and slicing strawberries, I thought about him, as he is apart from (and still a part of) me, what he has brought into our family, and what it is right now, in this season of rapid growth and change, that I want most for him. Poetry is the frame that helps me think about these things clearly because each word and image in a poem is weighted with meaning, is intentional, and carries on its back the entirety of the poem. Each part of the poem is the poem. Shaping life into a poem is similar to shaping a lump of clay on a potter's wheel; there is no part of the lump that is untouched or unshaped. Each part of the pot is the pot. But I also don't put the entire clay deposit on the wheel. It is a small lump from a larger reservoir, elevated above the rest by being transformed into something else while yet remaining itself. That is the magic of Poetry, and all the arts: they take a lump of earthy life and shape it into Something More even as it remains a composite of the earthy stuff of life.

Anyway, that's my defense for sending you back-to-back poems. If you're a new subscriber, first, thank you for your interest in what I write. I hope you find it worthwhile. And second, I promise I don't do this regularly. Though, I do have a post on motherhood set for Friday. [insert sheepish grin here] But—pinky promise—after that, it's back to once a week. Give or take.