The Post that Got Away

Wrote an entire post earlier this evening on the difficulties of motherhood and writing, with links and quotes and poems. Took me an hour, and stopped just before posting to deal with my son who was crying that he was depressed because he had nothing to do. Turns out he had math homework to do, but that is another story. Got back to post, clicked enter, and unable to process note popped up because two minutes before I hit enter, blog spot went down for repairs. Hours worth of writing lost, and I am too fed up and tired now to redo it (laudry, dishes, homework redoing, etc. etc. finally done and I'm done now too). It really was an excellent post. Look up Beth Anne Fennelly for one poet's take on writing and mothering. Fennelly is admirably subdued on the topic "I used to write poetry but the baby ate my brain." In Plath's "Stopped Dead," there's a line that comes back to me again and again, "There's always a bloody baby in the air." Poem by me below. Night, all.

NIGHT DRIVE

I want to get into the car
And drive on and on in the dark
Making for Santa Fe or New Orleans,
Anywhere but this house, this cape of claims
With its goose down, gimme’s and get me nows.
I am not Rapunzel. I’ve no wish
To be climbed like Everest
And then obligated to provide
A cool drink, a warm bath
To the usurpers of my solitude.

In the car there is only the steering wheel,
The gas and the brake
To operate at will.
I have been alone, but not alone enough.
The children will have to go elsewhere
For mother care, and adequate feedings.
I will live on roadside apple pie and night air.
I will grow like Night Shade;
Shed my size and tower
Into the open sky with stars.
I will steal a convertible
And live lush on the lam.
Mother will always be somebody else:
The woman just in the corner
Of my sped up vision,
Shushing a backseat of brats
In a different lane;
A woman who bears
No resemblance to me.