Walked Hugo Street today with the baby. Another lifetime ago (when I was around 24), I gave a poetry reading at a small cafe on this charming street, a corridor of calm in the hyper-busy UCSF/Inner-Inner Sunset neighborhood. An earthquake occurred during the reading; for once in my life (the sole occasion without a doubt), I had "presence of mind." Once the shaking stopped, I immediately joked, "See what great poetry can do?" The three-person audience was very appreciative of my humor. Or maybe they were shaking and grimacing with post-earthquake fear, not laughter.
Walking up Hugo towards the Haight, I reflected on the person I was then, the kind of poetry I was writing (absolutely postmodern and post-structuralist, for sure, and ultra-cool of course; way ahead of its time) and how far I was from even dreaming of becoming a mother. What I only dimly realized then is that poetry has to shake people to the core (no pun intended--okay, weak, corny pun intended), and motherhood also shakes you to the core. I'm not saying that motherhood has taught me how to be a poet. Far from it. I've never done less writing in my life than during the last six months. But once I get back into it, I might have something new to say. We'll see.
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