Poem #2: Poly-Cystic Ovarian Syndrome

The second poem in the chapbook is a short acrostic spelling out the letters P-C-O-S which is the acronym for Poly-Cystic Ovarian Syndrome. Several years ago I was diagnosed with PCOS. It's kind of hard to explain exactly what this is because even the doctors seem baffled sometimes. What this means to me in terms of trying to conceive is explained in the poem. If you would like to know more about PCOS, visit the following website: http://www.soulcysters.com/.

**If you are wondering what this is all about, please read my previous post on November 29th**

Poem #1: (In)Fertility Rites

This is the first poem from my chapbook and also the title poem. The idea for this poem came to me when I thought about all the things people (including doctors and your mother) tell you to do when trying to conceive and how they are kind of like modern-day fertility rites. So I jumbled them together in this poem and threw in an ancient fertility rite at the end to make the connection. It's a good start, but I would really like to develop this one some more.
**If you are wondering what this is all about, please read my previous post on November 29th.**

My Story: Infertility Rites*

This past summer I submitted a poetry chapbook to a contest sponsored by Accents Publishing, an independent press in Lexington, KY (http://www.accents-publishing.com/news.html). The subject of my chapbook, entitled Fertility Rites*, was my personal experience with the frustration of trying to conceive, the euphoria of finally becoming pregnant, and the devastation of losing my baby girl at 21 weeks. Most of the poems were written during the 5 months following the loss and working on this project was very therapeutic for me. I knew I was taking a big risk in submitting something with such personal and emotional content, but I really felt like I needed to share my story. When the results of the contest were announced at the end of August, Fertility Rites* was not among the chapbooks selected for publication. At first, I was really disappointed, but I knew deep down that my submission needed improvement. Some of the poems were written in a hurry in order to meet the contest deadline and I think it showed. However, the chapbook also included some of my best work which made me determined to revise and seek publication elsewhere.

While considering publishing options, I realized I already had an option available to me--my blog. And so I have decided to publish my chapbook here on Versions of Chai--one poem at a time. The poems will be posted in their unrevised versions, but I will also include commentary on each poem. I welcome feedback and suggestions on how the poems can be improved. Look for the first poem next week.

*I have decided to change the title to Infertility Rites as I think this better explains what the chapbook is about.

Later

A small word, yet
composed of an infinite
number of minutes and
spoken so frequently
in daily conversation

What a host of tasks,
projects, and even dreams
are deferred to this
nebulous spot on the calendar

It's exact date
has never been fixed
It hovers somewhere
just beyond reach
bursting with a mixture
of promise and tedium

If everything goes as
planned, later will be
the busiest time of my life

Inspiration Lost and Found

What will they sing about?
What will they write about?
Now their messiah has been crowned king
and all their troubles are ended?

How will they survive without the fury
that fueled them for so long?
Those champions of peace who
peddled their own version of war
in hate-saturated voices and
spewed their angst until our ears
rang with the violence of their words.

Their hero lauded and
the moment of jubilation passed,
they awake from victory to
find themselves bereft of
inspiration, deflated of purpose.
Words of beauty and love are a
foreign language their lips
have forgotten how to form.

While we who live peace and
strive to love all human kind
still find inspiration and
see beauty in our daily lives.
We will keep singing.
We will keep writing.
And in their silence
maybe we will be heard.

We have always known it is folly
to pin such hope on mortal man.
For one day, the facade will wear thin and
they will realize that tyranny has many
faces and evil more than one brand.
On that day, beware, messiah, beware
for they will find their tongues again.

A Heart in 3 Pieces

When I was in my mother’s womb
I broke my heart into three pieces

One, I kept for myself
Returning it to beat and pump
The other two I left behind
To wait for my sisters

When they came along two and
four years later respectively
Each had a piece of my heart
Clutched in her tiny fist

It’s not been easy
Having my heart in three different
Places at once. At times the pain of
Separation is too much to bear

For only when we are together
Can my heart be whole again

Mental Wanderland (Through the Windshield Glass)

The car idles in the drive-thru
He talks
but I don't really listen

Through the windshield glass
a crescent grin leers
out of the night sky
the outline of a cat body
almost discernable in the
glow surrounding it

Beware the Jabbertalk, it says
the tongue that wags
the teeth that clack
I laugh out loud
disrupting the flow of monologue
He asks what is so funny

"Nothing," I reply. "You were saying?"

As his discourse continues the
Cheshire moon chimes in
And shun the verbose box of chat
I stifle another laugh
but he is distracted
paying at the window

"Did you hear that? They don't have
any salt. Do you still want it?" he says
I answer yes without
looking away from the moon
It shouts, Don't need salt,
need pepper, more pepper!

I smile to myself
He stops talking and
hands me my drink
I look over at him
so classy in his black fedora
for a moment I think
He's the mad hatter

Then I say
"Let's go. We're late."