Versions of Chai

Although I atually wrote this poem after my loss, I decided to place it in the "trying to conceive" portion of the chapbook because the frustrations I express here are the same ones I felt during that time. It was (and still is) difficult for me to watch so many others experience the joys of pregnancy and motherhood. And even more difficult when some of those people didn't really want it to happen or neglected the children they were blessed with. Thinking about this, reminded me of the apricot tree my family had. It would bloom every year, but never bore any fruit. I felt like I could identify with this tree and decided to write about it. This is the first mention of trees in the chapbook, but it won't be the last.

While trying to conceive, one of the "infertility rites" I went through every month was a blood test on day 21 of my cycle. I would usually do this on my way to work and most of the time I was the only patient there. But one day, the waiting room was full of pregnant women, all taking their test for gestational diabetes. They were chatting and comparing pregnancy notes and I felt completely out of place. I started writing this poem as soon as I left there that day. **If you are wondering what this is all about, read my post on November 29th.**

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**

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.**

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 a...

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

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,...