My son was born in late October, in the teeth of autumn, my favorite vernal season. His arrival has brought a corresponding sense of optimism, an energy for the verb that I couldn’t have predicted amid the stale proclamations that I’d never have time again.
What has been most curious, approaching his one month birthday, is what I am focused on writing.
Each morning before work, I free write. This work usually ends up “somewhere” but it’s primary intent is to prime the pump. Since Elijah arrived, most of these short, rough missives have been revelations of self and dusky family history. Moments of pure reflection (like pulling over on the roadside to pick up firewood as a child) has turned on a much starker revelation (like the reality that my father was toting me along on Saturdays to pick up his methadone doses).
My work has always been “concerned” but now I feel a subtle shift to the reality that it is “concerned with” something. What is unimportant — now. Perhaps the boy’s arrival has delivered me to a time when I was a boy myself, and all those secrets were just that, secrets.
Any other poet parents find a shift in their poetic concerns?