Poetry Thursday: "In Crepe Paper" by Imelda Maguire

For Poetry Thursday this week, I chose a poem by Imelda Maguire, called "In Crepe Paper."

It is my favorite poem, ever.

I will not do this poet--my friend Imelda--or her poem justice. I know it. Because I'm too emotionally invested in the work, and when I feel that way, my descriptions are smothered with sentimentality. I'm like a first grader who has just read a brilliant picture book and struggles to explain what it meant to me ("It was really good. It was super cool. I liked it because the colors were bright and it made me feel happy."). Stunned by the impact. Joyfully awkward. Dazed. And breathless.

I chisel at the surface, trying to convey the emotions that Imelda's passages draw out, and I create a crumbly mess--like using a butter knife to cut into a solid chocolate Easter egg. When you read Imelda's poetry, her gentle voice fills your insides. You become a container for the thoughts and ideas you've just read, and you hold tight to your feelings because it is a privilege to be awestruck, and you had forgotten that you could have that reaction to something, and you want to keep on feeling that way for just a little while longer.

Imelda's book, "Shout If You Want Me To Sing" is available through Amazon.co.uk. It was the smartest purchase I made this year, this lovely volume that is thin enough to be wedged into a purse, yet bursting with language and ideas. This book has traveled with me to Manhattan and Pennsylvania, but also to the grocery store, the park, and the local Mexican resaurant with the terrace downtown. We enjoy cocktails together, this book and I, in the backyard at dusk. Many of my friends lament that they feel worn from my neediness, and this book, now with its creased binding and folded pages, feels no differently. Yet it doesn't complain.

I share this poem, my favorite, with Imelda's permission. It makes me want to be a better mother, reminds me of the power of words and of the reciprocal nature of kindness.

In Crepe Paper
by Imelda Maguire

Because there was a rush of Yes
into the mind of the teacher and
because the Yes became a sound

Yes, she said, Yes, to the child at last
because he finally heard the Yes,
he carried it home like a bright yellow flower,

a big one with petals made of sunlight
to a mother who was waiting for a Yes,
because the word was carried in

in the mouth of her heartchild, that Yes
became the answer, the chant, the only
word in her day-long litany.

Yes, Yes, Yes

c. 2004, Summer Palace Press
__________
To read other poetry or share a poem of your own, please visit Poetry Thursday.