Poetry books, seasons, and a poem

I write poetry. I can’t not write poetry. It’s like breathing sometimes, and choking and screaming other times. I write when I’m sad and mad. I write when I’m mystical and whimsical. What comes out varies incredibly in style and tone, from wispy short ones to impassioned slams.

I also write in seasons. These seasons are usually 4-6 months at a time, and are defined by what book I’m writing in. For each one, I choose a journal that my Dad and I make, from our shop Ordinary Artists. Then this journal, or “poetry book,” as I call it, travels with me everywhere for that season. On planes and road trips, to meetings and dinners and coffee shops. It sits with me on quiet afternoons, and accepts my tears, spills, and constant movement. I really love these books. I pour so much of myself into my poetry that the book feels like a friend. Once I finish a season, I put my old friend on the shelf to join my other old friends. Maybe some day I’ll have a little village.

I want to share a poem from the season of last summer (2014):

Summer Season 2014

Questions in Transition
by Sarah Klatt-Dickerson

I stand on the
edge, the ledge, the
space in between
this step and the next
Paused
Held still
I’m told that this is
where the sacred
happens, where
the seams and cracks
of the universe
line up
and a little light
shines through

What is sacred
about not knowing?
What is inspired
about waiting
suspended transition?
How I
ache in the liminal
my anxiety pushing
my fears to the surface
like they’ve been
drowning
bubbling up and
filling the marked off
space I don’t know
where it ends and
begins

What is gracious
about falling?
Plunging or floating
it’s still going down
and I’m going with
it, pulled along
inspired or mad
rummaging through
the ticket stubs in my
pockets, to see if
by some chance
I’ve been here
before, or know
where to go

What is holy
about darkness?
Longing mist faces
towards me
trying to gaze
inside me, or
through me to the
next time I’ll be
here, holding my
breath while
trying to breathe

The silence
seeks me, whether
I call for it or not
And in the gentle
restless unknowing
I am found

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