Category Archives: poetry

To Keep by Letting Go

Sun Through Orchid Copyright 2013 Margaret Dubay Mikus

I have been excavating my desks, the downstairs desk in the kitchen for the house, my upstairs office desk for work. Coming out of an extended time when stuff was saved in piles; I don’t even remember what is in them. A number of discoveries so far, including this poem from 2011 (office desk).

Why I printed it out, I don’t recall, but it’s part of a series of heartfelt poems about giving up poetry after 18 years of writing my poetic journal. And then a poem comes along and I write and somehow keep on. Maybe with a slightly different trajectory or letting go the results.

Just write. See what comes of it, if anything. And the writing itself is the goal, as much as anything is. To be myself, with myself, the words call and I follow. As I must.

What is your equivalent? What insists and calls you? What is most important?

12/3/11

Abrupt Clarity

When I said
I give up on writing
I meant it.

And I meant
I give up on struggle
it is too hard

and I meant it
when I said
it is sad, but not devastating,

not the end of the world
just all I had been building.

And you took it to mean
what it used to mean
coming from my old lips

and cautioned reflection
and wanted to change my mind
or calm my thinking.

But
I was right,
what is past is done

as far as setting out
my unsustainable future,
it is too hard

and I am giving up
on hard in my life.

Does this mean
I will not put words to page?
apparently not, for here they are

again,
restlessly leading me on.

And when the call came
last night at 3AM
and I thought my son

was wandering lost
in the cold, too far for my help,
there was an abrupt clarity

about what is important to me,
what I can do and not do,
what I have to let go.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2011

Inspired by Instrumental “Water Night” by Eric Whitacre

5/15/13

Hope and Directions
Listening Again to Instrumental Water Night

Calm, a sliver
away from sorrow,
but the body
the mind
knows rest in one

Shadows may be
respite…or darkness
lurking to jump out
no matter the security
of the neighborhood

How to follow a line
back to peace
from grief expressed
I wish I could tell you,
but know

there is a lifeline
to pull to shore
or crumbs you left behind
or someone nearby to
hold the vision of safety

And you will…and I will…
walk that line,
not together probably
but sometime…
and return…

And if death overtakes
someone close in the meantime
it is not their grim failure to outrun
but inevitable close of a chapter
however grace-filled and long

And if you believe or consider
we all circle back in some mystery
then, as a circle has no end,
it is not over yet…

And if something stirs up
the mud from the bed of the river
then time will settle every large or small particle
gently to the bottom again
and clarity and calm will rule the realm.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2013

Willow Review Reading

I am grateful to Michael Latza (Editor) for inviting me to be the Illinois featured author for the 40th anniversary issue of the Willow Review. It is a beautiful magazine, inside and out (see cover to left).

“Veiled References,” Steven Jones

The April launch was delayed by huge storms and flooding. But it was a perfect clear fall day for the reading and launch on September 26th at College of Lake County in Grayslake, IL.

Several people read from the 2013 Willow Review, both prose pieces and poems. I went last. I chose to read all 20 of my accepted poems, selections from 2006 to 2012 (about 23 minutes).

Thank you to Mike Latza for the photos!

MDM with Robert Klein Engler, award-winner for his poem, “Child’s Play”

Robin Kacel, associate editor, gives lovely reading

MDM reading one of 20 accepted poems

I felt like I did my best reading ever, delivering each poem, connecting to those who came. Following the reading there was a Q&A session with perhaps 6 very thoughtful questions. Wonderful, attentive audience of about 40!

Stephen (and daughter Alex, not pictured) were there to support

Thank you to all who came, family, students, old friends and new friends, literary people of all persuasions.

Coming soon: my interview published in the Willow Review.

Tell me, what have you done lately that “stretched you” out of your comfort zone?

Louise Penny on Tour

One of my very favorite authors, Louise Penny, was here this past Wed. at a local library 15 minutes from my house. Some years ago a friend recommended her books, beginning with Still Life. I was going through some serious medical problems and needed some good distraction. I’m a voracious reader. I loved the books featuring Chief Inspector Armand Gamache in the Surete du Quebec, each book individually and also the continuing long arc of the story. The latest in the series just came out August 27, How the Light Gets In. I had pre-ordered it on my nook. (No spoilers, but I loved it. Worth waiting for! Very satisfying read!)

I had a conflict and decided not to go see her. The conflict resolved itself and still I did not make plans to go. I happened to mention Louise Penny was coming and my husband said, “Of course you are going.” Not really as a question. And I said, “No I didn’t think so.” And he replied, “Of course you are going!”

I don’t know why I didn’t jump at the chance to see her. We are connected on Facebook. She posts delightful slivers from her life, which I read every day. She is lovely and so inclusive, very personal and welcoming, as if we knew each other. Perhaps I did not want to have the reality competing with the illusion. Maybe I was feeling shy. In any case, in a burst of light-heartedness I called the library to register and was put on the waiting list. Only a few were ahead of me, I got a call later to confirm my attendance.

This was not my library so the day before I drove past to be sure of directions and parking. An eBook cannot be signed, so what was I going for? Perhaps I had written poems inspired by her books? To find out I scanned my poetic journal going back to 2006. I have written thousands of poems since then, organized into files of 6 months each. In the course of searching for Louise-related poems, I found lots of other poems of interest, especially for my next collection (more soon). And two for Louise.

I checked them over and printed them out to take with me. I thought I might also get a book signed for a friend. And maybe give Louise my CD. That was the plan.

I was early and got parking right in front. I found a seat in the third row and bought the new book for my friend. Louise walked in right on time. She was at ease, gracious and funny, thoughtful and insightful. She talked about how she came to write and the poems she uses in the books. She generously answered questions. I felt wonderful listening to her talk about her writing history. Not that we are the same, or share the same story, but we are both ultimately optimists. We love to read, and love to write. I felt unreasonably encouraged. Uplifted. What a gift!

Afterwards I waited in a long, but well-organized line. When my turn came to talk to her, I handed her the 2 poems and my CD. She graciously received my offering, taking my hand saying how she loved poets. (“Was it ok to read them later?” “Of course,” I said.) I told her I was interested in how creativity prompts further creativity. The librarian organizer took our smiling photo. I felt not shy, but kindred, and welcomed with open arms. An unanticipated feeling of belonging. Thank you!

Here are the two poems.

The Cruelest Month is the title of her third Gamache book (poem also refers to a line from a Leonard Cohen poem and song, Anthem; and Diana Jones who wrote a beautiful song, Cracked and Broken.

11/23/10

Reading The Cruelest Month
(with reference to Leonard Cohen and Diana Jones)

Is there anyone aware who
does not feel a fraud
as if secrets can no longer be hid,

as if the dark outweighs
any achievement—if only
“they” could see past the veil,

the illusion, the image, the lie perpetuated?
Is there anyone who was and remains
so pure and accomplished, so honest,

who never tried to pass
shine for rust,
who in some corner of some cage,

feared discovery, feared…
feared…feared…until blind and deaf to beauty,
until consumed with self-loathing replacing self-discovery?

Can simple love heal the breach;
and the imperfection—the crack that lets the light in—
lets the light in? Forever. Amen.

Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2010

Refers to Eric Whitacre, Louise Penny and Anne Lamott. All different and creative people. I love their work, but also learn by watching them being themselves: to be successful, yet remain genuine.

3/28/13

Reception
For and about Eric, Louise, and Anne

I not only
see-hear-read-feel
what you put out,

but how, with what intelligence-
humor-grace-generous heart
you can muster.

How broad your reach,
how humble yet powerful,
how determined-persistent-practical-hopeful

you may do what you must,
with the help that comes
overcome inevitable darkness.

Not thinking of me,
or me exactly, but
I am here soaking it all in,

I am here inspired…
imagining.

Each Life Is Precious

Washington DC in March Margaret Dubay Mikus Copyright 2004

I have been writing a poetic journal since 1995, begun just after healing from multiple sclerosis. In 1996 I was diagnosed with breast cancer, completing treatment (surgery, chemo, and radiation) in 1997. I kept writing, (by hand, in spiral notebooks), but I was unable to get all of the poems edited and entered into the computer. Time went on and I recovered, facing other challenges over the years, balancing being a mother and wife, running a household, with writing and creative projects. At some point I got back to the process of getting my poems in the computer, organizing them in “Books” of six months of writing each. But I never got all those poems from 1997-98 into my files.

A long time passed. My writing changed, getting better I hope, more streamlined, clearer perhaps. But I held onto the idea that I wanted the complete “set” of poems to access for any future projects. The poems, as is any journal, are like memory. What happened? Who was I then, what inspired me?

Every so often over the years, I pulled out the dusty spiral notebooks and made efforts to get caught up. This week I began again in earnest to get all the poems into usable form. Many of them are clearly for my own use only. This is often the case with writing. But some surprised me. Here is one story I came upon tonight.

3/28/98

Each Life Is Precious

I am grateful
for each and every
hair growing on my head,

for eyes that blink
and open wide, that cry
or crinkle,

for every breath drawn in,
for every cell sent oxygen,
for a full heart beating untended

in time to ancient rhythm.
I am grateful for every day,
every minute each a gift,

for feet and hands and lips,
for knees and elbows and hips,
for skin and nails and toes,

for ears and eyebrows,
neck and shoulders,

for back straight
and thighs strong.

All this awareness
this awakening,

dedicated to the one
who was struck by a lemon-colored cab

right before our shocked eyes,
so hard his shoes flew off,

hit so fast and terrible
the body collapsed and lay flat

like a balloon doll with the air let out
or a scarecrow without its stuffing.

In that second, one easy Friday night
the world changed color.

We drove on, as many others came to help, hospital nearby,
we went on in horror, my head cupped in hands,

but not helpless. I sent healing energy
to support the spirit

so recently jolted from physical reality.
I held his ethereal hand as he shook it off

and kept on traveling.
I rubbed my husband’s shoulders,

he massaged my neck and head,
we spoke in hushed reverent tones

and drove carefully home.
I honor the one who gave us this lesson:

All life, every sometimes grating minute
is precious, beyond any earthly measure.

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