A Worm Moon In August 2024
Welcome to A Worm Moon, a poetry newsletter where I, Phoenix Yemi, share what I've been reading and writing through the month.
August marks a year of Worm Moons. The word that repeats itself is clarity. Thank you. It’s been precious to hold space for poetry in a way that requires reflection, introspection, vulnerability. I feel firm in the fleshiness of my voice.
One thing that’s become evident is my love for Louise Glück; I want to give you her poem ‘Otis’ in celebration. The last sentence says, softly, in italics “the sea no longer torments me; the self I wished to be is the self I am.” Yes.
1
I want to write to tell you about the river and the wild English tulips, that this poem is my declaration of love.
As you read the poem, you might recognise a line from Wild Geese by Mary Oliver and pieces of Adrienne Rich, though sadly I can't remember the poem.
2
Etal Adnan. Her poetry often delves into questions of existence, the passage of time, and the nature of being. She weaves these themes into her observations of the world. These poems are from The Spring Flowers Own and the Manifestations of the Voyage (1990). I was struck by the continuing imagery of the linden tree and the resurrected bird. Anything is possible, and I want the words to become my landscape.
3
The clarity in this catastrophe is that I love you. I'm afraid.
4
Anne Sexton. From O Ye Tongues. I find comfort in the idea that we all have our own mountain to climb, that somewhere a blood angel is watching over me.
5
I'm thinking about this transition from summer to autumn, how things begin to die and the trees lose their leaves. I don't want it. I want everything green and vivid. Can I refuse the loss? I know the answer is a resounding no and I wonder if this poem is symptomatic of distress, if my desire to conquer time is a mask and really I am fearful of the fragility of our bodies, that in a moment I could lose you and the forest would respond ‘Nature is indiscriminate’.
The distress is real, even in the face of this poem. But somehow, I arrive at Alejandra Pizarnik, at her poem Fragments for Subduing the Silence, at the final line, “And I will not say my poem and I will say it. Even if (here, now) the poem has no feeling, no future.”
I write poetry to navigate my desire, to assert my desire, but some things are so great that the urge to surrender to gravity, to paralysis, is overwhelming. There are moments where it’s imperative that you allow yourself to fall and others where the movement is to rise. If I close my eyes, there is a woman on her toes, her arms unfolding as wings, sweeping up towards the sky to create wind, conduits of desire. A swan preparing for flight. And I know I have to write through it, write against it, no matter the silence, no matter its seeming futility.
P.S
A Worm Moon is going on hiatus for the next couple of months, and I'd like the last thing I leave you with to be this poem. Oyinda is my given name. When I engage with my inner child, she's still Oyinda, and this poem is for her. I hope these next coming months are kind to you.
Thank you for reading. I hope you've liked the poetry.
What poems have you been reading this month?
If you feel like sharing, please send them my way. You can email me at phoenixyemi@gmail.com or you can find me on Instagram @phoenixyemoja
💌 With Love, Phoenix 💌
