By Cortney Davis
can’t believe it’s April again.
Here in Connecticut, patches of stubborn snow still pattern our front yard, a square patch of grass hidden by trees. In the basement corner where I do my writing it’s also pretty chilly and dim—not because of a lack of sun but because of a general lack of poems. April is National Poetry Month, for goodness sake. So why am I suffering such profound writer’s block?
This is a question I ask myself every year when Poetry Month rolls around. The answer is always the same: I’m just not a springtime writer. I’m an end-of-summer writer, an autumn writer, a winter writer. I write in the months of involution and change, in the dark months, because I’m a poet who also happens to be a nurse. Or maybe I’m a nurse who also happens to be a poet. In any event, suffering, death and transcendence are my daily fare; the laying on of hands is my daily task. Friends ask me, Can’t you ever write a happy poem?
My hospital world is a place of both safety and pain, a microcosm, if you will, of each of our lives. It’s a world with an undercurrent of mystery, sensuality, spirituality, and a primal love that mimics the bond between parent and child or between lover and loved, with all the fear, longing, difficulties, tensions and joys of those relationships.
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