"The thing you are most afraid to write. Write that." --Nayyirah Waheed
The tiny wren sits in the palm of my hand, its ordinary coat as dull as a leaf. Common in number, humble in beauty, delicate as a new egg, and largely unnoticed, its teakettle, teakettle sings above the cacophony of human joy and pain. How can a creature so small speak with such authority? What is it saying to us that we need to hear?
I tell the wren stories, the unknown, untold, ordinary stories. I zoom in close and linger on the buff of brown feather. I hear the voices of the millworkers behind their machines, around their kitchen tables with their families. I write of the infantry soldier, the fear that wakes him, the weariness that lies down with him at night, the laughter that keeps him alive. I listen to the everyday radical, fighting for justice, wanting to be heard. I search for my father—small town textile worker, veteran, family man, grower of backyard azaleas—a wren in the world’s eyes, an eagle in my own.
My journey in words—whether poetry or prose—is the wren’s journey, going out but always returning home to a tangled assemblage of twigs, tightly woven, tucked in a front porch eave or hidden in the stems of a geranium. My place is a troubled South, as tangled as the nest, rooted in family, sprung up in heartache and loss, air so thick it takes the breath away, blossoming like wisteria, that perilous beauty.
I tell the wren stories, the unknown, untold, ordinary stories. I zoom in close and linger on the buff of brown feather. I hear the voices of the millworkers behind their machines, around their kitchen tables with their families. I write of the infantry soldier, the fear that wakes him, the weariness that lies down with him at night, the laughter that keeps him alive. I listen to the everyday radical, fighting for justice, wanting to be heard. I search for my father—small town textile worker, veteran, family man, grower of backyard azaleas—a wren in the world’s eyes, an eagle in my own.
My journey in words—whether poetry or prose—is the wren’s journey, going out but always returning home to a tangled assemblage of twigs, tightly woven, tucked in a front porch eave or hidden in the stems of a geranium. My place is a troubled South, as tangled as the nest, rooted in family, sprung up in heartache and loss, air so thick it takes the breath away, blossoming like wisteria, that perilous beauty.
