A Worm Moon In April

Welcome to A Worm Moon, a poetry newsletter where I, Phoenix Yemi, share what I've been reading and writing through the month.

In April, I bought a thick book of poetry. All twelve collections that Louise Glück published between 1962 and 2020. She died last year and this year I’ve found myself wanting to know everything. I say this because April has been rocky terrain, and yes there have been moments where daisies have burst through the concrete but it's true that it's often the difficult things we remember. But what I remember also, is Louise holding my hand. The poems don't hide from what hurts, silence is welcomed, and I felt at home in her honesty.

I don't like April. I was hoping, loudly, that the opening of The Waste Landwouldn’t ring prophetic, but it's true, and I understand the cruelty. Then I return to Louise Glück, to a quote in The Paris Review that reads ‘she is absorbed by “time which breeds loss, desire, the world’s beauty.”’ It takes me to April, to the dead land breeding lilacs, mixing memory and desire, and the contrast between beauty and decay, beauty and the weight of what you're still carrying, brings pain. Then, I feel better.

Last week I woke up with the word ‘birthing’ on my tongue. I thought about the forest by Lesnes Abbey and the energy required to bloom. The trees are green again and I hope something good is coming.

1

A poem. It begins “look how dark the spring is” and I wrote it to get through the morning. The title is from the poem 'Witchgrass' by Louise Glück, which I'll share below.

2

Two poems. The first is by Catherine Pierce and she begins beautifully with what feels like a commandment, and though the poem is addressed to spring, it feels like it's my body she's telling to 'commit', to 'burst'. I feel compelled. The second is 'Spring' by Edna St. Vincent Millay and I love how it ends. It feels true how "April / Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers"

3

A sestina. It was like writing in circles and every stanza I was afraid I'd have no more words until I did and the poem was making itself known. Sometimes what it really means escapes me, but a line catches my eye and it says everything. Today it's 'i make true the garden & desire / breeding daffodils. i hurt'. Which is to say the daffodils, like the worm moon, are symbols of spring and rebirth. They're one of the first flowers. The daffodils bend their necks towards the ground, like Narcissus and his reflection in the water. And though the myth feels cautionary, I'm imagining a desire that allows you to see and want yourself.