Not Enough Poetry

Two wonderful poets, friends of mine, recently became mothers. In the past week both confessed on FB that they had not written in at least a year or more! That made me think a lot about motherhood, and being a woman, an artist, and how our art is affected by our roles as females and mothers.

When I became a mother I also stopped writing. It wasn’t by choice, and I had the craving to write, but for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to the page. This was in the age before Facebook (1999), so I didn’t even have a chance to write self-gratifying observational blurbs to the world like we can today. I kept a sporadic journal, but it was a surface recording of events, nothing deep. I feel so guilty sometimes for not writing creatively then, but at the same time, I give myself a pass because so much energy was put into other creative ends— albeit “non artistic.” Also, I didn’t consider myself an artist back then either, like I do now.

In 2013 I hit a wall and I no longer had the luxury NOT to write. I had to write for my own sanity. I waited 14 YEARS to write poems again. I finally had some distance between whatever was impeding my creativity, and me. When I say distance, it wasn’t more than a pinky-width, but I finally had more than just a craving to write again. Writing was the thing that brought me back to myself. 2012 & 2013 were traumatic for our family, but I rediscovered poetry, and I feel that was God’s way of lighting a path for me out of that mess.

Thinking back, though, one of my biggest regrets is that I dropped the pen for so long. I extend grace to myself, for sure, and I don’t lose sleep over this, but it jabs me every now and then. How about you, artist friends? How has motherhood/marriage or otherwise impacted your creative life.

A wonderful thing happened to me this week! Outstanding poet and writer, Amanda Moore, spent some time with my poem, “Self Portrait con Valencia” and wrote an essay about it for Women’s Voices for Change.

I’m honored and grateful and excited to share her words and insight into this poem, which is a time-travel back to when I was 14 and learning the nomenclature of chemistry. I am so grateful to Women’s Voices for Change for publishing it, I feel so seen.

I’m grateful to share that my poem, “How to Ride a Train in the Andes,” is a runner up in the 2020 Sandy Crimmins National Prize in Poetry! The poem has been published in the Spring 2020 issue of Philadelphia Stories.

This poem was born during NaPoWriMo in 2018, so it is very fitting that it ended up being published in April. It’s the first poem that I wrote about my grandmother, my Abuelita, who was born in Alausí, Ecuador. Although my grandmother most likely only had a sixth grade education, she was a renaissance woman. She taught herself many things, especially in the arts, including painting, how to play several instruments, knitting, crochet, and most importantly sewing. My Abuelita was a master seamstress, and 3D fabric artist. She could make anything out of cloth.

My poem “How to Ride a Train in the Andes” is an homage to the Guayaquil-Quito trans-andean railroad that my grandfather worked for, and the decisions my grandmother took to break free and a create different life for herself. While the poem sounds fantastical, it’s all based on facts. Click on the link, and take a ride with me. If this story fascinates you, as it fascinates me, you can read more about it here.

The G&Q train moving up the switchback called Devil’s Nose, in the Ecuadorian Andes mountains.

Año Viejo

In Guayaquil, in December,
the old year is a dying man,
face painted on a paper-mâché head,

dressed in yesterday’s clothes,
stuffed with newsprint emblazoned
with headlines from the past year.

His widows— we cry for him on the corners
taking up a collection for his funeral.
We spend it on fireworks

to stuff down his shirt
so he burns bright when we light
him on fire, minutes before midnight.

But first, his last will and testament is read
bequeathing blessings for the year ahead.
His final countdown explodes

in the middle of every street
and the city is a battlefield, ablaze,
the new year brought forth through the haze.

Our eyes full of smoke
we raise a champagne toast: we embrace
in silence and watch our old man burn.

by Lupita Eyde-Tucker.

“Año Viejo” was first published in Naugatuck River Review, Issue 18, Fall 2017, and was nominated for a  Pushcart Prize.

Etienne Le Cocq [CC BY 3.0], via Wikimedia Commons