Yellow Moth

 

 

I am both a painter and a poet. My paintings can be viewed as visual poems and my poetry paints art with words. 

Three years ago, in mid-July of 2020, when I was living and teaching in Dillingham, Alaska, my son called to tell me that my sister-in-law Amy (I am divorced) had passed away after a lengthy, disabling illness. I was awash with grief.  

Amy and I hadn’t seen each other in years but we were very close. We either loved spending time together or avoided each other like the plague. In truth, we were very similar. We went to the same college for our undergraduate degrees, loved foreign films and were both aspiring artists. Her death shook me. I had just lost my step-father a month earlier and now Amy was gone, too. 

Luckily, school was out for the summer and I could walk the nearby beaches for hours to find some solace. It was often only me, or just a few others, and miles of sand and sea. I went to the beach the day I got the news of Amy’s death. I saw a family I knew walking near the edge of the water with two of their children. Their teenage son was behind them and flying a white kite. Just when I looked up to see his kite soar, a yellow moth with a broken wing landed on the back of my hand. A poem began stitching itself together within my mind.

Next, I climbed into my truck and drove to Wood River Market, which is down the road from Dillingham in Aleknagik. I saw a friend waiting in line for some baked goods and told him about Amy. He told me, “The tundra heals, Susan. Go pick blueberries out on the tundra. Look for the cotton. When found, berries will be too.”

I had just bought a spray-painted berry bucket from a friend’s kids. They were raising money for one trip or another. I had that bucket in the backseat of my truck. When I left Wood River Market, I drove to the wide-open tundra out behind the local hospital. I walked over one stalk of this and another of that till I came to a patch of billowing cotton. It was there that I found a sea of blueberries. 

Too, that poem that started growing inside of me earlier in the day gained words and then sentences. The events of the day wove together. Within the forming stanzas, seeing the boy with the white kite and the yellow moth landing on my hand happened out on the tundra, not the beach. Art forges memory and experiences into a crafted collage. 

A selfie taken that day is below. Smile and your heart will feel the joy tucked behind the sorrow.

 

The next day, I noticed an open call for art and writing submissions on Instagram posted by The Liminal Voice journal in Tokyo, Japan. 

 

I sat back on my couch and thought, “What if I wrote a poem about how the tundra heals and dedicated it to Amy?” I also knew from reading more about the project, that submissions were coming in from across the globe and that artists whose work was accepted would be sent a print copy of the journal.

Then I thought, “If my poem gets accepted, people from all over the world would read Amy’s name. It would be spoken by artists and readers in places I, myself, have never been.” This was the gift I hoped to give Amy. She always wanted to travel, but never had the opportunity. My words would send her, no passport or money needed. That was grief wrapped in hope. 

That night I sat down and wrote the complete poem. My final draft only needed a single comma changed to a period. Amy died July 14th. I wrote The Yellow Moth four days later. I submitted it to The Liminal Voice the next day. A couple of months passed by and then I started receiving emails from them stating that my poem was included in the final rounds of reviews for acceptance. 

In late September, I received a beautiful email stating that Yellow Moth was one of the fourteen submitted works accepted for publication. Too, that although many poems had been submitted, mine was the only one accepted. They stated that when they read it, they felt like they were out on the tundra, a place thousands of miles from their homes. They also wrote that each time they read it that they saw both the yellow moth and white kite, too. I read and wept. My gift to send Amy around the world via my poetic words was going to actually happen. She had died, yes, but she would now live forever within the printed word.

The Liminal Voice published the 'Fledging' in November of 2020. The photo at the beginning of this post is from their Instagram account (@theliminalvoice) and is the cover of the journal. The photo below, also from their IG account, lists the artists whose work was accepted and a brief description of the initial promotions for the journal.

 

 

Another image from their page highlights The Yellow Moth.

 

 

I had no idea if my poem would be accepted or not. I wrote it for my own healing. The idea that somehow I could share it with the world along with Amy’s name, too, seems pretty far fetched in hindsight. Yet, it happened. I will always celebrate that truth. Here is the link to The Liminal Voice’s webpage: www.theliminalvoice.com.

If anyone ever tells you art heals and you don’t know it yet, let me tell you that it does. Too, as my friend told me, the tundra heals. Maybe for you it’s the meadow or the city park; nature is a healing sanctuary. 

Here is my poem along with its dedication to Amy Janne Bennem. Yes, Janne has two Ns. Bennem is my ex-husband’s last name. Slocum is my mother’s maiden last name and Dyer is my father’s. I use both only for my social media, published art and writing. When you read Amy’s full name at the bottom of the poem, I invite you to read it out loud. 

Yellow Moth 

Spray painted,

nature patterned

by neighbor kids,

bucket in hand,

my grief and I 

stepped over 

rows of wild carrot,

browning fireweed,

leaning lupine,

and bog candle orchids,

hoping to forage 

blueberries,

maybe salmonberries,

if not too early 

in the season.

It's been a cold July.

A Yup’ik friend advised,

“Look for the cotton. 

When found,

berries will be, too.”

My mourning self

carried forward 

their words 

in the purple purse 

of my heart,

like others carry 

an engraved compass 

in a pocket 

ready for fingers 

to unclasp,

an eyeless needle

to be seen.

The uneven tundra,

with its empty graves 

of barren earth,

gifted me with bird song,

raven caws, constant bees

and the rosemary scent 

of wild patched, 

Labrador tea.

Horseflies were my 

unwanted company.

Here, in the sanctuary 

of wide, open spaces,

I knelt to a single, 

first found blueberry

and wept for my

sister-in-law,

gone four days, now.

Heads of cotton,

on their stick-like stems,

rippled in a wave of wind;

tundra prayer flags

honoring our recent dead.

A lone, older boy,

flying a white, 

long-tailed kite,

came into view.

His joy surprised me.

Here, where ancient sod houses lie near,

I reached for it; 

for her.

A yellow, 

broken-winged moth

landed on my sleeve.

“The tundra heals us,”

the same friend said.

As I foraged 

amongst wild things,

the familiar sound of 

jangling bracelets heard 

not far from me.

“Amy,”

on soft breath, I said.

Another berry picker raised her head.

Her bucket almost filled.

Joy. Again.

I stood, clasped my stained hands

and shared words of gratitude 

for the sanctuary 

of wide, open spaces.

Susan Slocum Dyer

July 18, 2020 / © SSD

(for Amy Janne Bennem, died 7/14/2020)