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  • Ahly

Miscarriage and Divine Discontent

I share my personal experience, through poetry and prose, of losing my baby-in-womb at 11 weeks.


The Ripples


In the immediacy of my miscarriage, where I am solely in the awareness of my body sensations, there comes a rippling effect that hugs close to the impact of that moment. This imprint is thin. Delicate. It holds to the truth of the moment, saying ever so quietly, this is the way it is. This moment is ok. There is perfectness even here. This ripple doesn’t seek to ask questions, or find answers, nor does it want to distract itself, because it has seen the calm and quietness that pervades the experience. The calm is surreal, like a second moon entering the sky.


But then comes a second ripple; it has a steep crest and drop. It is an edge that takes me away from the centre, and I know I am never going to arrive back in that same space again. I will be moved. I will be affected. Deep within this, I yearn for my own completion and I know there is nothing, no-thing, that can satiate me, despite my reaching and wanting. It is a quiet but inconsolable discontent. I am wanting the purest of nourishments; to touch the divine that has and is the heart of my child; to reach for anything less casts me to a pantomime of unending thirst. I know no other way to redeem the self that is lost. Amarum hum, Madhuram hum I chant.


The third ripple comes. It has a deep trough… and invites me to wallow. The stairs that I used to bound up to work on the 10th floor, are now arduous. Every step returns me back to my old life (but I’m different!) and back to a compartment that feels too stiff, too rigid and without lament. I tell myself there’s no escape. I overhear my self berating me for not having healed my mother-wounds. I catch glimpses of my body returning to belly fat rather than Hapu. I deem myself unworthy of the graces of hapu; a word I had embraced and worn, recognising its innate esteem. Goddesses are hapu. Mere mortals just get pregnant. I have fallen from Grace. I couldn’t hold the energy of Goddess and so this word, this world, this state of being… it’s gone. My child…


Oh the lack of ceremony I gave him (I’m sure he was a boy). He slipped from my vagina while I was on the toilet, after hours of bleeding and cramping, and all I could see was blood and shit. I was at hospital, wires and tubes dangling from my arms, and coming down from the morphine administered in the ambulance. On auto-pilot, I flushed the toilet.


I never caught sight of you. You were not named, but I fancied you were a Robin, flying back to your nest. Those bold Robins that peck at our footprints in the forest, wise to the bugs that have been unearthed.


No one midwifed this ordeal. Instead my boy-friend googled what to do, and came back with stories of women sinking their nails into their partner’s arm and screaming into the endless night when will this end? Who let loose the snake inside the womb, curling itself around the hot-iron coals and flicking the embers into the night sky?


My sister welcomed my initiation into Motherhood. That’s what birthing feels like, she told me, and your body knew exactly what to do, once it needed to. But it lacks joy, or triumph, or bravery. Yes, it was an initiation imbued with disconnection and confusion, and yet there is a reaching for connection and clarity. Over the phone she sends me a hug.


A few more ripples later - who knows how many - I get pregnant again. This child is here to stay; I know it! What startles me is how elevated in spirit my body felt in the first pregnancy; this one lies on me heavy and lethargic! That’s good, everyone says, as I share my morning sickness woes. It’s a very good sign.


I know it to be true. The Robin that came, came to prepare my reflexes, my partnership, my desire, my womb. To clear out and make ready the Temple; My Body.


I namaste to you dear one.


 

These poems come from the ripples


two souls


two souls

upon my body

and I am primal

I am survival

I am instinct

Great Unknown!

Your sea of potential

lives

within me

 

feather moon


the park is daylight

great trees brim with blue sky


feathered moon

perhaps you’re not there


light can play

astonishing tricks


feathered heartbeat

are you with me?

 

travel


there’s always a dream

that precedes our departing


yup, I turned up

without my passport


the one before me left

unexpectant-ly


taking my luggage


I don’t want to travel there

it’s not what I planned

 

upstream


he lies on his back

I take his hand

leading him

through the shallow wash


this stream curls

to the umbilical ocean

up stream

away


I can not sense

that you are anything


but happy

and I am happy to take you


on your course

 

wasp


at night before

I woke

I was stung


the honeydew

of morning

withdrawn


the wasp

my womb

ecology


upset the natural chain

of events

I come reduced


like soil saturation

of organisms

losing balance

 

catch you


she said perhaps

I can catch you

in my hand

you will be substantial


I am swollen

and the great ballroom is

sounding a bell

signalling it is time


for us to leave

the sound is neutral

but it makes the room feel

small

 

in process


I can see the sun doesn’t have long

this winter day

the dark will set in


I sit.

I change position.

I lie.

I move.

I walk.


The ocean sounds loud

in my belly, like a king

tide waiting to go out


taking the beach with him

 

Sensation


Sensations possess all my attention.

Sadness exists

somewhere far away

like a rainy day forecasted

for some other city

for some later date

 

miscarriage


out in the Cook Strait the waves

are rough we are warned

to sit still, all children

must be accompanied

by an adult at all times

but they run away

laughing

there is a transition

from Sounds to Strait

from indistinct motion

to commotion

the ship pitches

and the window takes

the shape of the sea, takes

the shape of the sky

outside silver fingers of God

impose a small relief

on a very distant

land, we overheat inside

with ice in our mouths

to control the shivers

and the waves come

thicker

heavier

closer

no space inbetween

and we roll

shudder puke and stare out

to one very discrete

point on the horizon

 

pain


I’m high in my womb

and it’s all going up

I wear a hat in case

I lose myself


out of my head

it’s hard to stay

in my body

I’m up my spine


I want to escape

my legs are lost

at sea, waves curling

I bend forward


Is this surrendered enough?

 

silver hair


I singled out that one

silver hair

it stuck out and I pulled it

the sac casing

cool and moist

pops from my skull

between my thumb

and finger I hold

a silver hair

to the light

it shines

a thread of myself

leaving

the smallest bald spot

 

lifted


this near full moon

high in the sky

this daylight surreal

these solid clouds

to walk upon

but I can’t fly

and see

what you see

you were lifted

from me

blue sky

two watery moons

 

alighted


off to one side

away from the clattering

water delighting

in its descent


mossy lichen cling

to the vertical

some drizzle and drops

form an ambling pace


some part of the stream

suspends itself

its slow dance

against time


as if alighting

before arrival

 

field trip


at the end of my life

I will write

a poem

to say this is how

the not-yets

go

taking some womb

with them

collecting minerals

 

door


Your heartbeat is too big

to shrink

into a body

our dimensions

limited, conditional

You wear your heart

on your sleeve

you model for us,

for me at least

that carrying love

is completion

is nature


You leave the door open

 

dear mother


I am willing

to try again

I offer my womb

as a journey into

my fullness

and fullest self

If there is no baby

or if there is a baby

I am willing

to try again

Natal moon

guide me

 

#poetry #miscarriage #death #grief

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