MaryBethWatt.com

Poetry tastes the first fruits of spring and tells the birth story in the seeds.

I say the poet is here

To find the beautiful and celebrate it
To watch waves coming in and see the saga there
To listen to the wind in the trees and hear a song
To scent the wind and be carried aloft on new wings
To let the world touch skin and soul
To tell us what we did not know we knew
To nudge, to recognize, or simply to bring joy

I have lived several lives in my more than 70 years, taking turns between lives that surprised even me. After fairly long marriages to two (now deceased) husbands, I made the decision several years ago to leave California, where I had lived for many years, and move to Ashland, Oregon, with Teresa, the woman who is now my wife. Her blackness juxtaposed with my whiteness has made diversity more than an empty phrase for us. I am learning much. I have much more to learn.

I have worked in more professions than I have had marriages, ranging from the artful to the technical, but, through whatever might have been the current reality for me, I have always loved (and often written) poetry.

Dry winds sent fire through two neighboring towns in 2020.
The scars left by the Almeda fire and the wildfires of this young summer
continue to remind me viscerally of the dangers we have imposed on our own future.
My poetry, so often celebrating the gifts of nature and the gift of life itself,
is my way of providing a beacon of direction.

If we are to survive, we must, somehow, evolve into something that we haven’t been.
If we are to survive, we must celebrate the best and live in that awareness.
If, as I believe, thoughts create, this is my only recourse.