I truly am not obsessed by bats. But having written a poem sorting through family memories and present feelings via an experience with bats, it triggered the thought of writing another one, which I wrote earlier this week.
I did a little background reading, and now realize that the image we had -- of the bats leaving the nest all at once, for good -- is not the reality. Did they really go out every night once the babies were old enough, until at some point later the "maternity colony" dispersed? That takes away from the story as we remembered it. But at any rate, none of us ever saw the sight described here again, despite my parents' many evening fishing expeditions on the lake.
I have now written five serious poems in the past month. I haven't even wanted to be writing poetry, but it seems to be what wants to be written. There is power and awe -- and bewilderment -- in realizing I still know how. The poems feel a little rusty but not bad; they feel (for better or worse, I can't tell) strangely recognizably akin to the poems I wrote in college or shortly after. I am aware I know what I am doing in terms of craft much more working with poetry than when I am trying to write creative prose.
I searched some possible bat colony pictures to share, but yikes. They are horrifically creepy looking, just as the experience was.
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[poem taken down during submission for publication]
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