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Crowning

When a woman’s eyes

roll wild in their sockets

like those of a frightened foal

when you look into her face

and see nothing

but raw animal instinct

stripped bare of all culture and pretense

look between her legs

and you will find her labia bulging

with the mound of new life

you will see the baby’s head crowning

a glistening, pulsing moon

fragile as a soft-boiled egg

wrinkled as a walnut.

But alas

while you are distracted

by the dramatic birth

of the baby

you will miss

time and again

the more subtle secret birth

that happens simultaneously.

You will miss

the birth of the mother

the death of the ego

and

the resurrection

of humanity.

 
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Posted by on April 7, 2012 in Birth Poems

 

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Beginner’s Mind

“But I’ve never done this before”

Says a dad in the second row

From the back.

The big one with the brown beard

who secretly reminds me

of a friendly bear

with thick reading glasses.

“How will I know what she needs?

How will know how to support her?”

That’s why you need a doula,

I want to say.

Someone who has been there before.

But I don’t

Because I sense

That a dad brave enough to ask these questions

In front of the whole antenatal class

Is probably a dad

Who will understand

the secrets

of supporting

a woman in labour.

So I sway a little

On the big yellow birth ball

I like to sit on

When I teach

I think a little

About what it takes

To be with a woman

During birth.

“You will know what to do”

I tell him

“If you are really there

truly present

Each moment

In that room.

Do not think about

The breakfast you never had

Do not think about

That meeting you’re gonna miss

Above all

Do not think about

The rugby

The cricket

Or anything involving balls.

Take off your shoes

For the ground on which you’re standing

Is women’s holy turf.

Switch off your cell phone

and let that room

let that woman

become your entire universe.

Watch her closely

And you will know what to do

Listen to her

With more than your ears

And you won’t say

Stupid things

That’ll get you in trouble.

No, don’t write it down!

Just listen

Practice with me

Practice being present

In this moment.

Do not think

That your lack of experience

Is a handicap.

I am not a better doula

Hundred births down the line.

In fact, I might be worse.

For beginner’s mind

Is a shimmering pearl

Of magnificent value.

Not knowing

Being open

To things as they unfold

Are way more precious

Than tools

Tricks

And techniques.

You cannot go wrong

If you love her

You cannot go wrong

If your intentions are pure.

Leave your expectations

At the door of the labour ward

And enter the birth room

With your cup empty as a beggar’s.

When it is all over

And your back and shoulders ache

As if you’ve carried her

Belly and all

The entire way

Across the desert

She will turn to you and say

‘I couldn’t have done it without you’

And you will answer

‘But I did nothing

My love

You did it all.’

Trust me,

Nothing

Will be more than enough.”

The dad looks at me

Bemused

Befuddled

His mouth opens and closes

Like a goldfish

Flapping his fins

On the dry threadbare carpet.

He never finds his voice.

But Thabo

From the front row

who is not shy

his hand goes up.

“That was some speech

That was inspiring

Now I was just wondering:

Would all of that

Be in the notes?”

 

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Women

From the deep recesses of sleep

Another strong, incredible woman after the birth of her second baby

I drag myself to assist at the birth

of a woman I’ve never laid eyes on.

Candlelight

whispered encouragement

only women in the room

reverently gathered round the bath

to worship our fair goddess of fertility.

Somewhere far from here

the baby’s father

sleeps peacefully next to his new love

just as the two children

from his old one

sleeps in the birth room next door

while their mother strains and sighs

while their grandma frets and fusses

while their auntie rubs her sister’s aching back

and snaps digital pics.

“I can’t!”

the woman cries

and four pairs of female hands

stretch towards her

to transfuse their strength.

Into the warm water

slips a chubby pink baby

onto her mother’s chest

where she turns her head

to take in all the faces

belonging to the admiring voices.

“You did it!”

we cry

our eyes wet with tears.

Two hours later

the woman walks

to her tiny white car

straps her brand new baby

into an old car seat

and makes sure that her boys

are comfortably settled

on the laps of their grandma and aunt.

As the muezzin’s mournful voice

begins his morning call to prayer

she slides behind

the steering wheel

and drives herself

and her family

home.

The midwife and I

wave goodbye

until the battered white Corsa

disappears in the dark.

We turn to each other

shaking our heads.

“Women!” we marvel.
“Women

 

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