Corinna Ren is an artist & writer who is fascinated by nature, people and emotions. She loves to explore what it means to be human—the light and the dark, the highs and the lows.

You can find Corinna on Threads, Instagram, and at her website.

Issue 12. Almost three months of Subtext. Thanksgiving just a few days away. Today I’m featuring a poet and artist who captures the magic in the everyday and writes about it in a very organic and inviting way. As Corinna said in her bio, she loves to explore what it means to be human. And this poem, “Raising a Child,” is a snapshot of a moment of parenthood, watching their child play as an outside observer and questioning how their child will fit into the world.

If you want your work featured, or know someone you’d love to see featured, you can email me, tag me on Threads or Instagram, or use the form on my contact page here on my website.

And with that, I think we’re ready to dive into Corinna’s poem. I was drawn to this piece because of how she captured this moment, watching one of her kids play at a playground and making faces at her when they noticed she was watching. And it’s that every day kind of magic that makes a poem like this special. I think it’s really interesting how she immediately establishes this kind of outsider/observer relationship in the poem.

I watch you
eyes wild
cheeks flushed
scowling at me

stop staring mom

Your gleeful grin
baring teeth at me now

As I’ve read through these first three stanzas several times, I keep having one image surface to the forefront of my mind every time. I get images and flashes of Where the Wild Things Are. Not that there are direct parallels between that story and this poem, but there is this overlapping idea of growth and independence here. A kind of playful and wild rebellious nature. There is a lot of imagery that plays around with this idea: wild, flushed, scowling, grin, baring teeth. I’m intrigued by this idea of the parent watching their child play, seeing the kind of wild side the child may not usually show as much when their parent is around. And, upon being noticed, the child really leans into it, making faces and exaggerating them all. And I love the single line stanza of “stop staring mom.” I can hear the playful mocking tone, the sing-songy sound and head tilt to match. Back and forth. Maybe even an eye roll?

And then we have the exaggerated “gleeful grin” of “baring teeth.” Again, that brings me back to the idea of the Wild Things and the monsters. When the main character, Max, stands up against the monsters and stares them down. I can see this same type of energy shown in the child character in this poem. That same kind of defiance. But more playful here. I like how it captures a similar energy, though. Maurice Sendak has discussed how Where the Wild Things Are and his other books (in what he considers to be a trilogy) are “centered on children’s growth, survival, and fury (Wikipedia).” How children accept and understand the reality of their lives.

We can see that here, even in the first few stanzas with the child’s brief interactions with their mother. Even playful, there are elements of that idea of fury in the “eyes wild / cheeks flushed / scowling at me…your gleeful grin / baring teeth at me.” From here, the poem pushes even further into the idea that the parent, the mother, the speaker of the poem is an outsider only able to observe their child’s world now.

I am not a part of
the world you weave
I’m an observer
stuck on the outside
Forbidden
from entering
your magical
point of view

This stanza shifts entirely to the mother and her point of view as she ponders the relationship she has with her child and the world they live in. “I’m not a part of / the world you weave / I’m an observer / stuck on the outside.” There is exclusion here. And this isn’t just about a mom watching her child play anymore. Not that the poem ever really was just about that. This is about independence and growth and mastering the wild. This is an adult, someone who has long ago mastered their own wild, now watching on as their child is going through the same process. But it’s not a place that an adult can return too. There are different expectations for adults. We cannot give in to flights of fancy. If we do, we are often called out as “acting childish.” Which is an interesting concept to think about.

This may be a slight detour, but I’m intrigued in this play between child and adult, magical and realism. The adult can never return to the world of the child, or their point of view. The adult is “forbidden / from entering / your [the child’s] magical / point of view.” Earlier, the poem says “stuck on the outside.” Childhood is a world we cannot return to, even in moments when we may exhibit childish behavior. This could be throwing a tantrum, surrendering to fancy, or even something like eating ice cream for dinner. As adults, we have a different concept of responsibilities and reality. Most of the magic has gone. But that’s not to say we can’t get it back.

In fact, that’s a part of the reason I was drawn to Corinna’s poem. How she captures the magic of the everyday. Sometimes (and sometimes more than sometimes) poets can get caught up in the grandeur of the ideal. That for something to be featured in a poem, it has to be something grand and, in a word, poetic. But we know better, don’t we? A poem can be about anything. And the poem’s like this, that capture a seemingly mundane moment in time, something as simple as watching a child play at a playground, can be an incredibly magical and beautiful moment.

While we may never be able to return to the world of childhood that we left, we are still able to observe. But that’s a hard pill to swallow sometimes. Realizing we exist as observers to children and no longer act as influencers. The relationship begins to shift from parent to mother/father. Teacher to mentor. Guardian to companion. That is to say, it becomes less hands on and less instructive. It becomes more of an advisory role. We can only offer encouragement and advice. It’s up to them to act and to learn. There comes a time when the child falls and we can’t help them stand back up. They must do it on their own. That moment often comes too soon and at unexpected times. And that moment is when we become the observer.

The poem shifts now, to take that tack of childhood and adulthood diverging. And in this moment, I get the sense that the mother in the poem can see her child growing up. Can see, even in the wild and bare-teethed smile, that her child is becoming more and more independent on their path towards adulthood. And the mother realizes she’s only left with hope.

I’m left
only to hope
that I’m doing the right thing
every day
as I raise you

Stuck hoping you’ll grow
in confidence
with goodness
at the core
of your soul.

Isn’t this the hope, the worry, the concern of every parent? That they are preparing their child for the world at large, that they are doing right by them? “I’m left / only to hope / that I’m doing the right thing / every day / as I raise you.” While the previous stanzas focused on the external, the observations of the “magical / point of view” and the “world you [the child] weaves,” this stanza marks a substantial shift in the poem. It now shifts from being externally focused on the child to being internally focused on the mother’s hopes and worries and concerns about the child and how good of a job she (the mother) is doing in preparing them.

Because there is a point where there’s nothing else we can do but watch our children grow into adults. And they’ll learn that being an adult doesn’t mean we have it all together. Sometimes it just means that we’ve managed to tame our internal wild. Maybe tame is the wrong word. Maybe it’s corral? Contain? Suppress? Regardless, we learn that we cannot live wild forever. But, like in Wild Things, embracing the wild can be an important part of growing up. We learn that it has its place, so long as we return to the normal. We learn to master our selves.

And that’s a part of raising children, isn’t it? Teaching them how to be adults in a world where we’re expected to be reserved. But, let’s be honest, we also need to teach them that it’s okay to still be wild sometimes. To visit that jungle Where the Wild Things Are. We just have to know when to come back. And that’s part of growing up.

But more than that, we hope we’ve guided them and nurtured them enough to grow into good people. But it’s all still hope, isn’t it? “Stuck hoping you’ll grow / in confidence / with goodness / at the core / of your soul.” I love the journey this poem takes. From the flushed cheeks of a playing child, the almost mocking “stop staring mom,” and the “gleeful grin / baring teeth” to the outside observer forbidden from entering to hope. It is the fear of being a parent that we do right by our children. That we prepare them for the world as best we can. Although, we can never truly prepare them. They will stumble. They will fall. And that’s just a part of life. So is getting back up.

I know that these stanzas are anxious in their hope. That the mother is hoping in the sense of concern. Hope in itself suggests a confidence that the thing hoped for will happen. There is an expectation that the outcome will be fulfilled. But the language suggests an unsureness. This is seen in “left / only to hope” and “stuck hoping.” And I understand that hesitation and concern. That all that’s left is hope. There is no further tangible action the mother can take to help her child in their journey to their adulthood. But it’s still hope. No matter how far removed it may be, she still knows that she has prepared her child as best she can. Doubt or no doubt, she is able to hold onto that hope. And you can tell she accepts that hope because of the final stanza of the poem.

Contenting myself
with the beauty
you shed
like sparks on the earth
in the small portions
you dole

Where she circles back to being an observer. But this time she doesn’t feel stuck. She may be on the outside of her child’s world, but now she can see the beauty of her child growing up. Growing into the eventual adult they will become. She can see the magic and the beauty, and she realizes she can be content. She can be content “with the beauty / you shed / like sparks on the earth / in the small portions / you dole.” I love this image and what it suggests and what it shows. That her child is full of magic and life to the point of overflowing and they spill small bits of the magic and beauty of their growth and journey.

And this represents a kind of shift from the beginning. The mother has moved from her view of being an outsider, on the outside, and just watching. “Forbidden.” At the end, she allows herself to enjoy the beauty of her child. The bits that her child shares, unintentionally, because she just sheds them. I have this image of like a dog, shedding hair. He can’t help it, it just happens. And it’s a constant reminder that my dog is around and that he’s here and that he’s present. Her child spills sparks of life and beauty and magic. And it is beautiful.

This is such a tender and delicate poem and it tackles such a gamut of emotions. I enjoyed being able to read through this journey the mother in the poem went on and being able to go on that journey with her. And this is also the journey of her child. And her child’s journey of the Wild Things and beginning the long transition into adulthood. Becoming independent and wholly their own person. This is a poem about letting go, taking the training wheels off and watching. Becoming a mentor, a mother, and not actively parenting anymore, but instead becoming more of an observer. It’s bittersweet and beautiful. And I love how this poem ends.

Corinna, I enjoyed this poem when I first read it months ago, and I’m glad I was able to share it and write about it. You are able to write about the everyday and capture the magic of the everyday in a way that most people can’t. That’s special. Hold on to that.