April 28, 2008:
I was reading Donald Hall's collection last night at Borders. Picture me, coffee in hand, reading a book of poetry and silently crying my eyes out. This man is brilliant. There's one poem in there about him remembering what the autumn leaves recall in memory—associations with him and his father, playing in the leaves…the present as he watches his children walk home from a football game, him and his wife, falling in love, his father's death, his grandparents. The farm on which he was raised. The whole cycle of life, tied up in this imagery. And written so beautifully….as if he worked his entire life to learn how to write and use words with love and care…tenderly crafting these objects (poems) of beauty so as to somehow, someday, give back, give this gorgeous gift unto the world….Hoping that maybe, someday—a woman in Fort Worth, Texas would pick up his book, read that poem, and feel something so deeply, so connected to life and the world, that she wouldn't care if her glasses filled up with steam; she would look around at the various lives around her, busying themselves with friends and family in the same coffee shop, and feel a transcendent feeling of love for each person in that room—wondering about their lives and their fathers and their loves—what Autumn leaves hold dear to them…
To feel that beauty pass through you because this living, breathing poem—a creation—exists in the world because Donald Hall decided to dedicate his life to poetry…well, that's just a gift. It's just as much a gift as a doctor who saves a patient.
Life is comprised of the moments we feel most alive. I want to be able to give that gift to someone some day, too—Poetry has given me so much, enriched my life so much—I love the art; I simply love it.
I've been reading a lot of essays lately, written by various poets…and again, Donald Hall wrote:
"When we call the poem more important than ourselves, it is not that we have confidence in our ability to write it; we believe in poetry. No poem is so great as we demand that poetry be."
I agree with him 100%. When someone dedicates their life to an art—it's out of pure love for it—it's a devotion almost, no—it is a devotion, like prayer, meditation. To me, poetry and the writing of poetry, is close to a type of spiritual meditation, or it can be. I don't know. Maybe I'm not making any sense. But I know that I have the utmost respect and love for Poetry. I adore it. And if I'm going to try to contribute, I want to take it seriously. I want to give it my all. Like, if you were to take a relationship seriously, you'd put in an admirable amount of effort, right? To show your devotion, commitment, etc. Well, in a way, I feel like that's how it is with me and Poetry. I don't know why I chose it, or if it chose me, but the fact of the matter is, it's what drives me, moves me.
Henry Moore, the British sculptor, said:
"The greatest good luck in life, for anybody, is to have something that means everything to you ... to do what you want to do. ... if it's unattainable. It's no good having an objective that's attainable! That's the big thing: you have an ideal, an objective, and that objective is unreachable...."
which goes quite well with another quote by Donald Hall:
"I see no reason to spend your life writing poems unless your goal is to write great poems. ... I think we fail in part because we lack serious ambition. ... If our goal in life is to reamin content, no ambition is sensible. ... if our goal is to write poetry, the only way we are likely to be any good is to try to be as great as the best."
So, if I fail—and like Keats said "I'd rather fail than not be among the best"—then at least I know I gave my heart to my first love, right? All I hope is that I give something, if just a little, back to Poetry what it has given me—joy, depth, the opportunity to feel deeply.
I just want to give people the opportunity to feel alive…like so many poets and artisit do for me, everyday—through various mediums. I don't think socioeconomic status has anything to do with basic human observation and empathy. It's all about being open, being a steward to each other and to life as a whole.
28 November 2008
Year of the Rat
January 9, 2008:
It is a New Year—the Year of the Rat. The year I was born was the Year of the Rat. This is my year.
There is finally something to hold on to; something to grasp when the world hurdles its disappointments and doubts—when the nights and worries threaten to choke me in my sleep. I finally have a grasp on my dream. Before it was "only a dream"—not the solid drive it is now, but a slippery rock that could just as well sink to the bottom of a restless current. And I dismissed it, or tried to. I tried to be ever so convincing that I could do without it.
I am beginning to realize what it's like to look in the mirror with conviction. For the first time I am giving myself permission to dream as high as Wordsworth's mountain, to believe in the little girl inside me that says the world is actually waiting for my voice, that I am not just a drop in a pond, but a vital member of a beautiful ocean—that my waves can be felt and they feel amazing.
I don't think I've ever felt anything like you before. Not even myself—especially myself. I don't even know…
Desires can be painful. They can twist into a tormented knot if they are kept hidden, kept captive. But desires can also be the very thing that keep us breathing when everything else is crushing the windpipe. They are what keep fingers writing against the cold, the lover loving in the face of terrible odds.
Anthony Hecht wrote a poem describing creation as an act of rage. Perhaps. Perhaps rage against annihilation, rage against weakness and extinction, predators and all that wish to tear us down. But perhaps that's only the first step and once we survive that crucial period, what keeps us motivated and believing is desire.
I used to use a myriad of things to distract me from my desires, a cacophony of noises that worked to only distance me from my own voice. In the mixed up symphony, I learned to not only drown myself out, but to distrust my own voice…to doubt my instincts—because I was scared of what might actually happen if I listened to what I wanted, desired, for my life.
Language is a funny thing; so many different meanings behind one word or phrase—and as many different interpretations as there are people in the world. How can anyone ever really connect to anyone else? How can we possibly communicate our desires to other people, let alone ourselves?
What does it mean when I feel a connection with someone else—when even our bodies become familiar, moving at the same pace, learning how to react to the opposite movement, opposite side—mirror, of itself?
I like divisions. When things blend, they become confusing—no longer identifiable as separate entities, as independent. I like to know what I'm dealing with. I like to know where one thing ends and another begins.
But perhaps this rush, this need, to blur the lines and blend the details, stems from the inability to realize that we have a unique perspective on the world and within that unique perspective, we each bring our own needs, our own desires...but somehow, along the way, we have become unwilling and unable to connect to ourselves and our unique desires.
A blind man cannot become a narcissus. I am selfish with my time. I am selfish with my desires. This is my year. I want to become the woman my child dreamed of. She has freedom in her step—she floats on melting ice, prepared to sink if just for the journey of it. There is no one capable of such love as the love she feels within her own hands. Safe hands. Hands that write without a thought of sin, of deviance, of being wrongly aware of pain. I love her for being so brave—writing despite the world. My eyes are now my own, my desires—a catapult.
It is a New Year—the Year of the Rat. The year I was born was the Year of the Rat. This is my year.
There is finally something to hold on to; something to grasp when the world hurdles its disappointments and doubts—when the nights and worries threaten to choke me in my sleep. I finally have a grasp on my dream. Before it was "only a dream"—not the solid drive it is now, but a slippery rock that could just as well sink to the bottom of a restless current. And I dismissed it, or tried to. I tried to be ever so convincing that I could do without it.
I am beginning to realize what it's like to look in the mirror with conviction. For the first time I am giving myself permission to dream as high as Wordsworth's mountain, to believe in the little girl inside me that says the world is actually waiting for my voice, that I am not just a drop in a pond, but a vital member of a beautiful ocean—that my waves can be felt and they feel amazing.
I don't think I've ever felt anything like you before. Not even myself—especially myself. I don't even know…
Desires can be painful. They can twist into a tormented knot if they are kept hidden, kept captive. But desires can also be the very thing that keep us breathing when everything else is crushing the windpipe. They are what keep fingers writing against the cold, the lover loving in the face of terrible odds.
Anthony Hecht wrote a poem describing creation as an act of rage. Perhaps. Perhaps rage against annihilation, rage against weakness and extinction, predators and all that wish to tear us down. But perhaps that's only the first step and once we survive that crucial period, what keeps us motivated and believing is desire.
I used to use a myriad of things to distract me from my desires, a cacophony of noises that worked to only distance me from my own voice. In the mixed up symphony, I learned to not only drown myself out, but to distrust my own voice…to doubt my instincts—because I was scared of what might actually happen if I listened to what I wanted, desired, for my life.
Language is a funny thing; so many different meanings behind one word or phrase—and as many different interpretations as there are people in the world. How can anyone ever really connect to anyone else? How can we possibly communicate our desires to other people, let alone ourselves?
I love you. I love the way you make me…
I want---please, I need.
I want---please, I need.
What does it mean when I feel a connection with someone else—when even our bodies become familiar, moving at the same pace, learning how to react to the opposite movement, opposite side—mirror, of itself?
I ache for you. I miss you. Do you desire me?
I like divisions. When things blend, they become confusing—no longer identifiable as separate entities, as independent. I like to know what I'm dealing with. I like to know where one thing ends and another begins.
Like the bones in the body, everything becomes dependent on the joints—joint checking, joint memberships, joint custody.
But perhaps this rush, this need, to blur the lines and blend the details, stems from the inability to realize that we have a unique perspective on the world and within that unique perspective, we each bring our own needs, our own desires...but somehow, along the way, we have become unwilling and unable to connect to ourselves and our unique desires.
I love your eyes. I love your eyes because they are not my own, and your hands—oh your hands, can they feel me? Feel me. Find me. I don't know where I went. If I look into your eyes I may find something—is it me?
A blind man cannot become a narcissus. I am selfish with my time. I am selfish with my desires. This is my year. I want to become the woman my child dreamed of. She has freedom in her step—she floats on melting ice, prepared to sink if just for the journey of it. There is no one capable of such love as the love she feels within her own hands. Safe hands. Hands that write without a thought of sin, of deviance, of being wrongly aware of pain. I love her for being so brave—writing despite the world. My eyes are now my own, my desires—a catapult.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
