It’s no joke to say that poetry keeps us alive.
I suppose you could say the same of any beautiful thing — or, to be more precise, any truly beautiful thing. That could be art, music, Creation, or simply a smile.
Beauty is part of what makes life worth living. It can lift the soul and give it a curious kind of strength. To me, it’s like a glimpse into the world beyond. As Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, “Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything that is beautiful; for beauty is God’s handwriting — a wayside sacrament.”
Never lose an opportunity to appreciate beauty — and, I would add, never lose an opportunity to create it. There’s something healing about that process.
When I’m anxious or brokenhearted or wallowing in disappointment — even when I’m inching close to despair — things work out far better when I work up the courage to open my notebook and pen some verses. Very soon I’m lifted out of that darkness, buoyed up by the delight of creating something.
But, actually, I shouldn’t say I’m lifted out of it — poetry doesn’t give such quick fixes. Rather, I’m steeped deeper into the experience and permitted to transform it. (You might say, to sublimate it.)
Such was also the case as I was writing a poem for the next theme on my list —
MISFORTUNE
Initially I wasn’t too happy about this theme, since misfortune wasn’t exactly the subject I wanted to be thinking about. Still, I sat down and wrote a few sketches in my notebook, and when I went back later — in a rather black mood, I might add — I found some little jewels I could dig out and use.
The final poem has turned out to be a short one, especially compared to “Self-Portrait, Spinning.” As abruptly as it ends, though, the poem seems better left with a sense of incompletion. What do you think?
As always, I hope you’ll share your thoughts or verses in the comments below.
In a Field Between Two Suns
In a field between two suns
I swaddle my self in memory
and lay the pieces, nestled in nutshells
in the black earth of my days.
In vigils I water the grave
and, dreaming, sing a thunder-roll dirge
until dun stars fall from their domes
and on the horizon flies a far dawn—
