Poetry speaks straight into who I am, at the core of me, in the ways that nothing else does. As I sit here trying to frame this blog post, imagine lines of poetry floating in the air, crowding my office space. There is birdsong out the open window, I've had coffee, all four of us are under the same roof for the first time in such a long time it pleases me to a degree that is almost painful.
This blog post has a reason, though, a purpose beyond "let's talk about poetry, let's give a nod to the late-arriving spring". Here are some of lines that fill this room, this morning.
"...Do what you are going to do, and I will tell about it." Sharon Olds
"...I sit beside an old man
who cannot hurt me
forgiveness is -
what?
a deer no one
has ever tracked..."
From Come Cold River, Karen Connolly
"...I can tell he needs this but I am not stupid
I leave and watch what remains from the safety
of the meticulous
pressed tin ceiling"
From The Truth Of Houses, Ann Scowcroft
None of these people wrote this poetry with me in mind, and yet it has fed me, and held me up, and helped me think through first if, and then how and when, I will tell my own story. The poetry itself had work to do in the world, and these poems could work in me because they were out in the world.
I have poetry that, while well-written, deals with some disturbing topics. This year I learned that the word "ambivalent" doesn't mean "I don't know what I think", it means "I have opposing strongly held opinions about this". Therefore, I can clearly state that I have ambivalent feelings about the poetry that was most recently published in ELQ, and the poetry that is coming out in May of this year. (No link because I can't find one, but the poems are in an anthology entitled drifting like a metaphor, and there will be a launch at the Memorial Park Library at 7 pm on May 16, and several of the poets who have work in the book will be reading. I will be one of the readers.) My opposing strongly held feelings are:
1. Yikes. Am I sure I should be that stark, that honest, that disturbing? And also, to be honest, the insiders (see earlier post, somewhere, about DID ...) are terrified of "telling".
2. Sharon Olds. Karen Connolly. Ann Scowcroft. I write what shows up - I don't have any choice. When I try to force that choice, then I'm brought back to another poem, this one by Leona Gom, published in this collection:
These Poems
These poems are homesick.
They keep crawling out
from under my pen
and running back to the north.
They will not be domesticated.
They will not be toilet-trained.
They mess all over the page
with their persistent images ...
(...)
...And when there is no way out
they curl up spitefully
underneath their titles
and starve themselves
to death.
And there it is again, the feeling of being recognized, validated, seen, not-alone.
I write what shows up, and when I try to force it, I can't write. If this is what is showing up, then maybe, just maybe, there's work this work is meant to do in the world, and why would I refuse to let that happen?
***
So. Here's one of the poems that came out last summer in ELQ. You can see the painting it was written in response to here.
On Viewing Rosetti's Annunciation
I'm pretty sure Rosetti got it wrong -
the terrified girl, shrinking
against the back wall
of her suddenly too-small room
I know this room, what happens next.
What happens next is
not necessarily violent -
sometimes there was great tenderness, even
weeping, often a twisted, misplaced gratitude -
no - not only violence,
although it must be said
there was also anger
urgency, roughness
in my own too-small bedroom
not always violent
always violation
and this is where Rosetti gets it wrong
his angel extends not invitation, but imperative
the stern face allows one outcome only
I want to slip into the frame
wrap warmth around her shaking shoulders
promise:
This is a Father you can refuse
***
And I have now used up my courage for this day.
