I know it is true for me — there are many times when I can’t hear or see, unless it is through the poets.
Something in me needs imagery.
Something in me needs relief from data and facts.
Something in me needs artistry offered only for what it is.
Artistry rather than a cajoling of facts into one reductive narrative or another.
Several poets have been near me these last couple of weeks. I’ve been relishing their ways to share what matters to them, about specific circumstance, and about life’s general path.
There’s Polish-American Poet, Czeslaw Milosz‘s poetry (thanks to Shawna Lemay for referencing him in her book, Everything Affects Everyone), invoking relief to do what one can…
day draws near
another one
do what you can
There’s American Poet Mary Oliver‘s poetry (thanks Nicole Frederickson for referencing Oliver in your blog, becoming with wonder and possibility)…
to live in this world
you must be able
to do three things
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones
knowing your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
There’s Nicole Frederickson herself, Saskatchewan-based Meaning Maker who writes and compiles and teaches so thoughtfully, telling stories of curiosity…
Today we both departed and we arrived.
Today we all hugged three people who love us and we love and who are part of us.
Today we wandered alone on a beach and Clara talked with the ocean, we were alone amongst baby crabs, and the resident heron, hearing the repetitive music of the waves and standing in the sparkling light of the sun glittering off the ocean.
And there’s Writer and Poet Gina Puorro, who adds prose to what she sense-makes in her body
There is no place in my body
no nerve in my system
no string in my heart
no corner of my mind
that knows how to make sense of war.
The poets call us to remember the feeling. To dwell with it. To love with it. To sorrow with it. To go deeply inner, and to be with others in the outer, trying to find way.
I’m grateful.
