I have impressions of poets (and their kin) circling my brain tonight: Denise Levertov's Caedmon, called from his loneliness into the surprise of words and belonging; Jane Kenyon and Sylvia Plath, who both felt depression, both married fellow poets, yet sang quite different songs; and Richard Wilbur's mother-in-law, Edna Ward, who was not a poet, and who died with "the thin hand reaching out, the last word love." I am tired, have a weekend trip starting tomorrow, and am (unfortunately) no student of these poets, anyway, so I'm not going to say anything profound about them. Still, as one of their very little poet sisters, I am fascinated by their examples of what we do with our poetry and our lives.
In his poem "Cottage Street, 1953," Wilbur describes a moment of Edna Ward's hospitality. Though what we see of her life seems common place enough, she lives 88 years of "grace and courage." Her guest Sylvia Plath's tortured life stands in stark contrast within the poem. Plath (who ultimately took her own life) is "condemned to live" for now. She "Shall study a decade, as she must, / To state at last her brilliant negative / In poems free and helpless and unjust" (lines 26-28). This characterization of her work haunts me. How terrible for one's life work to embody a "brilliant negative." (As a side note: I don't know how fair Wilbur's judgment of Plath is, and I feel empathy for her suffering and sadness that she lost her battle--one that I know is brutal.)
I don't want to state any "brilliant negative." Nor do I want to stand aside from humanity in general. Some conventional knowledge paints artistic types as extreme individualists, a bit at odds with ordinary folk. Poets can be observers and recorders of the outer world or cartographers of the self. But what I'd like for myself and my poetic endeavors, is to bring a kind of hospitality in the midst of fractured life. I'd like the general effect to be some kind of knitting together. (That was a horrible, vague sentence, but it's too late at night for a manifesto.) If I had to choose between a life of loving engagement with others and the ability to create poems, I hope I would choose the former. But surely poems themselves can be a thin hand reaching out and words whispering love, love in a thousand sharp or subtle ways.
This is a beautiful "non-manifesto," especially the last paragraph!
ReplyDeleteI think of the lives of two of my favorite poets, the ultra-famous Dylan Thomas and Thomas's friend and less-renowned countryman Vernon Watkins. Thomas wrote very powerful (if sometimes obscure) poetry; Watkins was perhaps "weaker," but nonetheless conscientious and lucid in his craft and his idiom. Thomas was addicted to drink and to other culpable consolations and died at 39. Watkins -- after a bout of madness in his twenties that required hospitalization -- led the sedate life of a bank clerk, married, had children, embraced Christianity, and lived into his 60s. (I'd recommend Watkins' book Fidelities, if you can find it at a library or through an online bookseller.)
I will always admire the fierce and fiery quality of Dylan Thomas's poems (reading him at 16 was akin to reading English for the first time!), but in terms of my life, I hope I'm closer to Watkins. And you're right, Elena, there's no reason in the world that poetry can't admit a little light into a darkened atmosphere, or hint at the tranquility of order in the midst of a broken world.
"But what I'd like for myself and my poetic endeavors, is to bring a kind of hospitality in the midst of fractured life. I'd like the general effect to be some kind of knitting together."
ReplyDeleteThis is who you are, dear heart, and both your life and your poetry are filled with the invitation to pause and rest in the Truth. Thank you!
Totally agree with Beth. Elena, you are a unique, one-of-a-kind beautiful child of God. You invite us to sit, sup, and suppose. Please never stop.
ReplyDeleteEdna Ward is an interesting name. Your great-grandmother Irma Johnson was a Ward before she was married. She cared for her mother when she was feeble. I remember as a young girl getting to brush and braid Great-Grandmother's hair. It was long enough to reach the floor when she was sitting down. Also, your Great-Grandmother Nixon's name was Edna. Aunt Mary
Thank you, Thomas! And thanks also for telling me about Watkins. I will certainly try to find some of his poems. His life sounds very heartening.
ReplyDeleteDr. Impson, thank you--your affirmation is a very precious gift.
ReplyDeleteAunt Mary, thank you so very much for your encouragement! You, too have given me such a gift here! Also, thanks for the stories about our family--very cool :)
ReplyDeleteI think there has to be a brilliant negative somewhere in a real poet - but the poem my shine as a result.
ReplyDeleteDavid C Brown, an interesting thought. I'll have to ponder it! Thanks for visiting and adding another perspective.
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