Sunday, August 31, 2014
When life lowers the hammer, when it starts raining heavily and darkly and metaphorically, when the kinds of grief that cannot be measured or explained tangle into Gordian Knots, and I cannot seem to find a way out that doesn't involve being someone other than myself, there is only one place to turn to. Poetry.
Unfortunately I only know, like, three poems.
My first two poems will not work for this. There is The Duino Elegies:
"Who, if I shouted out among the hierarchy of angels, would hear me, and even if one of them took me to his heart I would perish before his stronger existence. For what is beauty but the beginning of a terror we can just barely endure."
This is good if you are feeling that it's just all too beautiful and you're not sure how you feel about that. It is not so good for when it feels like your life is knee deep in bleak.
My second poem won't do either.
"There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold. The arctic trails have their secret tales that would make your blood run cold."
This, The Cremation of Sam McGee, is good for a campfire, but not for a whole lot else. Fortunately it is very, very good for a campfire.
So thank god that the third and last poem goes:
"Once, if I remember rightly, my life was a feast where all hearts opened, and all wines flowed."
It gets darker from there.
It is fortunate that that one will do because it is all I've got left. I can just cuddle up with A Season in Hell. I keep that one line going and going. Me and A Season in Hell together through life. And I think my own dark thoughts in between.