I have had a really hard three weeks. Some terrible things happened and amidst it all I had to write a critique paper for my poetry class. I didn't do very well. I got some nice comments from my very academic professor but the substance just wasn't there. Needless to say my head wasn't in the game and my batting average took a dive. I got a Credit for the class - my first one! Up till now I have been getting Ds and HDs. Don't get me wrong - I deserved a C (well, he gave me a C+ but the plus sign falls off on my transcript). And to tell you the truth, I'm happy with the C (+) for the paper I wrote.
The problem is - I now really love poetry. Cripes! I'm one of those people now. I picked up the Nobel Prize for Literature 2011 book just now - The Deleted World by Tomas Transtromer (by the way there should be a .. above the 'o' in Transtromer but I don't know how to do that on my computer (and it's fun to say his name with a Swedish accent!)). Tomas is an highly acclaimed Swedish poet who looks like a poet. He's oldish, craggy, serious and grey haired. He looks like the kind of man who would reluctantly invite you in for a cup of tea that his wife would make and sit and stare at you for the minutes until the tea was served. He would sip his tea while you and his wife made small talk about how beautiful their house was until he stopped you mid sentence to ask you what you wanted. When you told him you admired him and wanted to talk about his poetry he would shake his head and retreat into it. But finally once he learned you were a budding poet and serious about it he would say he had nothing to teach you that life couldn't do a better job of and just to write for 7 hours a day. I can just hear him - "poetry is hard work, it's a struggle, it has to be done with discipline and concentration."
And Heart! His poetry speaks of deep feelings in few words. His poetry is grey and cold on the outside and fiery and direct under all the coverings. His poetry catches your breath like a blast of artic wind. His poetry is written on the snow only to be read when the spring thaws arrive.
Through those dismal months my life was only sparked alight
when I made love to you.
As the firefly ignites and fades, ignites and fades, we follow the flashes
of its flight in the dark among the olive trees.
Throughout those dismal months, my soul sat slumped and lifeless
but my body walked to yours.
The night sky was lowing.
We milked the cosmos secretly, and survived.
Is it possible that 8 lines can take a person from the most depressed state to one of love and survival? Simple words. Words we all understand. Words that paint a picture without oils or pastels. Words that sculpt a story without bronze or marble. Words that, even in translation, will last in my English thinking mind for a very long time. Is poetry the highest form of art? I don't think there are platforms that artists sit on when being judged - like at the Olympics - the Bronze medal goes to Sculpture, the Silver to Painting and the Gold to Poetry!
Transtromer weaves magic into his words. He writes words that get in at a cellular level. And now I am one of those people who walk around with poetry in my cells, and I feel better for it.
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