Something Different

Since I have nothing to say about this situation at the moment that hasn't already been said (we still are not talking about it, I still cry at any mention of moving), I guess I will talk about what was randomly on my mind as I fell asleep last night.

Sometimes, just like songs do, poems get stuck in my head. I guess that happens for a lot of people? I would imagine anyways. I have always found myself drawn most to poems that express feelings about loss, grief, and death. It sounds depressing, I know, but that is not why I like them. I think that those just tend to be the poems that feel the most real to me. I am always impressed by certain poets' ability to describe an emotion that a lot of people feel, but that is hard to put into words, so well. I guess in a way it makes me feel connected to people in general to know that someone was able to describe an emotion that I, and most people I know, have felt at some point in their life.

Many of my favorite poems on the topics of death and loss come from Emily Dickinson. Yes, it is a little cliche, but I think she is known for that kind of poetry because she is SO good at it. Dickinson experienced a lot of death and loss in her life, so you can understand where her ability to express the feelings surrounding it come from. I don't find her poetry depressing, like most people seem to. I find it beautiful, and even comforting. I guess to me it means that in moments of grief, I will always know that someone felt those feelings before me. I will never be alone in those emotions. There are so many of her poems that I love. I think this is one of my favorites:

It struck me every day
The lightning was as new
As if some cloud that instant slit
And let the fire through

It burned me in the night
It blistered in my dream;
It sickened fresh upon my sight
With every morning's beam

I thought that storm was brief--
The maddest, quickest by;
But nature lost the date of this
And left it in the sky.

It is not as obvious and literal as many of her poems about death and loss, but I still read it as being about that. To me, it is about someone expecting that pain will pass, and then finding that it just lingers. It is about the inescapable, perpetual nature of grief. I just always found that poem beautiful and true.

This is another of my favorites from Dickinson:

The Frost of Death was on the Pane –
"Secure your Flower" said he.
Like Sailors fighting with a Leak
We fought Mortality

Our passive Flower we held to Sea -
To Mountain - To the Sun -
Yet even on his Scarlet shelf
To crawl the Frost begun -

We pried him back
Ourselves we wedged
Himself and her between,
Yet easy as the narrow Snake
He forked his way along

Till all her helpless beauty bent
And then our wrath begun -
We hunted him to his Ravine
We chased him to his Den -

We hated Death and hated Life
And nowhere was to go -
Than Sea and continent there is
A larger - it is Woe –

This one, I would imagine, is about watching a loved one die of some illness, or even old age, and about trying to keep them with you when there is really nothing you can do. I like this one for the desperation and anger it captures. It really shows that grief often expresses itself as anger. And that is really true, isn't it? I think anyone that has experienced loss know that feeling of "hating death and hating life." And then at the very end of the poem, the "wrath" gives way to this vast, consuming grief. You can just tell that Dickinson really experienced this type of emotion herself.

I could go on and on with these poems, but I think I will offer just one more of Dickinson's:

To know just how he suffered would be dear;
To know if any human eyes were near
To whom he could intrust his wavering gaze,
Until it settled firm on Paradise.

To know if he was patient, part content,
Was dying as he thought, or different;
Was it a pleasant day to die,
And did the sunshine face his way?

What was his furthest mind, of home, or God,
Or what the distant say
At news that he ceased human nature
On such a day?

And wishes, had he any?
Just his sigh, accented,
Had been legible to me.
And was he confident until
Ill fluttered out in everlasting well?

And if he spoke, what name was best,
What first,
What one broke off with
At the drowsiest?

Was he afraid, or tranquil?
Might he know
How conscious consciousness could grow,
Till love that was, and love too blest to be,
Meet -- and the junction be Eternity?

I like this one because many of her poems describe the grief of actually being present at someone's death--this one expresses the agony of NOT being present. The unknowns and worries that surround grieving someone who died alone. All of the unanswered and haunting questions. Especially--was he afraid? How much did he suffer? I don't think that these types of questions are avoidable with this type of loss. But it is comforting to know that other people have asked the same questions, and have felt haunted the same uncertainties.

I have always found these Dickinson poems comforting. It is a confirmation of connection between people. Some emotions are universal. Does that make them more bearable? I don't necessarily think that is the case. But I think poems like these make those emotions less lonely. Even if you are grieving alone, you are never really grieving alone--people before you have felt what you feel. I don't know why that is a nice thought to me.

For the sake of variety, I will end with a couple not from Dickinson. This one is W.H. Auden (and probably most recognizable to people these days as the poem read in the movie Four Weddings and a Funeral):

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

I don't think I can add much commentary to this one, because it really stands so well and clear by itself. I just think it is beautiful. It is so clear, and so direct, and so accessible.

And finally, probably my favorite poem of all for its simplicity, is by Langston Hughes:

I loved my friend.
He went away from me.
There's nothing more to say.
The poem ends,
Soft as it began,--
I loved my friend.

Of course, this poem could apply to many different kinds of loss. I love the sentiment of not being able to find the words to express the grief of losing his friend. While Dickinson and Auden describe grief very well in my opinion, this one expresses the feeling that one cannot really put grief into words.

So, for not real reason, today I felt the desire to share some of my favorite poems. It is a nice change from writing about what is going on in my life right now. I guess it also reminds me that the kind of grief I am experiencing at the moment is NOTHING compared to the grief that comes with death. I am SO lucky that I am not feeling that kind of grief right now. I am determined not to lose sight of how lucky I am in my life. And I am also determined to remember that if my luck runs out, I have something to turn to if I can't find any comfort from the people and things around me. These poems will always be there for me, as ridiculous and cheesy as that sounds.