There are so many... and the truth is...there are so many poets that write so far over my head that I can't begin to understand their complexity. I'm not that devoted to poetry to plumb the depths of a poem that is like reading Greek. But I love reading a poem that I "get." Some call that type of poetry "accessible." Apparently, that is not a compliment for some. Sometimes, upon further reflection, I "get" something more from the poem. So, I like to post poems as a reminder to myself. I only post poems that grab me; poems that I want to read and re-read. If I post a poem, I feel compelled to read it a few times. A good habit.
Alicia Ostriker is giving a reading of her poems next week in Lincoln, and I plan on being there. I must say, I am as drawn to poems that capture moments of despair and darkness as those that capture joy and light. I suppose I relate because I read this poem and say to myself... "yes, yes, I've been there, I know" and it's a comfort (I love the line about comforters)to realize others have known and can so well convey an emotion or state that I've been familiar with. And it lightens something heavy inside. So, in anticipation of next week, here's a poem... Isn't it powerful?
Insomnia
Alicia Suskin Ostriker
But it's really fear you want to talk about
and cannot find the words
so you jeer at yourself
you call yourself a coward
you wake at 2 a.m. thinking failure,
fool, unable to sleep, unable to sleep
buzzing away on your mattress with two pillows
and a quilt, they call them comforters,
which implies that comfort can be bought
and paid for, to help with the fear, the failure
your two walnut chests of drawers snicker, the bookshelves mourn
the art on the walls pities you, the man himself beside you
asleep smelling like mushrooms and moss is a comfort
but never enough, never, the ceiling fixture lightless
velvet drapes hiding the window
traffic noise like a vicious animal
on the loose somewhere out there—
you brag to friends you won't mind death only dying
what a liar you are—
all the other fears, of rejection, of physical pain,
of losing your mind, of losing your eyes,
they are all part of this!
Pawprints of this! Hair snarls in your comb
this glowing clock the single light in the room
Poetry is like music. The very best songs are the sad, heart-wrenching ballads, and sometimes it is the same with poetry. There's nothing like reading the outpourings of the soul.
ReplyDeleteIt's late, I'm tired, my latest labs concern me, and this poem reaches into me. I first glanced and thought, "sheez; a poem. akk." It's not akk; it grabs. Thank you, my dear......
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