Those were the exact words I was thinking of when describing my feelings for my boyfriend. Thanks for sharing your poem!
The fact of my future death offends me. Part of this derives from my sense of my own insignificance in the universe. My life and death are a barely momentary flicker. I would like to become more than that. That the people and things I love will die wounds me as well. I seek to immortalize the world I have found and made for myself, even knowing that I won't be there to witness that immortality, mine or my work's, that by definition I will never know whether my endeavor has been successful.
But when has impossibility ever deterred anyone from a cherished goal? As the brilliant poet and teacher Alvin Feinman once said to me, "Poetry is always close kin to the impossible, isn't it? For a long time my poetry emerged from and was fueled by an impulse to rescue my mother from her own death and from the wreckage of her life, out of which I emerged, in both senses of the word.
That wreckage made me who I am, but also I escaped that wreckage, which she, by dying, did not. So I had a certain survivor guilt toward the person who both made my escape possible and represented that from which I had escaped.
Many of the poems in my first book, Some Are Drowning, centered around an absent, speechless other, an inaccessible beloved who frequently stood in for my mother, though she's an explicit presence in very few of my poems.
But her absence was always palpable, a ghostly presence haunting the text. My poems were an attempt to speak to her, to get her to speak back to me, and above all to redeem her suffering: The possibility of suffering being redeemed by art, being made meaningful and thus real as opposed to merely actual, something that happens to exist, happens to occuris still vital to me.
Art reminds us of the uniqueness, particularity, and intrinsic value of things, including ourselves. I sometimes have little sense of myself as existing in the world in any significant way outside of my poetry.
That's where my real life is, the only life that's actually mine. So there's also the wish to rescue myself from my own quotidian existence, which is me but is at the same time not me at all.
I am its, but it's not mine. For most of us most of the time, life is a succession of empty moments. You're born, you go through x experiences, you die, and then you're gone. No one always burns with Pater's hard, gem-like flame. There's a certain emptiness to existence that I look to poetry, my own poetry and the poetry of others, to fulfill or transcend.
I have a strong sense of things going out of existence at every second, fading away at the very moment of their coming into bloom: In that sense everyone is drowning, everything is drowning, every moment of living is a moment of drowning. I have a strong sense of the fragility of the things we shore up against the ruin which is life: Goethe's Faust is damned when he says, "Oh moment, stay.
The moment is defined by its transience; to fix it is to kill it. Theodor Adorno points out the paradox that "Art works They survive because they bring death" Art is a simulacrum of life that embodies and operates by means of death.
The aesthetic impulse is the enemy of the lived moment: This is the inescapable aporia of art, that its creation is a form of destruction. Art itself is so vulnerable, to time, to indifference, especially in a society like ours that cares nothing for the potentials art offers, that if anything seeks to repress them in the name of profit or proper order.
I have an intense desire to rescue these things that have touched me and place them somewhere for safekeeping, which is both impossible and utterly necessary.
What we take out of life is the luminous moment, which can be a bare branch against a morning sky so overcast it's in whiteface, seen through a window that warps the view because the glass has begun to melt with age. Or it can be the face of a beautiful man seen in passing on a crowded street, because beauty is always passing, and you see it but it doesn't see you.
It's the promise that beauty is possible and the threat that it's only momentary: The moment vanishes without a trace and then the person who experiences that moment vanishes and then there's nothing. Except perhaps the poem, which can't change anything. As Auden wrote, poetry makes nothing happen, which also implies the possibility of making "nothing" an event rather than a mere vacancy.
Poetry rescues nothing and no one, but it embodies that helpless, necessary will to rescue, which is a kind of love, my love for the world and the things and people in the world. In a graduate contemporary poetry class I took some twenty years ago, a fellow student complained that a poem we were reading was "Just trying to immortalize this scene.Poem Generator This makes random poems.
You can choose one of the sample sets of words and sentence patterns or you can enter your own words and sentence patterns. Choose Her Every Day (Or Leave Her) November 5, May 2, She fought hard to make me choose her.
That’s a fool’s task. You can't make someone choose you even when they might love you. Click to Tweet. To be fair, she didn’t fully choose me, either. The rage-fueled invective she often hurled at me was evidence enough of that. She fought hard to make me choose her.
That’s a fool’s task. You can’t make someone choose you, even when they might love you.
To be fair, she didn’t fully choose me, either. The rage-fueled invective she often hurled at me was evidence enough of that. I realize now, however, that she was often angry because she didn’t feel safe with me. Sep 11, · From The Road Not Taken: Finding America in the Poem Everyone Loves and Almost Everyone Gets Wrong, a new book by David Orr..
A young man hiking through a forest is abruptly confronted with a fork in the path. He pauses, his hands in his pockets, and looks back and forth between his options. I choose to live by choice, not by chance to be motivated, not manipulated to be useful, not used to make changes, not excuses to excel, not compete I choose self-esteem, not self pity I choose to listen to my inner voice, not to the random opinion of others.
Who am I poems. The most important love affair there ever was. You and you. A life long expansion as you rise.
As you fall. As you discover. As you recall.