loved one
When your life is so intertwined with that of another's, the severing is always so... nonsensical. There are traces of him everywhere: field, cafe, lake, room; and nearly everything reminds of her: sunlight, handkerchief, tea, shampoo. For the poet, the process proves even more painful as the poet's sharpened senses receive the universe naturally, intermingling it with human drama. I would call it psyche-overwhelm. Sensitive souls take everything so seriously.
No wonder Mary Oliver grieved so subtly, yet at the same time, so openly. Her love for the lost one permeates the entire poetry collection, there is no escaping. At times I wonder if I, too, can ever escape from the distance a wanderer suffers, if I can ever stop writing poems tinted with loss.
I do think, though, that people go through seasons. Just as the natural four seasons bring us soft showers, brilliant sun, brisk winds, and roast chestnuts, life too travels in cycles. No one dwells in grief forever. No happiness lasts forever either. The environment will always influence us, no one is strong enough to remain static forever, or is that even strength at all? A Chinese philosopher has said that only the dead branches are unbendable, live ones flexible. Perhaps fixation is in itself a kind of death. And again, life and death will always alternate.
The tension I have felt this spring is unbearable. I think, like Mary Oliver, who wanted to rejoice with the ducks and leaves, I find myself unable to match the season's enthusiasm. The season of new life, of resurrection, often finds the poet-observer-soul gripped with darkness, Thanatos. Most times, there are no words. The most eloquent poetry can only hint at the ineffable--it's no good to try to inscribe meaning for that which resists metaphor.
When your life is so intertwined with that of another's, the severing is always so... nonsensical. There are traces of him everywhere: field, cafe, lake, room; and nearly everything reminds of her: sunlight, handkerchief, tea, shampoo. For the poet, the process proves even more painful as the poet's sharpened senses receive the universe naturally, intermingling it with human drama. I would call it psyche-overwhelm. Sensitive souls take everything so seriously.
No wonder Mary Oliver grieved so subtly, yet at the same time, so openly. Her love for the lost one permeates the entire poetry collection, there is no escaping. At times I wonder if I, too, can ever escape from the distance a wanderer suffers, if I can ever stop writing poems tinted with loss.
I do think, though, that people go through seasons. Just as the natural four seasons bring us soft showers, brilliant sun, brisk winds, and roast chestnuts, life too travels in cycles. No one dwells in grief forever. No happiness lasts forever either. The environment will always influence us, no one is strong enough to remain static forever, or is that even strength at all? A Chinese philosopher has said that only the dead branches are unbendable, live ones flexible. Perhaps fixation is in itself a kind of death. And again, life and death will always alternate.
The tension I have felt this spring is unbearable. I think, like Mary Oliver, who wanted to rejoice with the ducks and leaves, I find myself unable to match the season's enthusiasm. The season of new life, of resurrection, often finds the poet-observer-soul gripped with darkness, Thanatos. Most times, there are no words. The most eloquent poetry can only hint at the ineffable--it's no good to try to inscribe meaning for that which resists metaphor.
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