A Small Thing

It seems so strange sometimes to have devoted my creative life to poetry, something that is so very quiet and fills up so little space In our world.  It is strange indeed to puzzle over whether “a mirror” or “the mirror” sounds better, or means better, in a given line, or whether an article is needed at all.  It could almost be seen as a mental illness if looked at from the outside.  Why would someone sit for hours, crossing out then rewriting  then crossing out then rewriting the same phrase over and over – a phrase that few, if any, may ever read?

There is so much noise, so much language, so many vibrant, flickering images vying for our attention in our culture of non-stop electric advertainment. How can poetry survive, an art that will never demand attention, will never flash or explode or press itself into anyone’s senses, except through a willing imagination.  The poem lies on the page, or moves in the mouth, and waits to give its little portion of magic.  But it requires quiet and time, two things of which we have so little these days.

On bad days I feel that writing poetry is like phrenology  or exorcism – an activity that once felt full of meaning and importance but has been shown to be useless by modern science and technology.  But I can’t stop – and even on those bad days I remember what poetry can do, what it’s done for me, and I know it is still serves some vital need.

I named this blog Wing of Earth, Wing of Fire to describe two ways of perceiving that lift language and human experience into the realm of the sacred.  The wing of earth is our perception through the senses – the mysterious channels through which the natural world can enter us and transform us.  The wing of fire is the imagination, the capacity through which we can leave our limited experience and enter a kind of holy communion with other beings: our friends and neighbors, humans long dead or yet to be born, animals, plants, even stones and water, even the holy I AM.   

Poetry at its best opens a reader’s senses and imagination so that the barrier between the lonely little self and the gorgeous, scary, fierce, tender world begins to crumble.  A simpler way to say it:  a good poem reminds us to pay attention, and when we pay attention, the natural result is an awakening of love and compassion.  

It’s so small, a poem on a page, a voice speaking language meticulously weighed and lovingly chosen – yet poems teach so much about being human; they teach me to live awake in the world, and that is no small thing. 

A poem that has meant a lot to me over the years is Mary Oliver's “Messenger” from her wonderful book Thirst.

Messenger

By Mary Oliver

My work is loving the world. 

Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird —    equal seekers of sweetness.  Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.  Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.
Are my boots old? Is my coat torn? 
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me 
   keep my mind on what matters, 
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
   astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
   and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
   to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
   that we live forever.
which is mostly standing still and learning to be 
   astonished. 
The phoebe, the delphinium. 
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture. 
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,
which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
   and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
   to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
   that we live forever.
which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart 
   and these body-clothes, 
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy 
   to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam, 
telling them all, over and over, how it is 
   that we live forever.