I laughed, then realized he was serious.
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.Aug 02, · Why Kids Can’t Write.
Image. Credit Credit Angela Asemota. By Dana Goldstein. The poem, which is funny and sad, addresses the futility of trying to repay one’s mother for her love. Jan 10, · Why do people write poetry and what is the purpose of this art form?
Update Cancel. ad by leslutinsduphoenix.com A poet writes a poem to store his (or her) memories, his feelings in these lines. He reads it back to himself (and makes a few changes, rewrites it) in an attempt to feel again, to purify the feeling of, that same emotion, he had felt.
I can't write a poem, My cat lays on the Paper. I can't write a poem, My pencil Disappeared. I can't write a poem, This teacher is just Crazy! I can't write a poem.
With every poem I'm trying to do something that I can't achieve, to get somewhere I'll never get. If I were able to do it, if I were able to get there, I'd have no reason to continue writing.
As Allen Grossman suggests, poetry aims at the end of poetry, which is unattainable (the ends of . Poem of the Day. A Loss Of Something by Emily Dickinson. A loss of something ever felt I—. Nov 13, · How to Write a Poem. In this Article: Article Summary Sample Poems Starting the Poem Writing the Poem Polishing the Poem Community Q&A Writing a poem is all about observing the world within or around you.
A poem can be about anything, from love to loss to the rusty gate at the old farm%().