An early Valentine's Day greeting (in case you need some lines for that card) via poets.org. Valentines and poetshave a long history of being used as words of love to send to others. Some classical, some modern, some love, some passion and even strong friendships.Not your greeting card Valentines.
Come back, the snow is treacherous, come back, they are making you fight a treacherous war, you were not born in snow, you do not know snow, come back, I do not want you to fight that war in our name, I want you to rest, I want you to be able to feel your fingers, I want the snow in your veins to give way, for you to be able to breathe, to melt into a corner, to sleep.
Come back.
Go home.
Go home to Dharwad, Go home to Madurai, go home to Vellore, Satara, Mysore, do not stay in the snow, go home to Ranchi, that war is not for you to fight, that war is not for us to give to you to fight, let not our name be ice, let it not heave on your shoulders, do not let us steal your breath, the people there, the people of the snow do not need us, they do not need you to fight, come back, you were not born to snow, you do not know the treachery of the snow,
go home, to rest, go home to the sun, to water, go home to the nights of your village, go home to the sweltering market-place, to the noise of family-homes, to the sweat of the Ghats, to the dust of the plains, go home,
may you never have to see white ever again like that, may you never have to see a colour become death in your very palm.
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it was as if I pillion rode the moon on the Western Express Highway,
and every mile we raced on his bike we reclaimed from the sea,
the Goregaon high-rises passed us by like longing measured on a Richter scale,
and the sky, window-lit at Malad, tripped onto us,
at Kandivali, the fortieth floors spun out into the night till the sky was only staircases,
and when he dropped me by those black mountains of Borivali, I realized I had held onto my seat like the black holds onto basalt, like the skin holds onto bones, like Mumbai holds onto sea.
The Angel Gabriel Appearing to Zacharias by William Blake
The past two months, I have lost four people from my life. Two were old enough that people would say they had a good, long life. Two were old but still young enough that everyone felt their,lives had been cut short.
Friends tell me that I am never without something to say. Choose your adjective depending on how that talkative person feels in your world - chatty, loquacious, garrulous, voluble, conversational, communicative. But often when someone I know dies, words fail me, and the closer I feel to that person, the greater the failure of words to come.
As poets or readers of poetry, we often turn to other poets' words for consolation.
A few years ago, Edward Hirsch published a book of poems called Gabriel: A Poem about his adopted son who died at age 22 in 2011.
This was his �reckless boy� who had a troubled life. Hirsch said �There�s something really unnatural about losing a child, and there�s something unnatural about having to write an elegy for your child, but I felt that I wanted people to know what he was like.�
I bought the book two years ago and have never been able to read more than a few pages at a time. The opening lines - "The funeral director opened the coffin / And there he was alone / From the waist up� - stopped me on first reading.
The poem consists of more than 700 three-line stanzas. It has a rushing feel without punctuation of momentum sometimes out of control. That is an odd form for an elegy which I generally think of as being as slow as some heavy organ music in a cathedral.
His poem is roughly chronological and begins with the happiness of the adoption and the energy of youth.
With so much energy he was like a wound top, He could almost fly a kite when there was no wind.
And then comes multiple diagnoses and the various/ Specialists who plagued us with help� and the ineffective drugs.
The population of his feelings Could not be governed By the authorities.
And finally, the looking back, the what-ifs and doubts.
Maybe we were too hard on him/ Maybe we were too soft.
That God, which ever lives and loves, One God, one law, one element, And one far-off divine event, To which the whole creation moves.
I will not forgive you Indifferent God Until you give me back my son.
Hirsch's poem is too long - and probably too difficult - to use for this prompt, but we have no shortage of poems of lamentation and other topics that go into dark places to consider.
February is our coldest month in much of the Northern Hemisphere? and no doubt the season is also driving this prompt for me.
"Darkness" by Lord Byron (George Gordon) opens with lines that have always seemed to explain that feeling of waking up in a dark place, even if the sun was shining. Whether that darkness comes from a loss or a darkness in ourselves.
I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; Morn came and went�and came, and brought no day,
Byron�s poem was literally inspired in part by a �year without a summer,� 1816, that was caused by the clouds of ash from the eruption of Mount Tambora in 1815. Many people interpreted it as the end of the world. Byron took this sense of apocalypse to express a pessimism about nature.
Turning the pages in a thick anthology, I also reread TS Eliot�s "East Coker." This meditation on mortality is the third section of his Four Quartets.
In my beginning is my end. In succession Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended, Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass. Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires, Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth Which is already flesh, fur, and faeces, Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf. Houses live and die: there is a time for building And a time for living and for generation And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane And to shake the wainscot where the field mouse trots And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.
The Londoners of the poem seem to live in his Waste Land, a place landscaped by war. They are forced to enter the darkness of the unlit underground stations to escape the nightly air raids.
A more modern poem by Stanley Kunitz that I have always been affected by is "The Portrait" which begins:
My mother never forgave my father for killing himself, especially at such an awkward time and in a public park, that spring when I was waiting to be born.
For this February prompt, we go to dark places. Those places can be real and quite literally dark, or imagined and dark in the many figurative ways we use that word. The darkness of night, of death, depression, lamentation and loss is different and the same. We don't want to go to these dark places, but, especially as writers, we do go there. Going there might not be a choice, but sometimes we put ourselves there.
Keep a light nearby and a hand on the wall for support and walk carefully.
SUBMISSION DEADLINE: February 29, 2016
In 2014, Ron Charles interviewed Ed Hirsch for �The Life of a Poet� series and Hirsch talked about Gabriel, though he would not read from it.
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about his adopted son who died at age 22 in 2011.
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