Poetry
“...And
I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with
the great starry
void,
likeness,
image of
mystery,
felt
myself a pure part
of the
abyss,
I wheeled
with the stars,
my heart
broke loose on the wind.”
Pablo
Neruda (“Poetry” translated by Alastair Reid)
Forgive my saying this so
early in the morning, but this last verse of Neruda's poem is how I
imagine it will be to die. I think this is as close as we get to the
meaning of Jesus' words to the man who was hanging on the cross next
to him—“Today you will be with me in paradise.” Not moribund,
but free, expansive.
Great poets, by writing
the bare bones of words, capture the essence and power of their
meaning—the marrow. That's why from time to time, we all need to
pick up a book of poetry and read. Whether it's Mary Oliver's Wild
Geese “high in the clean blue air, are heading home again,”
or Rilke's Sunset, “Slowly the west reaches for clothes of new
colors, which it passes to a row of ancient trees...” we are
instantly transported by images so clear we feel them in our heart.
Such a gift.
Whittling anything down
to its essence is a way of getting to its truth. We humans lose
ourselves in vocabulary, all our phrases, all our adverbs and
adjectives, our prepositions. With so many extraneous words, the
power of their meaning is lost. Poets can teach us a lot about that.
And, in doing so, cause us to grasp our reality in a brand new way.
Here is an essence kernel from Ghalib (translated by Jane
Hirshfield):
“For the
raindrop, joy is in entering the river--
unbearable
pain becomes its own cure...”
(“For
the Raindrop”)
I hope you will give
poetry a try today. It's like taking a mini-vacation, where beauty
transports one to other lands and, in the process, restores the soul.
In the Spirit,
Jane
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