Sunday Scribblings: Passion for Poetry

" The poem is a little myth of man's capacity of making his life meaningful. And in the end, the poem is not a thing we see-it is , rather, a light by which we may see- and what we see it life."

-Robert Penn Warren

The topic for Sunday Scribblings this week is passion. Warren's quote is a reminder how poetry helps us see life. Since I was a small child I have been immersed in poetry. I pictured the vivid images of Robert Lewis Stevenson's words as my mother read from A Child's Garden of Verses. Mrs. T. in sixth grade introduced me to John Greenleaf Whittier and Walt Whitman. Lines of poetry found their way into my journals and empty books as I tried to find solace during quiet moments in college. Poetry is always a part of my classroom instruction. Files on my computer and cabinet are filled with copies of poetry that have stayed with me long after the first read. When the opportunity arises I attend poetry workshops.

Words are carefully chosen in poetry. Sound and rhythm can determine the lasting effect of a poem. Lessons are revealed and themes remain after enjoying a good poem. My passion for poetry inspires all my writing and provides " a light by which I may see-and what I see is life."

Here is one from my files:

What the Living Do

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days,

some utensil probably fell down there.

And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the

crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the

Everyday we spoke of.

It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep headstrong blue,

and the sunlight pours through

the open living room windows because the heat’s on too

high in here, and I can’t turn it off.

For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in

the street, the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And

yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my

coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush:

This is it.

Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you

called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and

the winter to pass. We want

whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss – we want more

and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of

myself in the window glass,

say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m

gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat

that I’m speechless:
I am living, I remember you.

-Marie Howe, from her 1998 collection What the Living Do

to read other Sunday Scribblings about passion go here.