Recently, I came across a final exam paper for the poetry theory class I had taken in graduate school, titled, "Confirmation of the Uncertainties." Walking on the treadmill in the garage, I came across a reference from Robert Bly who once said that in order to write good poetry we have to be able to shift inward and outward. Years later, long after the poetry theory final paper, I have to ask myself,
where are you, Pilar? Someone mentioned to me, only today, that I could potentially be in a holding pattern. I took it literal. I saw the bird. It's possible she's simply taking a break; everything has become about so much of nothing, like distance and speed; that's not where the heart of life lies. I think she's learning the patterns of wind, again. When we grow, we stay within the reach of our most familiar branch.
I wrote halfway through the paper: "I've had to condition myself to sit in the presence of being uncomfortable in order to reach a hint towards my pleading confirmation that lends itself towards even a halfway conclusions that I absorb daily." I go on to say, "I can't deny this, I believe poetry is often times a measure in which we weigh out the trials and celebrations of life. Poetry becomes the confirmation of uncertainties we must attain to." It's this shift, the translation of both worlds, the spoken and the written and hearing the voices, or becoming the voice, whether big or small.
Perhaps poets move through life in measure. The poet, Muriel Rukeyser, said in her book, "The Life of Poetry: Form, Line Tension," said "exchange is creation." Poetry is merely an exchange for one thing for the next. The voice for longing, the sigh of time, the heartbeat of desire. And if human energy was transferred (or transpired) from the poet to the reader, then how about for the person the poem was intended for? Do all these strands weave together across the skies in some cosmic fashion that allows an exchange occur, that would have otherwise been impossible, say due to distance between the two people?
It's true, most people seek understanding and community to some degree or another. I seek truth, and poetry has been my primary tool in capturing the unsaid. Truth does more than set one free, it's the most essential component towards entering (and staying on) the path of living an authentic life. An authentic life..it's been the topic of conversation all week. The opposite of fear is trust. In order to overcome fear, you don't try and understand fear, you simply hang onto to trust. Trust and authenticity come from the same bloodline. They simply couldn't exist without the other. This is where poetry can save the soul. If you're not writing it, then read it. Keep the heart soft. Stay vulnerable. Never pass up an opportunity to love. Writing new poetry can be distilled from collective experiences, our memory.
Just like love, poetry is a conversation of the senses.
Recently, I came across a final exam paper for the poetry theory class I had taken in graduate school, titled, "Confirmation of the Uncertainties." Walking on the treadmill in the garage, I came across a reference from Robert Bly who once said that in order to write good poetry we have to be able to shift inward and outward. Years later, long after the poetry theory final paper, I have to ask myself, where are you, Pilar? Someone mentioned to me, only today, that I could potentially be in a holding pattern. I took it literal. I saw the bird. It's possible she's simply taking a break; everything has become about so much of nothing, like distance and speed; that's not where the heart of life lies. I think she's learning the patterns of wind, again. When we grow, we stay within the reach of our most familiar branch.
