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QUINTESSENCE

Doors and Wings

Starry Night Over the Rhone, Vincent van Gogh

It is the night of the ocean, the third solitude,
a quivering which opens doors and wings.


- from “Serenade,” Pablo Neruda, 1967

Pablo Neruda's poetic brush is dipped in tints of language that create shifts in definition for me. His words name the human mystery, the unspoken ache. His poem “Serenade” is on one level about the wide deep night, the pulse of quintessence. The place where sea and sea life meet under the whisper of moonlight. On another level it is about intimacy, the elemental purity of all that breathes in darkness.

The words the third solitude stop me in my tracks. In the poem's original Spanish the word "soledad" is translated as solitude. Does the word more delicately infer aloneness? The alone? I wonder. Does this third solitude the poet speaks of in “the night of the ocean” describe a deep undercurrent, what never sleeps, or life itself? What are the other two solitudes? Those of earth and sky? Two souls at night? These subtleties of word meanings give rich and secret freight to Neruda's poem.

Poetry on its subtlest level disengages the reasoning mind. Poems are subtle word mandalas, cryptic designs that rearrange the furniture of ordinary thinking. Invite in a conscious, unchained meditation. Sometimes, just a quick sideways glance. A bit of reflection in the glass that catches the eye. A flash of wing of something strange yet familiar. A glimpse. The poets allow us to step across borders. Contemplate the secrets and wonders of the everyday. Apple, star, stubbed toe, love.

So go on, today read a poem. Better yet, write one.

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Things Which Enclose Me

Moonshell


somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
by E. E. Cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully , suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands



I am revisiting e.e. cummings today, and this poem which I have shared here in the past. The language is what holds me. Unexpected phrases such as "the voice of your eyes," the chiseled coiled core in "the power of your intense fragility," and the pang, the lonely yearning within "your eyes have their silence."

How does someone, anyone, ever know language, and the terrain of the beloved intimately enough to paint mystery so fully? Truly, what we find beloved encompasses all compass points of the heart, be they person, place, or thing.

Poetry sings deeply for me. The ability of the poet to encapsulate our longing, our disoriented suffering. The single note bittersweet rhapsodies. Human emotion is a melange of honey, spice, and salt, and it is poetry that invites us to cup the exquisite, grapple the unsettling. Even in times like these, of great moral tremor, of polar conflicts between ideologies, virulence and decency, we may find solace in poetry. Words are not mere window-dressing. They are bricks and swords and ointments and shelter. They are so many things, things which enclose us. Possessed of intense fragility, silence.

Dive under, swim deep under the surface. Find your peace.

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Hope and Sky

Today I am musing on the young, and the ways in which we tend the future singly and as community. Let me begin with work from Ohioan Maggie Smith and a poem written in answer to a question from her own three-year-old child. Maggie's poems, truth-telling wrapped in enigmas graced by flashes of magic, include last year's widely loved "Good Bones," the title poem of her forthcoming book of poems from Tupelo Press, Good Bones.

SKY
Maggie Smith

Why is the sky so tall and over everything?

What you draw as a blue stripe high above
a green stripe, white-interrupted, the real sky
starts at the tip of each blade of grass and goes
up, up, as far as you can see. Our house stops
at the roof, at the glitter-black overlap of shingles
where the sky presses down, bearing the weight
of space, dark and sparkling, on its back.
Think of sky not as blue, not as over,
but as the invisible surround, a soft suit
you wear close to the skin. When you walk,
the soles of your feet take turns on the ground,
but the rest of you is in the sky, enveloped in sky.
As you move through it, you make a tunnel
in the precise size and shape of your body.


We do this. Bring innocence into the world. This world of love as well as darkness, a place at times without hope of joy. How difficult as new parents to question the essential goodness of the world. What "gift" do we bestow upon our children at their birth to protect them? There is no invincibility shield.

The gift we bestow is joy. To grow and play and pursue delight in a thousand adventurous ways. The good and the bad and the ugly all entwined together within risk, mortality, and the sparkle of being alive. It must be enough to believe each child shall find a good life in the midst of the world’s crushing disarray. We must remember each child brings the potential of change. This, this is how we build the world, lift it up and fix it, again and again. Not just for ourselves but for the future. Good. Good bones.

To parents everywhere, the young and the worn, you are the givers and builders and healers the world needs. To those who raise children not by birth but by intent, you are angels among us. And to those who give simply, widely and generously in cherished circles of the heart, unknown souls brighten and find shelter within your selflessness. All of you are constructing, infusing, singing a better world by your work, your passions, and those tired-everyday-but-I-go commitments.

The long shadow of the coming August solar eclipse presages life given of the world; for without light this world would be still and in darkness. Without love, there would be no garden of new green. Without wakeful midnights the young would not sleep. It is truth, that in the wisdom of ancestors and the strength of the aged there is hope. And we guard hope, because of the young.

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