The fact of my future death offends me. Part of this derives from my sense of my own insignificance in the universe.
The Young Insurgent's Commonplace-Book: The fact of my future death offends me. Part of this derives from my sense of my own insignificance in the universe.
My life and death are a barely momentary flicker. I would like to become more than that. That the people and things I love will die wounds me as well. I seek to immortalize the world I have found and made for myself, even knowing that I won't be there to witness that immortality, mine or my work's, that by definition I will never know whether my endeavor has been successful.
But when has impossibility ever deterred anyone from a cherished goal? As the brilliant poet and teacher Alvin Feinman once said to me, "Poetry is always close kin to the impossible, isn't it? For a long time my poetry emerged from and was fueled by an impulse to rescue my mother from her own death and from the wreckage of her life, out of which I emerged, in both senses of the word.
That wreckage made me who I am, but also I escaped that wreckage, which she, by dying, did not. So I had a certain survivor guilt toward the person who both made my escape possible and represented that from which I had escaped.
Many of the poems in my first book, Some Are Drowning, centered around an absent, speechless other, an inaccessible beloved who frequently stood in for my mother, though she's an explicit presence in very few of my poems. But her absence was always palpable, a ghostly presence haunting the text.
My poems were an attempt to speak to her, to get her to speak back to me, and above all to redeem her suffering: The possibility of suffering being redeemed by art, being made meaningful and thus real as opposed to merely actual, something that happens to exist, happens to occuris still vital to me.
Art reminds us of the uniqueness, particularity, and intrinsic value of things, including ourselves. I sometimes have little sense of myself as existing in the world in any significant way outside of my poetry.
That's where my real life is, the only life that's actually mine. So there's also the wish to rescue myself from my own quotidian existence, which is me but is at the same time not me at all.
I am its, but it's not mine. For most of us most of the time, life is a succession of empty moments. You're born, you go through x experiences, you die, and then you're gone.
No one always burns with Pater's hard, gem-like flame. There's a certain emptiness to existence that I look to poetry, my own poetry and the poetry of others, to fulfill or transcend. I have a strong sense of things going out of existence at every second, fading away at the very moment of their coming into bloom: In that sense everyone is drowning, everything is drowning, every moment of living is a moment of drowning.
I have a strong sense of the fragility of the things we shore up against the ruin which is life: Goethe's Faust is damned when he says, "Oh moment, stay. The moment is defined by its transience; to fix it is to kill it.
Theodor Adorno points out the paradox that "Art works They survive because they bring death" Art is a simulacrum of life that embodies and operates by means of death. The aesthetic impulse is the enemy of the lived moment: This is the inescapable aporia of art, that its creation is a form of destruction.
Art itself is so vulnerable, to time, to indifference, especially in a society like ours that cares nothing for the potentials art offers, that if anything seeks to repress them in the name of profit or proper order. I have an intense desire to rescue these things that have touched me and place them somewhere for safekeeping, which is both impossible and utterly necessary.
What we take out of life is the luminous moment, which can be a bare branch against a morning sky so overcast it's in whiteface, seen through a window that warps the view because the glass has begun to melt with age. Or it can be the face of a beautiful man seen in passing on a crowded street, because beauty is always passing, and you see it but it doesn't see you.
It's the promise that beauty is possible and the threat that it's only momentary: The moment vanishes without a trace and then the person who experiences that moment vanishes and then there's nothing.
Except perhaps the poem, which can't change anything.rows · Happy Poems | Poems About Happiness. Happy Poems.
Below are examples of poems . Why I Write. Written by Reginald Shepherd Contributor Page: Posted September 12, Type Essays: More Texts by Reginald Shepherd: and genres don't have intrinsic meanings or values. A self-consciously avant-garde poem can be as rote as the most bland pseudo-autobiographical anecdote, if its writing is not approached in a true spirit of.
Oct 31, · Best Answer: TO WRITE A HAPPY POEM Marc Mosko, I will write a happy poem tonight. A poem of joy, a poem of delight, Filled with all the many things, The things that happiness brings. A happy poem should be fast in time, Lightly wrote, strong in rhyme. I'll speak of love and gay events, strewn flowers Status: Resolved.
Why Write a Poem; FAQ; 7 Tips for Writing a Short Poem.
Short poems can convey intimate moments with simple, specific, compelling words. They carry growing momentum from start to finish. A short poem differs from a long one in that poets may spend more time on word choice and clarity.
Given this meticulous undertaking, writing a short. Feb 13, · When I first started writing it was my way of coping with problems. So when i started writing a poem, it kind of let out all anger and depression and took a little of it away for a while, resulting in a depressing poem before me.
This might be the case with you, Lol only you can know that. I don't think you should try too hard to write a "happy" poem. Oct 31, · Poetry reflects your mood. If you are feeling sad and try to write a happy poem it will come out forced and not have the true meaning it should.
You write happy poems by being happy, then writing. Believe me i've tried to write with an upbeat tone only to throw the paper away and write a rather melancholy piece that turned out ashio-midori.com: Resolved.