2023-03-20 - 10:00 p.m.
I listened to a poem which made me cry midway through.
I had read a tweet by the poet speaking of his students and thought.
and felt like I could drop everything to go follow like a disciple to be in his presence and learn from him
I mean really
Saw teaching at an MFA program and my heart wanted me to against all reason apply
THEN I listened to another poem
which brought forth tears
I listened to another poet recently, a young queer black poet who wrote a poem about her Father, about addressing his abuse and how she made him face it, own up to it and well... how the poem ends with his inability to change the pattern.
I keep reading poems about Fathers and think of my kids and their relationship with their father (Mostly the younger ones with the 2nd husband of mine- that father)
yet it was not painful to hear the reading of the poem of the gal handling and healing of the trauma of abuse at hand of her father knowing he would not stop, perhaps he did not know how to stop, or for whatever reason
the familiarity and shock of that to most left me oddly not so moved-
It was the same as my reaction to depictions of abuse on TV or movies often-
Maybe a desensitization?
A "oh yeah..." with ( dissociative? perhaps? ). matter of fact acceptance?
Resignation of the depiction never really touching the reality ... I mean never seeming to ever be able to capture the actual terror, the flat emotional response I have and thought that no matter how someone tries it can't really convey the reality but also the curiosity of why would anyone really ever want to try and my intellectual analysis of why this poem? How can or does this heal? And the question How does this feel to me? And , my quiet acceptance, but somehow ... I don't want to say disappointment, but I don't know-- just... somehow a feeling that "Oh they tried" but always feeling like a depiction did not really touch me... it was not quite feeling authentic in the telling , and always this feeling that there was some protection of the hearer, the audience, the viewer, the reader... of the real tragic trauma-- a coddling, a protecting... or me wondering if the experience I and kids had was really that off from even others horrific realities that depictions that leave others more understanding of abuse don't work for what we went through- then wondering why would I want to have something equivalent to hit my emotional cord with resonance of familiarity? I mean I sit wondering why I am analyzing and finding ART Falling short.. ( I remember this feeling, or maybe solely thoughts, critique without allowing feeling? when saw Next to Normal and found it... just lacking... I mean not fleshing out fully the characters and fullness of their decisioning and experience. I felt like there was a caricature and not even understanding of her character... the mom....
It was the hearing of THIS and the CONTRAST
The pain of the experience in contrast of the poem I feel like the wounded children of mine would write
YET coupled with some of the tenderness of this father which I felt somehow reminded me of the father of my two oldest in moments...
yet the contrast
in the final lines
which all together opened some wounding that I did not have a husband who could be that kind of father to my/to our kids.
There are so many phrases in that poem that hit me...
As my oldest kids did have a father who was there, at times, a Dad from a Rust Belt city, bourne of this white mother as well as the Black Father who like this poet ... speaks in the cadence of jazz
although with the bass
rather than words...
as played Coltrane
OH and I am reminded I planned to get one thing done a month ago- to pay bills and book a flight to visit my father, just do it
YET then chance to travel and see my son arose so that was put off.
Today I was thinking of this, prioritizing it in my mind as I was given my new upcoming work schedule and I looked at it to block off what stretch of time I am not working to plan a visit to spend time with my Dad.
And I think I can never write a poem
Not like this
so alternate between the intial thought I would drop everything to be able to learn to write from such a master
and the thought I should never even try to write a poem as could never do that...
the hitting of emotional chord.
then I keep reading poets and find one from familiar spaces, here in Virginia
and enjoy the reading of his writing and am struck by the brevity and beauty captured in the blog and the contrast with my long, rambling blog entries...
and I listen to Sean Thomas Dougherty
and hope he was not the one accused of misogyny
when on twitter someone posted "What if the poet is misogynistic?"
as I don't want my image of this poet shattered
I need the mirage of a prophet worth following ( no he/she needn't be pure but misogynistic would be one of those things I could not forgive. It would break my heart.)
I want the faith to make me believe poetry is a valuable pursuit.
and his poem
encourages me to bother.
even if I could never write a thing as moving as what I heard that made me almost weep. ( the tears don't really even flow.. just trickle.. drop yes.. there were drops tonight. More than usual when something moves me and makes me tear up.)