It is coming up on three years since I have been thrust on this grief journey by the tragic and irrevocable action of our youngest son, Josh. This blog was created with a duel purpose: to remember him and to chronicle the painful trek. As I try to find ways to express myself, a new path has emerged, one evidenced by recent posts - POETRY.
I am losing myself in this unchartered world, profoundly impacted by the writing of newly found authors such as Lord Alfred Tennyson, Robert Pinsky, Anne Sexton, W.H. Auden, and John Berryman, while excited to discover more.
My attraction to this genre is surprising. I've never been one for poetry, finding it too obscure, archaic and ambiguous for my simple taste and analytical mind. I've not had the patience or motivation to read closely, dig deep for meaning, or make the extra effort to find and interpret ideas or supply connections. I've gravitated towards the vast material written in prose form: fiction, memoir, biography, non-fiction. And while I find prose easier to read and comprehend, it is far harder for me to write. Poems, at least right now, are an easier medium for me to portray a certain thought, feeling or emotion as evidenced by the three penned so far: A Mother's Love, Silence Is the Answer and Over and Over Again.
For example, I have tried to write about the horrible day that I found Josh, not necessarily as a blog post but just within my own journal. Where do I start? What do I say? How can I ever hope to convey what happened in that life-changing second? Simply put, I cannot. But when I was writing in my journal this morning, I started stringing words together that began describing that terrible morning. The resulting poem says what no amount of prose could:
No Answer
by Sue Anderson
1/29/2012
No answer,
Voice silent.
No response,
Mind gone.
No sight,
Eyes unblinking.
No movement,
Body stiff.
No breath,
Chest still.
No beat,
Extremities blue.
No life,
Hope abandoned.
Why? I screamed,
No answer.
For Oliver Jackman - Derek Walcott.
ReplyDeleteIt’s what others do, not us, die, even the closest
on a vainglorious, glorious morning, as the song goes,
the yellow or golden palms glorious and all the rest
a sparkling splendour, die. They’re practising calypsos,
they’re putting up and pulling down tents, vendors are slicing
the heads of coconuts around the savannah, men
are leaning on, then leaping into pirogues, a moon will be rising
tonight in the same place over Morne Coco, then
the full grief will hit me and my heart will toss
like a horse’s head or a thrashing bamboo grove
that even you could be part of the increasing loss
that is the daily dial of the revolving shade. love
lies underneath it all though, the more surprising
the death, the deeper the love, the tougher the life.
The pain is over, feathers close your eyelids, Oliver.
What a happy friend and what a fine wife!
Your death is like our friendship beginning over.