We are down to one computer now, and as the children are now able to play games online, my time to be here is less than usual until we can afford a new computer. So I haven't been on as much as I hoped the past two weeks, and right now it is 1 a.m. and I am heading to bed. Before I go though, I wanted to ask a question:
If you read poetry, do you have a poem, a book of poems, or a poet, who saved your life?
I ask this because over at Terri Windling's blog, she has some Friday recommendations, among which is a link to a post by Michael Bourne, called Embracing the Other I Am, Or How Walt Whitman Saved My Life. This is a wonderful post, about how at the bottom of his despair, he discovered the original poems Whitman published back in 1855, and they literally saved him.
This has got me thinking about the power of words, of writing, of poets and poetry. As many of you know, I read some poetry - Mary Oliver is my current favourite poet, teaching me how to bring my love of nature into my own writing even as I fall in love with hers. There is something about poetry that lets our souls talk to one another that I've only found rarely in novels or other writing.
The poet that comes to my mind who saved me, is Sylvia Plath. I found her at a difficult time in my life, when I was young and just leaving home - I left when I was 18, so very young it seems now looking back! Her poetry was angry, and it was a revelation to me, that poetry could be powerful and say things that weren't nice. Sylvia's poems are full of difficult ideas and themes, alienation from herself as well as her family, struggling to be an artist and to trust herself, and it was as if I suddenly saw myself reflected back to me in her words. I could be angry, I could feel grief, I didn't have to be nice and pretend to be happy all the time. It was shocking, and if now there are many more women poets who also write about what it means to be a woman today, for me Sylvia writes about what it is to be young and angry and trying to find out why, what it all means. Because of her I dared to begin writing poetry about how I really feel, and to stop hiding from even myself. I think she saved me, also. Ariel was her book of poems I discovered this way.
So, is there a poet whose words reached out to you and showed you yourself, or life, in a new way?
The wonder of books, is that they are just waiting for us to find them, no matter how much time passes. This is a miracle I am grateful for, this very early Sunday morning at 1 a.m. May we always find the books we need, when we need them.
Happy reading, everyone!
