Bringing Poetry Back

Since I officially have 6 followers of this blog I really don't want to disappoint as you eagerly check back each day for a new installment. Yet I must be honest with my own capabilities. This is a new medium for me and I am not sure how often I will be able to capture such a slice of life as I did yesterday. But I am excited for this new venue because it challenges me to a new writing discipline. Can I post consistently and creatively enough to keep my 6 blog followers following? This remains to be seen but I will try, realistically recognizing that everyday may not afford me the time or muse for a well thought out post. Knowing this I thought perhaps on off days I could post poetry I find particularly moving. This will solve two issues: keeping fodder for the followers and keeping my nose in those damn poetry books always vying for my attention.

I was married to a gifted poet for 4 years but I never read poetry. Except for those small gifts written to me inside a birthday card or on a small, folded piece of paper containing an elegant expression of her feeling. This was the extent of my poetry reading much to Liz's disdain. But to be honest I just didn't get it. I was a visual person and words on paper were just so black and white.

Then one day, months after my marriage ended, in the throes of the black and white world of grief I finally saw a poem. It's colors illuminated me from the inside out. I felt light where only darkness had shrouded me for many weeks. It was an in breaking of breath, spirit and light. It was Rainer Marie Rilke, the Book of Hours and it had literally jumped off the shelf at me in Brookline Booksmith. I had never read a book of poetry, let alone bought one. But that day, I walked up to the counter with Rilke in my hand and anxiety, sorrow and depression in my heart and purchased that book.

I read it from cover to cover with a glass of wine in hand on a cold and lonely couch in Roslindale. My world changed. I felt each poem move through me bringing a subtle warmth and kindling light were I thought there was none. I let each word breath and inhaled their sweetness. I savored each line and let their poetic richness explode inside me. I lived.

I learned to taste wine that summer in a small wine shop in Roslindale Center. The most friendly man owns it and his wife is an expert taster. One lazy summer afternoon she taught me how to taste. There were not a lot of customers that day.

Pour and appreciate the rich sight of its color.
Inhale deeply its vintage aroma.
Drink its full flavor.
Swish.
Swallow.
Savor.
Notice oak, pepper, cherry and if you are lucky chocolate.
Repeat.

It is the same with poetry.


______________


We must not portray you in king's robes
You drifting mist that brought forth the morning.

Once again from the old paintboxes
we take the same gold for scepter and crown
that has disguised you through the ages

Piously we produce our images of you
Till they stand around you like a thousand walls.
And when our hearts would simply open
our fervent hands hide you.

______________
Rainer Marie Rilke
Book of Hours
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