{"id":123177,"date":"2018-03-23T09:00:54","date_gmt":"2018-03-23T13:00:54","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=123177"},"modified":"2018-03-23T14:54:32","modified_gmt":"2018-03-23T18:54:32","slug":"poetry-rx-rootless-and-rejected","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/03\/23\/poetry-rx-rootless-and-rejected\/","title":{"rendered":"Poetry Rx: Rootless and Rejected"},"content":{"rendered":"

In our column\u00a0Poetry Rx<\/a>, readers\u00a0write in<\/a>\u00a0with a specific emotion, and our resident poets\u2014Sarah Kay, Kaveh Akbar, and Claire Schwartz\u2014take turns prescribing the perfect poems to match. This week, Sarah Kay is on the line.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Illustration by Ellis Rosen<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dear Poets,\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

I was a third-culture kid, which basically means that any attempt to describe my identity\u00a0requires a silly amount of en dashes. I recently went through a difficult breakup that has made my lack of roots more apparent\u00a0and intolerable. I know this is a big ask, but is there a poem that can help me build a home?\u00a0\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Sincerely,\u00a0<\/em>
\nTCK<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dear TCK,<\/p>\n

I am half Japanese American and half Jewish American, I grew up in New York City, and I attended an international school. I am very familiar with the phenomenon of being a third-culture kid, as well as a prisoner of the en dash. (For those less familiar, third-culture kids are children who grow up in a country or culture that is different from that of their parents. It is a common experience of expats or children raised abroad, and while the term attempts to cover a very disparate group of humans, I like that it gives a unifying language to children who grow up feeling different or lost or just a little bit outside.) These days I spend my time performing and teaching in schools around the world. I encounter TCK\u2019s growing up in totally different countries and yet they all share similar experiences. They feel like a community to which I am connected. Because of this work, I also spend a lot of time in airports, those miserable transient places, and I spend most of my time far away from anywhere or anyone that feels like home. And oh! \u201cHome!\u201d That ephemeral and impossible ideal. Where is it? Who is it? How can we find it and reach for it when we need it? Today I give you Naomi Shihab Nye\u2019s beautiful piece \u201cGate A-4<\/a>.\u201d In it, she speaks of an experience in an airport, when a woman needed her help. Together, they built a small community at the airport gate. For Naomi, we carry \u201chome\u201d around in our language, in our food, in the way we look into someone else\u2019s eyes. She writes,<\/p>\n

I noticed my new best friend\u2013by now we were holding hands\u2013had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing, with green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere. And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought, this is the world I want to live in. The shared world.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

You don\u2019t have a lack of roots, TCK. You just carry yours with you. And even if it feels like you don\u2019t come from one single place or that you do not belong to a \u201chome\u201d that you can point to on a map, all those en dashes you carry help you form new homes everywhere you go. As Naomi says: \u201cNot everything is lost.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u2014S. K.<\/p>\n

PS:\u00a0watch <\/a>the author share her own piece.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Dear Poets,<\/em><\/p>\n

I have received my first publisher rejection and am feeling appropriately mournful and dramatic. Is there a poem for this? \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Sincerely,
\nRejected<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dear Rejected,<\/p>\n

As a matter of fact, there is! But first, let me tell you what I hope you already know: that a rejection from a publisher is simply evidence that you are doing the good and hard work of sharing your writing with the world. The great news is that being rejected from a publication (or from many!) doesn\u2019t stop you from being a writer. Nobody gets to stop you from being a writer. Perhaps your writing belongs elsewhere. Perhaps your writing wants to marinate a little more. I am proud of you for sending it out at all. I hope you continue to take risks. All the writers you love and read have been rejected, and perhaps continue to be rejected; rejections are the writer\u2019s version of acquiring scrapes and bruises. They are not an excuse to hide in our homes. They are merely a reminder to wear a helmet. Perhaps this poem<\/a> by Hanif Abdurraqib can be a balm. The poem itself takes on the form of an email exchange. Here is the beginning:<\/p>\n

Re: Your Submission 9:27pm
\n<\/strong>Editor
\n<\/strong>to<\/strong>\u00a0Me<\/p>\n

Hanif,<\/p>\n

We regret to inform you
\nthat the poem in which
\nthe dog empties itself
\ninto morning\u2019s fresh glow
\nas a metaphor for love
\nwill not be accepted by our magazine
\nwe invite you to submit again
\nwe invite you to first find love
\nthat isn\u2019t shaken to life
\nby the warmth of a dog\u2019s digested meal<\/p>\n

I love this poem so much because each time the editor responds, I feel the sting of rejection along with Hanif, and every time Hanif writes back, I am reminded what an incredible poet he is. Later on in the poem he writes, \u201cI do not confuse necessity for love \/ I do not confuse hunger \/ with the need to fill myself \/ with anything that will have me.\u201d And though he is not writing about you and me, what a great reminder it is for both of us: do not confuse necessity for love. We may love to publish poems and share them with the world, but we do not need<\/em> the validation of that publication. Focus on your hunger, on your need to write what you need to write.<\/p>\n

\u2014S. K.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Dear Poets,<\/em><\/p>\n

When I was sixteen, one of my friends died from cancer. We weren\u2019t even that close, but I still cried like my heart was breaking when I saw her coffin. In Jewish funerals, there\u2019s a tradition where friends and family help cover the coffin with dirt. Over the years, when I\u2019ve felt like the grief hurts so much I\u2019ll cave in, I\u2019ve tried to write poems. I was surprised that the grief never became easier, although I suppose I don\u2019t want it to become easier. If it did, it would seem like she was even more gone. Do you have a poem to help me?<\/em><\/p>\n

Sincerely,
\nGrieving\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dear Grieving,<\/p>\n

I am very sorry for your loss. Grief is one of the hardest things to put words to. And there are certain kinds of pain that do not get easier, but perhaps do get more familiar. Perhaps after holding grief for long enough, you recognize the way it sits in your body at a certain time of year. Perhaps it does not surprise you in the way it might have at first. There is a small comfort to me in the familiarity of grief, even though the loss itself never goes away. I want to share with you the poem I always turn to in times of mourning. The rabbi of the temple that I attended as a child used to read this poem during services, so to me it is akin to a prayer. I have repeated it so many times, I know the words by heart. Like grief, it is now familiar. The poem is\u00a0\u201cEpitaph<\/a>,\u201d by Merrit Malloy. The poet writes,<\/p>\n

You can love me most
\nby letting
\nhands touch hands,<\/p>\n

By letting
\nbodies touch bodies,
\nand by letting go
\nof children
\nthat need to be free.<\/p>\n

Love doesn\u2019t die,
\npeople do.
\nSo, when all that\u2019s left of me
\nis love,
\ngive me away.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The poem is a blessing, and it is a request. Your grief is real and formidable and yours, but so is your life. The poem implores you to \u201cgive your friend away\u201d by sharing yourself and the love you felt for her. If you can remember to love, to live fully, to touch and be touched, you are allowing the moment of her passing to echo onward, instead of letting its heaviness stifle you. She isn\u2019t gone, you feel her constantly. \u201cLook for me \/ in the people I\u2019ve known \/ or loved, \/ and if you cannot give me away, \/ at least let me live on your eyes \/ and not on your mind,\u201d Merrit writes. So let your friend live on, dear Grieving, but make sure you live, too.<\/p>\n

\u2014S.K.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Want more? Read earlier\u00a0installments of\u00a0Poetry Rx<\/a>! Need your own poem?\u00a0Write to us<\/a>!<\/i><\/p>\n

Sarah Kay<\/a>\u00a0is a poet and educator from New York City. She is codirector and\u00a0founder of\u00a0Project VOICE<\/a>\u00a0and the\u00a0author of four books of poetry, including\u00a0<\/em>B,<\/em>\u00a0No Matter the Wreckage,\u00a0<\/em>The Type, and\u00a0<\/em>All Our Wild Wonder.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In our column\u00a0Poetry Rx, readers\u00a0write in\u00a0with a specific emotion, and our resident poets\u2014Sarah Kay, Kaveh Akbar, and Claire Schwartz\u2014take turns prescribing the perfect poems to match. This week, Sarah Kay is on the line.     Dear Poets,\u00a0 I was a third-culture kid, which basically means that any attempt to describe my identity\u00a0requires a silly […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1411,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[33114],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-123177","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry-rx"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nPoetry Rx: Rootless and Rejected<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"What is the right poem to read after receiving a rejection from a publisher?\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/03\/23\/poetry-rx-rootless-and-rejected\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" 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