{"id":124419,"date":"2018-04-19T11:00:02","date_gmt":"2018-04-19T15:00:02","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=124419"},"modified":"2018-04-19T13:21:31","modified_gmt":"2018-04-19T17:21:31","slug":"poetry-rx-you-will-love-again-the-stranger-who-was-your-self","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/04\/19\/poetry-rx-you-will-love-again-the-stranger-who-was-your-self\/","title":{"rendered":"Poetry Rx: You Will Love Again the Stranger Who Was Your Self"},"content":{"rendered":"

In our column Poetry Rx, 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,\u00a0Claire Schwartz is on the line.<\/i><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

\u00a9 original illustration by Ellis Rosen<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

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

I was betrayed this past year by someone I deeply loved and trusted, and whom I thought loved and trusted me. The experience felt almost surgically, cruelly precise in the way it mapped onto my history of trauma, and so I have been triggered while also overwhelmed with loss. This betrayal has been deeply unsettling to my sense of myself, my ability to trust others, and my belief in the possibility of love and partnership in the future. I am struggling to find myself again. Do you have a poem for me?<\/em><\/p>\n

Sincerely,
\n<\/em>Lost at Sea<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dear Lost at Sea,<\/p>\n

I\u2019m so sorry you\u2019re experiencing this painful and destabilizing betrayal. As Kaveh crucially reminded us<\/a>, a poem alone is insufficient support as we work through our histories of trauma. Not as a remedy, then, but as resource in what I hope is a vast constellation of support, I offer you Derek Walcott\u2019s \u201cLove After Love.<\/a>\u201d<\/p>\n

The time will come
\nwhen, with elation,
\nyou will greet yourself arriving
\nat your own door, in your own mirror,
\nand each will smile at the other\u2019s welcome,
\nand say, sit here. Eat.<\/p>\n

You will love again the stranger who was your self.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Revel in the declarative stability of that affirmation: \u201cYou will love again the stranger who was your self.\u201d It\u2019s a missive from the other side of this wreckage. Read it aloud to yourself. Hear the truth in your own voice, and forge an opening toward that future.<\/p>\n

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
\nto itself, to the stranger who has loved you<\/p>\n

all your life, whom you ignored
\nfor another, who knows you by heart.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

I love these first two imperatives. They are sufficiently pointed to penetrate the haze of grief, and yet allusive enough for the holy and eternal ritual practice that is self-love. That third imperative, though, feels a bit trickier. At first, \u201cwho knows you by heart\u201d seems perhaps to refer to the other to whom you ceded parts of yourself. Read differently, it is \u201cthe stranger who has loved you \/\/ all your life \u2026 who knows you by heart.\u201d Even when your attention was turned toward your relationship, you were there all along. You do know yourself by heart, Lost at Sea, even in those moments when you feel most at bay. Now, give the care you were giving away back to yourself. Move from the sacrifice and sustenance of bread and wine to the poem\u2019s opulent final directive: \u201cSit. Feast on your life.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u2014CS<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

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

I\u2019m simultaneously horrified and amazed by modern life. I drive an astoundingly complex vehicle for three to four hours each day so that I can get to \u201cwork.\u201d The not-work that I do gets me imaginary money (money is always imaginary). I use the imaginary money to pay for weird things, like oddly colored liquids that energize me and clothes made from liquid found deep in the ground. Sometimes when I buy things, I don\u2019t even understand what they are made of. Often I eat things, even though they don\u2019t seem like food. Everything moves around me at lightning speed. But I desperately want to slow down. I want to make the things I need. I want to sleep under the sky. I want to bury myself in earth. I want to watch every sunset. I want to see the earth breathe and I want to breathe with it.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

But I can\u2019t do any of that. I have to pick the kids up and go home and make the weird food and sleep in my weird box.<\/em><\/p>\n

I feel like a time traveler. But I\u2019m just a suburban mom with a nine to five job. I clearly need a poem.<\/em><\/p>\n

Love,
\n<\/em>Longing for Slowness<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dear Longing for Slowness,<\/p>\n

Sometimes I feel like I\u2019m treading water: forever trying to clear out my email inbox, endlessly accumulating errands, attending meetings upon meetings. But more than tedium, I hear in your letter a note of estrangement\u2014a refusal to take for granted even the most ordinary object. In this way, your note is like poetry. I love how poetry holds me at bay from even my native tongue. In poems, I get to ask: How can I enter the world through sound? Through cadence? What else might this word mean? When I read a poem, I feel like a fish who learns the properties of water without ever leaving the ocean.<\/p>\n

For you: Rita Dove\u2019s \u201cDaystar<\/a>,\u201d from her monumental collection Thomas and Beulah<\/em><\/a>, which tells the story of an African American couple (loosely based on Dove\u2019s maternal grandparents) who came to Ohio during the Great Migration. Like you, Beulah craves space for her mind to unravel:<\/p>\n

She wanted a little room for thinking:
\nbut she saw diapers steaming on the line,
\na doll slumped behind the door.<\/p>\n

So she lugged a chair behind the garage
\nto sit out the children\u2019s naps.<\/p>\n

Sometimes there were things to watch\u2014
\nthe pinched armor of a vanished cricket,
\na floating maple leaf.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Beulah\u2019s unbounded excursions into the space of her mind are no less grand for their domestic constraints.<\/p>\n

She had an hour, at best, before Liza appeared
\npouting from the top of the stairs.
\nAnd just what was mother doing
\nout back with the field mice?
\nWhy,\u00a0building a palace.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Even when your day doesn\u2019t afford you the slowness you crave, the simple and profound act of noticing can move you, bit by bit, toward that interior lushness you\u2019re seeking.<\/p>\n

\u2014CS<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

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

I\u2019ve been stumbling my way through a very modern, confusing dating scene and getting all sorts of bruises, large and small, along the way. What I could really use is a hopeful poem, something about connection or honesty in an era where our phones make us think of others as disposable.<\/em><\/p>\n

Best,
\n<\/em>Seeking Hope<\/em>\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dear Seeking Hope,<\/p>\n

Dating is hard! One thing I find particularly intimidating about those first few dates is that connection requires vulnerability, but opening yourself also means the risk of being hurt without recourse to the kind of accountability that builds with a partner over time. Be proud of your bruises. They are evidence that you\u2019ve made yourself vulnerable to the possibility of connection. There are no guarantees, but there is no other way. I hope that your openness will soon be met by someone who is equipped to hold it gently. For then and for now, Chen Chen\u2019s \u201cWinter<\/a>\u201d is a reminder that intimacy is not the same as the curated images on our phones. Chen\u2019s love poem opens:<\/p>\n

Big smelly bowel movements this blue January morning<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

In Chen\u2019s poem\u2014like in the body, like in a full relationship\u2014the erotic and quotidian and health and illness share a site.<\/p>\n

I mean, one winter night I got sick & pooped the bed.
\n& he just got up with me.<\/p>\n

Helped strip the sheets, carry it all to the washer.<\/p>\n

I kept saying, I\u2019m so sorry<\/em>, shivering, I\u2019m so, I\u2019m sorry<\/em>. But he said, What? Hey. I love you.<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Chen has said that \u201ca teacher said, never to use the word poop<\/em>\u00a0in a poem,\u201d but I can\u2019t think of anything more gorgeously rule breaking than ending a poem with \u201cI love you<\/em>.\u201d What makes this \u201cI love you<\/em>\u201d poetry and not a Hallmark card and not a cheap clich\u00e9 is the messiness of the world Chen builds around it. By the time we reach the poem\u2019s end, the \u201cI love you<\/em>\u201d doesn\u2019t snap like a flimsy thing. This is a love committed to being there, together, in the beautiful mess.<\/p>\n

\u2014CS<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Want more? Read earlier\u00a0installments of\u00a0Poetry Rx.<\/a>\u00a0<\/i>Need a poem? Write to us<\/a>. Next week, Kaveh Akbar will be answering questions.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Claire Schwartz is the author of\u00a0<\/em>bound. Her poetry has appeared in\u00a0<\/em>Apogee,<\/em>\u00a0Bennington Review,<\/em>\u00a0The\u00a0Massachusetts Review, and\u00a0<\/em>Prairie Schooner, and her essays, reviews, and interviews have appeared in\u00a0<\/em>The\u00a0Iowa Review,<\/em>\u00a0Los Angeles Review of Books,<\/em>\u00a0Virginia Quarterly Review,<\/em>\u00a0and elsewhere.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In our column Poetry 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,\u00a0Claire Schwartz is on the line. \u00a0   Dear Poets, I was betrayed this past year by someone I deeply loved and trusted, and whom I thought […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1418,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[33114],"tags":[33778,33777,6044,33776,4273,25021,10033],"class_list":["post-124419","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry-rx","tag-chen-chen","tag-daystar","tag-derek-walcott","tag-love-after-love","tag-rita-dove","tag-thomas-and-beulah","tag-winter"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nPoetry Rx: You Will Love Again the Stranger Who Was Your Self<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"In our column Poetry Rx, readers\u00a0write in\u00a0with a specific emotion and our resident poets take turns prescribing the perfect poems to match. 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