{"id":125542,"date":"2018-05-17T13:00:41","date_gmt":"2018-05-17T17:00:41","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=125542"},"modified":"2018-05-17T13:10:16","modified_gmt":"2018-05-17T17:10:16","slug":"poetry-rx-you-all-have-lied","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/05\/17\/poetry-rx-you-all-have-lied\/","title":{"rendered":"Poetry Rx: You All Have Lied"},"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

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Original illustration by Ellis Rosen.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

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

I feel like I’m living in a world of decay right now. My mother and both of her brothers are dying of Huntington\u2019s disease, which slowly kills your mind and body over a decade or so (think ALS + Parkinson\u2019s +\u00a0<\/em>Alzheimer\u2019s + extra mood\/psychological challenges)<\/em>. My other mother has cognitive challenges that are making it hard for her to manage their care, and she seems to be worsening. As a twenty-six-year-old, I certainly am capable of taking on responsibility, but I often find myself feeling like a scared, lost child.<\/em><\/p>\n

I\u2019ve moved back home to New Orleans to help, but I struggle to find anything like optimism or contentment. My city is also in a state of cultural and physical decay\u2014it\u2019s being taken over by those who seek to exploit my fellow native New Orleanians. These things (and of course the state of the world) weigh on me daily.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Hoping you might have a poem to bring a little solace,
\n<\/em>Seeking Hope<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dear Seeking Hope,<\/p>\n

When someone shares their experience of loss, I often think of Lisel Mueller\u2019s poem, \u201cWhen I Am Asked<\/a>.\u201d The speaker laments the persistence of natural beauty in the face of her mother\u2019s death.<\/p>\n

Nothing was black or broken
\nand not a leaf fell
\nand the sun blared endless commercials
\nfor summer holidays.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Searching not for an erasure of her loss, but for company in her grief, the speaker turns to poems:<\/p>\n

[I] placed my grief
\nin the mouth of language,
\nthe only thing that would grieve with me.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Sometimes, we need to dwell with the loss to learn how those transitions transform us. That is to say: I\u2019m so sorry you\u2019re experiencing this.<\/p>\n

But you have named yourself seeking<\/em>, so today I want to offer you a poem to fortify your search: Jack Gilbert\u2019s \u201cA Brief for the Defense<\/a>.\u201d<\/p>\n

If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
\nwe should give thanks that the end had magnitude.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

I used to dislike this poem for these lines. They remind me of that dangerous line of thinking that posits trauma as a precondition to insight. But I think the poem\u2019s truest intelligence is here:<\/p>\n

We must risk delight.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Often we say vulnerability <\/em>when we mean pain<\/em>, but amidst all that is pain\u2014loss and hurt and grief\u2014it is vulnerable to search for something to love. Vulnerable not only to name the loss that already is but to love enough to risk losing again. Now I appreciate those previously despised lines. I understand them to mean: don\u2019t relinquish the expanse of your attention to destruction. Gilbert writes:<\/p>\n

\u2026 We must have
\nthe stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
\nfurnace of this world.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

I hear that same stubbornness in you. Your \u201cstruggle to find anything like optimism\u201d is<\/em> the record of hope. If you didn\u2019t already have hope, you would have stopped struggling. Keep going.<\/p>\n

We must admit there will be music despite everything.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

\u2014CS<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

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

I am in love with a man who mispronounces my name. I feel myself turning into a ghost each time he does it. But I am also a shy ghost, and it has come to the point where it is really too late to correct him. This man, he is in love with someone else. Despite the wonderful somersaults of the heart, I hate this state of unrequited love. I am always overtaken by my own lack. I find myself never good enough. I know, though, the greatest thing is to face love (and the world) with openness. I just can\u2019t seem to win against my own dark. Do you have any poem at all, really, for another poet in love?<\/em>\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Sincerely,
\n<\/em>In Love and Lacking<\/em><\/p>\n

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

Dear In Love and Lacking,<\/p>\n

Unrequited love is painful. It\u2019s difficult to feel the chemical charge of desire without the alchemy of reciprocity. It sounds, though, like one of the most painful parts of this experience is that you feel far from yourself. Love\u2014even unrequited\u2014offers an opportunity for learning more about yourself, exploring your desires and experiences like \u201cwonderful somersaults of the heart.\u201d For you, a poem I hold close when I feel lost to myself. Ruth Ellen Kocher\u2019s \u201cWhen the Moon Knows You\u2019re Wandering<\/a>\u201d is like a compass for interior exploration:<\/p>\n

\u2026 the exaltation in knowing<\/p>\n

you are lost. Say your own name backwards to prove
\nyou exist, an ancient tongue that steels the simple evening air on which
\nyou rely like Pharaoh building the tomb for years<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Honor that you are finding it difficult to be open in this moment. Part of caring for yourself is knowing whether you have the capacity to hold whatever might enter. Reorient yourself toward truth. You know your name; that is true. It is never too late to correct this man\u2019s mispronunciation. But, more importantly, this poem calls you to that talisman of how well you know\u2014and speak\u2014your own name.<\/p>\n

You are not what is lacking; it\u2019s in the way that you and this man meet each other. Maybe this man will never love you. But if you distort yourself and he does not love you, then you will be without him and without yourself. If you distort yourself and he loves you, then who, really, will he be loving? What if he loved you by a name that wasn\u2019t yours? That sounds very lonely. Meet the world with your truest shape so that when you are held, it will be you <\/em>who is held. Kocher\u2019s poem invites you into the elemental stretch of your own desire and circumstance. \u201cGo where you will,\u201d she writes. \u201cThe sun rises there.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u2014CS<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Dear Poets,<\/p>\n

Could you recommend a poem that helps explain why I am still smarting with pain from every loss I have ever experienced: from my mum dying slowly in front of me to the person who just couldn’t love me to that copy of The Ethics of Ambiguit<\/em>y I am positive a student stole from my office. It all really really hurts. Poets, please help me out!<\/p>\n

Sincerely,
\nEternally Hurting<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dear Eternally Hurting,<\/p>\n

When an old loss resurfaces and I feel like the window of grieving should have closed, I have a friend who always reminds me, We don\u2019t just get over things. I find such comfort and permission in her words. In those moments, more than solace, I want someone to hold open that window of mourning, to remind me that it has never, in fact, closed. In that spirit, I give you a poem that is a rock thrown through whatever glass would pretend to contain loss: Edna St. Vincent Millay\u2019s \u201cTime does not bring relief: you all have lied<\/a>\u201d:<\/p>\n

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
\nWho told me time would ease me of my pain!<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The speaker spends the majority of the poem enumerating elements and spaces that elicit memories of her lost love.<\/p>\n

I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
\nI want him at the shrinking of the tide
\n. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0. \u00a0.
\nThere are a hundred places where I fear
\nTo go\u2014so with his memories they brim<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Even the form of this poem\u2014the sonnet\u2014is the well-trodden ground of love. Where the form sets us up to expect a turning point (the volta), the speaker instead doubles down:<\/p>\n

And entering with relief some quiet place
\nWhere never fell his foot or shone his face
\nI say, \u201cThere is no memory of him here!\u201d
\nAnd so stand stricken, so remembering him.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

I love this poem for its petulance\u2014for its refusal to diminish the truth of its feeling. And I love this poem because, in spite of the grandeur it proclaims, what it enacts is in fact tightly controlled: fourteen lines and a regulated rhyme scheme. Sometimes form can offer us a way to hold\u2014to live with\u2014what can otherwise consume us. As Toni Morrison writes in Sula<\/em>, \u201cLike an artist with no art form, she became dangerous.\u201d I can\u2019t offer the explanation you\u2019re seeking, but I offer you St. Vincent Millay\u2019s company and the wish that you, too, find forms\u2014writing, singing, gardening, running\u2014that can give shape to your losses.<\/p>\n

\u2014CS<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Want more? Read earlier\u00a0installments of\u00a0Poetry Rx.<\/a>\u00a0<\/i>Need a poem? Write to us. 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.     Dear Poets,\u00a0 I feel like I’m living in a world of decay right now. My mother and both of […]<\/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":[34151,7625,8323,34152,34150,34148,34147,34153,34149],"class_list":["post-125542","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry-rx","tag-a-brief-for-the-defense","tag-edna-st-vincent-millay","tag-jack-gilbert","tag-lisel-mueller","tag-ruth-ellen-kocher","tag-the-ethics-of-ambiguity","tag-time-does-not-bring-relief-you-all-have-lied","tag-when-i-am-asked","tag-when-the-moon-knows-youre-wandering"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nPoetry Rx: You All Have Lied<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"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. 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