{"id":128908,"date":"2018-08-30T09:00:48","date_gmt":"2018-08-30T13:00:48","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=128908"},"modified":"2018-09-06T11:25:24","modified_gmt":"2018-09-06T15:25:24","slug":"poetry-rx-this-gloom-is-someone-elses","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/08\/30\/poetry-rx-this-gloom-is-someone-elses\/","title":{"rendered":"Poetry Rx: This Gloom is Someone Else\u2019s"},"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

\"\"<\/a>

\u00a9 Ellis Rosen<\/p><\/div>\n

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

My birthday is coming. It\u2019s not a \u201cbig\u201d one\u2014not twenty-one or fifty or a hundred or any other special number\u2014just a regular number in the middle. Honestly, there\u2019s no particular reason I should feel this year is so much more painful than others, but I do. I\u2019m not sure I can describe the feeling\u2014it\u2019s not something to wear purple for, <\/span>per se<\/span>. It\u2019s more of a lost feeling: How did I get old? This body is mine and yet surely must also be someone else\u2019s. I want to age gracefully and, most of all, I do not want to become invisible\u2014to myself or anyone else. And I could use some encouragement, a vote of confidence, to know that this is possible. Is there a poem that could help?<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

Sincerely,
\n<\/span>Me<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Dear Me,
\n<\/span>When you say, \u201cHow did I get old? This body is mine and yet surely must also be someone else\u2019s,\u201d I immediately thought of\u00a0<\/span>this beautiful poem<\/span><\/a> by Li-Young Lee, titled \u201cFolding a Five-Cornered Star So the Corners Meet.\u201d In it, he writes:<\/span><\/p>\n

This sadness I feel tonight is not my sadness.<\/span><\/p>\n

Maybe it\u2019s my father\u2019s.
\n<\/span>For having never been prized by his father.
\n<\/span>For having never profited by his son.<\/span><\/p>\n

This loneliness is Nobody\u2019s. Nobody\u2019s lonely
\n<\/span>because Nobody was never born
\n<\/span>and will never die.
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

This gloom is Someone Else\u2019s.
\n<\/span>Someone Else is gloomy
\n<\/span>because he\u2019s always someone else.
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

For so many years, I answered to a name,
\n<\/span>and I can\u2019t say who answered.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

I love this poem, because it plays with language in a way that reminds me of e. e. cummings\u2019s \u201c<\/span>anyone lived in a pretty how town<\/span><\/a>,\u201d but with a heaviness that cummings\u2019s poem doesn\u2019t have. The narrator of Lee\u2019s poem feels foreign to himself, and struggles to assign ownership to the sorrows he carries. \u201cSomeone, Anyone, No One, me, and Someone Else. \/ Five in a bed, and none of us can sleep,\u201d he writes. Perhaps this division of self is similar to the way you feel unrecognizable this year: you have accumulated so many versions of you\u2014some that feel familiar and some that feel strange. I just turned thirty, and while it is not \u201cold\u201d or even a \u201cregular number in the middle,\u201d as you say, I have also been having a hard time understanding what it means to age. Lee\u2019s poem suggests that this sorrow is both common\u2014by virtue of other people experiencing it\u2014and also <\/span>sacred <\/span>because apparently even <\/span>God<\/span> experiences it. <\/span><\/p>\n

And the sorrow we bear together is none of ours.
\nMaybe it\u2019s Yours, God.
\nFor living so near to Your creatures.
\nFor suffering so many incarnations unknown to Yourself.
\nFor remaining strange to lovers and friends,
\nand then outliving them and all of their names for You.
\nFor living sometimes for years without a name.<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

If even God struggles in this way, then perhaps we can find some solace in knowing that truly everyone feels restless and strange as the years add up. It is not uncommon to feel unknown to yourself, but just as God is still beloved by many, perhaps we, too, can still be known by others\u2014those who have seen our many incarnations and continue to celebrate them as they arrive. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u2014S
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Hello poets,<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

I\u2019m searching for a thing that I don\u2019t know the name of yet. The man I love is slowly eating me alive. We\u2019ve been married for a decade, and in ways subtle enough to seem ridiculous, we\u2019ve both been disappearing. Now we are finally tuned-in to it, but there remains a void we can\u2019t seem to fill. Poetry has been an immense comfort and I would love your professional recommendation. <\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

With gratitude,
\n<\/span>Ghost<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dear Ghost,<\/span><\/p>\n

I myself have not experienced a marriage, and so I feel unqualified to give you advice on yours. However, I will share with you one of my favorite stories about marriage, which is that during my parents\u2019 wedding, while staring lovingly into the eyes of my six-foot-four cisgender father, my mother accidentally said, \u201cI take you to be my lawfully wedded wife,\u201d instead of \u201chusband.\u201d The crowd giggled, and my mother blushed and corrected herself, but in later years, whenever this story is brought up, she simply shrugs and insists, \u201cWell, everyone wants a wife.\u201d I can\u2019t tell from your letter whether you yourself are a wife, but your letter did make me think of Ada Limon\u2019s poem <\/span>\u201cWife,\u201d<\/span><\/a>\u00a0which includes:<\/span><\/p>\n

Wife, why does it
\n<\/span>sound like a job? \u201cI need a wife\u201d the famous
\n<\/span>feminist wrote, \u201ca wife that will keep my
\n<\/span>clothes clean, ironed, mended, replaced
\n<\/span>if need be.\u201d A word that could be made
\n<\/span>easily into maid. A wife that does, fixes
\n<\/span>soothes, honors, obeys, Housewife,
\n<\/span>fishwife, bad wife, good wife, what\u2019s
\n<\/span>the word for someone who stares long
\n<\/span>into the morning, unable to even fix tea
\n<\/span>some days, the kettle steaming over
\n<\/span>loud like a train whistle,<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

I think a lot about how hard it is for people to see each other. How very often when we look at someone, even someone we love, what we are actually seeing is our memories of them, or our projections upon them, or our expectations, or what they represent, or so many other things, but not quite <\/span>them<\/span><\/i>. Not only that, but it is such a painful experience to know you are not being seen. A marriage is a series of promises and pacts and agreements. It is dependent on humans who are volatile and lives that are in constant flux. To me it seems like trying to build a sturdy house on constantly shifting sand. It is possible that what you once promised to be or do on a wedding day is not what you can be or do now. Maybe trying to fit an old definition is exhausting you. It is possible you need something now that you did not even know how to ask for then. Perhaps the best version of a marriage is one that is constantly updating itself, based on who you are <\/span>now<\/span>\u00a0and who you are becoming, what you need <\/span>today<\/span> and might need tomorrow<\/span>. <\/span><\/i>Marriage seems rigid, and the roles of \u201chusband\u201d and \u201cwife\u201d seem fixed, but they don\u2019t have to be. They can be redefined based on who you both are and what you both really need. If you, like Ada, are one \u201cwho wants to love you, but often isn\u2019t good at even that, the one who doesn\u2019t want to be diminished by how much she wants to be yours,\u201d then I don\u2019t think hope is lost. I think it is possible for love, like matter, to shift and change shape, without disappearing. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u2014S<\/span><\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

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

I think a lot about motherhood. I love children and I want to have a family, but there\u2019s one thing holding me back. For so much of my life, I wished I was dead. I\u2019ve been in a much better place with my mental health for years now, but I still remember when existence felt like I\u2019d lost a bet, and those memories are still raw and aching. How do I bring another life into this world when I myself had so much trouble with living? How do I balance that darkness with the light that children would bring?<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

Love,
\n<\/span>Mixed Up<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dear Mixed Up,<\/span><\/p>\n

One of the most amazing mothers I know is the poet Rachel McKibbens, who writes with immense care and artistry about the traumas of her own childhood and the depression she has battled throughout her life. She has written at length about trying to reconcile that past with her ability to protect and raise her own children. As an observer, I can tell you that she has raised some of the kindest, most loving, most creative young people I have the privilege of knowing. For me, Rachel is proof that it is possible to be a mother who provides exactly what your children need, even when it was not provided to you, or you were unable to provide it for yourself. That does not mean it is easy\u2014just that it is possible. I have shared Rachel\u2019s poetry before in this column (and would still enthusiastically point you <\/span>in that direction<\/span><\/a>), but today I would also like to share the work of another poet, Lynn Melnick, and in particular her poem\u00a0<\/span>\u201cTwelve\u201d<\/span><\/a>\u00a0which begins:<\/span><\/p>\n

When I was your age I went to a banquet.
\n<\/span>When I was your age I went to a barroom<\/span><\/p>\n

and bought cigarettes with quarters
\n<\/span>lifted from the laundry money. Last night<\/span><\/p>\n

I did all your laundry. I don\u2019t know why
\n<\/span>I thought this love could be pure. It\u2019s enough<\/span><\/p>\n

that it\u2019s infinite. I kiss your cheek when you sleep
\n<\/span>and wonder if you feel it.<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s the same cheek I\u2019ve kissed from the beginning.
\n<\/span>You don\u2019t have to like me.<\/span><\/p>\n

You just have to let me
\n<\/span>keep your body yours. It\u2019s mine.<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The poem goes on to describe some of the moments when the narrator\u2019s body wasn\u2019t her own. When men claimed it or \u201ctraded quarters \/ for a claw at my carcass on a pleather bench.\u201d The narrator\u2019s memories of helplessness flood back as she kisses the cheek of her sleeping child. For me, the most important lines of the poem are the last few: \u201cYou think I know nothing of metamorphosis \/ but when I was your age I invented a key change. \/ You don\u2019t have to know what I know.\u201d In this way, the narrator draws a line between what she has experienced, and what her child will. Maybe what you have gone through is exactly what will help you protect your child, ensuring they don\u2019t have to know the same struggles you have known. What you are able to give them is not defined by what was given to you, or what you have survived. Maybe protecting their light will be the mission that keeps you here.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2014S<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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

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

\"\"<\/a><\/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, My birthday is coming. It\u2019s not a \u201cbig\u201d one\u2014not twenty-one or fifty or a hundred or any other special […]<\/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":[35202,35201,1184,35200,32608,35203,33115,9478],"class_list":["post-128908","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry-rx","tag-ada-limon","tag-anyone-lived-in-a-pretty-how-town","tag-e-e-cummings","tag-folding-a-five-cornered-star-so-the-corners-meet","tag-li-young-lee","tag-lynn-melnick","tag-rachel-mckibbens","tag-twelve"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nPoetry Rx: This Gloom is Someone Else\u2019s by Sarah Kay<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Poems for the sadness of birthdays, and for the feeling of becoming a ghost inside a long, mostly happy marriage.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, 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