{"id":130343,"date":"2018-10-25T09:00:34","date_gmt":"2018-10-25T13:00:34","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=130343"},"modified":"2018-10-25T10:11:36","modified_gmt":"2018-10-25T14:11:36","slug":"poetry-rx-i-was-no-good-at-survival","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/10\/25\/poetry-rx-i-was-no-good-at-survival\/","title":{"rendered":"Poetry Rx: I Was No Good at Survival"},"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,\u00a0Kaveh Akbar is on the line.<\/i><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

\u00a9Ellis Rosen<\/p><\/div>\n

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

My husband and I decided to be friends instead of married a week ago, and although I\u2019m confident it\u2019s the right decision, and am mostly cheerful, I am also having brief flashes of terror about, you know, Tinder, and having to decide on what to do with an entire Sunday on my own or what I really want for lunch, for just me.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Do you have any hopeful poems about the beginnings of things, or what makes a person and how to find it out? I would like to hear them if you did.<\/em><\/p>\n

Yours,<\/em>
\nHopeful<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Dear Hopeful,<\/p>\n

A million poems flashed through my head to give you\u2014poems about terror, poems about divorce, poems about Tinder. But ultimately, the poem I most want to give you is just a little one, ten words, about radishes. It\u2019s by\u00a0Kobayashi Issa, translated by Robert Hass, and is too short to excerpt, so please click here to read it<\/a>.<\/p>\n

Our lives are what we fill them with. If a radish fills up your hand, you might use it to point the way. If your hand is holding your husband\u2019s, you might find yourself using his, not yours, to guide you. Now that your hands are free again, it is thrilling to think about all the things you might fill them with\u2014a phone full of strange new dating apps, or a gyro from the sandwich place you never got to go to because your husband hated it. Be gentle with yourself, and patient. Remember there is no wrong way to start over. Your own left hand fits perfectly into your right.<\/p>\n

\u2013KA<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

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

I\u2019d love a prescription for poetry about or involving video games! Hope you can help!<\/em><\/p>\n

Thanks,<\/em>
\nGamer<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dear Gamer,<\/p>\n

Someone should make an anthology of great gaming poems\u2014mine would include \u201cSonic & Knuckles<\/a>\u201d by Cortney Lamar Charleston, \u201cThere is a Forward Motion in Old Video Games<\/a>\u201d by P. Scott Cunningham, and \u201c\u2018Rattata\u2019 & \u2018Cubone\u2019<\/a>\u201d by Colette Arrand. It would also include the poem I\u2019m prescribing you here, a poem about one of my favorite games ever: \u201cOregon Trail,\u201d by Nate Marshall.<\/a><\/p>\n

\n
i aimed my rifle with the arrow keys, tapped the space<\/div>\n
bar with a prayer for meat to haul back to the wagon.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
this game came difficult as breathing underwater after<\/div>\n
trying to ford a river.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 i was no good at survival.<\/div>\n
somebody always fell ill or out into the river.<\/div>\n<\/blockquote>\n

The poem gets everything about the game right\u2014unforgiving difficulty, constant waffling between \u201cammo & axles,\u201d the perpetual compulsion to name characters after crushes and siblings. But halfway through his lines, Marshall turns us away from the screen\u2014the deaths move from pixels to people. The speaker seems as shocked by this as we are, writing \u201cthe expansive obit in a suburban\u00a0\/ Detroit church is a confusing newness.\u201d With rending clarity, we see a man desperately trying to turn away, to \u201cretreat into [his] former self.\u201d But real life makes no such allowances, and the poem ends wanting for what our worlds (real or virtual) never seem to give us: \u201cthe game won, the west \/ conquered.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u2013KA<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

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

I don\u2019t know what I\u2019m doing with my life. To outside observers, I look like I have everything together\u2014I\u2019m a 1L at a good law school, I have leadership positions in different clubs, and I have plenty of friends. However, I lie awake at night consumed by anxiety that I am not choosing the right path. I am torn between pleasing my family and my friends and chasing dreams I\u2019ve harbored since childhood, ones I have always sidelined in favor of the \u201cappropriate.\u201d\u00a0 I am in the midst of an existential crisis and am completely unmoored from myself. Please send me a rudder.<\/em><\/p>\n

XO,<\/em>
\nWandering without a Map<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dear Wandering,<\/p>\n

But you do have a map! And it\u2019s yours to erase and draw all over and spill coffee on and paint green. Vijay Seshadri talks about poetry as being a site for unprecedented experience, and your singular experience of life on the planet earth is yours alone to author. For you, I prescribe \u201cThe Summer Day\u201d by Mary Oliver<\/a>.<\/p>\n

The poem begins by asking, \u201cWho made the world?\u201d It\u2019s a more complicated question than it seems. As someone who spent my childhood and teens building toward an \u201cappropriate\u201d career path in the hard sciences, only to clumsily stumble off into poetry, I\u2019m here on the other side to tell you: the water\u2019s warm! The pivot was painful, it was inelegant, it was long. It also lead me to a life in which I wake up every day and spend all my time in reading, writing, talking about my very favorite thing. And now that I have health insurance, even my family has come around! As Oliver writes:<\/p>\n

Tell me, what else should I have done?
\nDoesn\u2019t everything die at last, and too soon?
\nTell me, what is it you plan to do
\nwith your one wild and precious life?<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

I wake up every day astonished and grateful. Of course, I still get sad, lonely, and scared, too (\u201cDoesn\u2019t everything die at last, and too soon?\u201d). But at the end of my journey, when someone asks me what I did with my \u201cone wild and precious life,\u201d it is my desperate hope that I will be able to answer that I served what I loved best. I hope you find what you love best and get to spend your days joyfully serving it as well.<\/p>\n

\u2013KA<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Want more? Read earlier\u00a0installments of\u00a0Poetry Rx<\/a>.\u00a0<\/i>Need a poem?\u00a0Write to us<\/a>! Next week, Sarah Kay will be answering questions.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Kaveh Akbar\u2019s poems have appeared recently in\u00a0<\/em>The\u00a0New<\/span>\u00a0Yorker<\/span>,<\/em>\u00a0Poetry,<\/em>\u00a0t<\/em>he<\/em>\u00a0New<\/span>\u00a0York Times,<\/em>\u00a0the\u00a0<\/em>Nation,\u00a0and elsewhere. His first book is\u00a0<\/em>Calling a Wolf a Wolf. Born in Tehran, Iran, he teaches at\u00a0Purdue<\/span>\u00a0University and in the low-residency M.F.A. programs at Randolph College and Warren Wilson.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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