{"id":133600,"date":"2019-02-14T11:00:42","date_gmt":"2019-02-14T16:00:42","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=133600"},"modified":"2019-02-14T14:07:02","modified_gmt":"2019-02-14T19:07:02","slug":"poetry-rx-valentines-day-edition","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/14\/poetry-rx-valentines-day-edition\/","title":{"rendered":"Poetry Rx: Valentine\u2019s Day Edition"},"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

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

I\u2019ve been in love with and dating a man for almost a year now. He\u2019s vibrant and interesting in all of the ways that I admire\u2014he pursues old hobbies, constantly seeks out new ones, and curates his time to be the best version of himself he can be. But oftentimes, this leaves me feeling left in the dust, like I am less than him, like I am a shadow in the wake of his constant transformation into a better self. Even when we pursue our mutual hobbies and interests together (even ones I know I\u2019m quite good at), he somehow manages to surpass me in skill, making my achievements feel lesser. Even though I love him so much, every time I see him I end up feeling small. Do you have a poem for this feeling of love that dwarfs you?<\/em><\/p>\n

Sincerely,
\n<\/em>At the Pedestal\u2019s Base<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Dear Pedestal,<\/p>\n

I offer you \u201cMy Love Sent Me a List<\/a>\u201d by Olena Kalytiak Davis, which is more or less about this exact situation. It begins:<\/p>\n

\nO my Love sent me a lusty list,
\nDid not compare me to a summer’s day
\nWrote not the beauty of mine eyes
\nBut catalogued in a pretty detailed
\nAnd comprehensive way the way(s)
\nIn which he was better than me.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

One important clarification\u2014does your beloved hold these things over your head? Does he catalog \u201cin a pretty detailed \/ And comprehensive way the way(s)\u201d he is more successful than you? Does he condescend to your achievements? If yes, it sounds like he is perhaps not the prize you make him out to be, that he may be neglecting a key part of his journey toward self-improvement. It strikes me as a huge red flag when you say, \u201cevery time I see him I end up feeling small.\u201d<\/p>\n

It\u2019s possible that part of the situation might also be your difficulty perceiving your own self-worth, which could be rooted in any number of things. I hope you feel you can discuss this with a real professional, and with your partner. I love that the last word of Davis\u2019s poem is \u201cme.\u201d It all starts and ends there\u2014you<\/em> can tell your partner how you feel, you<\/em> can interrogate how and why he\u2019s making you feel this way, you<\/em> can do the work to begin repairing your own self-esteem.<\/p>\n

I am someone whose entire expertise in the world is concentrated into a tiny dot, poetry, way out in the margins of human interest. My spouse<\/a> is a poet, too, an incredible one, but they can also draw, paint, play the clarinet, identify birds by their calls, etc. When I taught Paige to play chess, a game I\u2019ve played my whole life, it only took them a week before they were beating me. When we take walks to memorize poems together, Paige will have an entire sonnet memorized by heart before I\u2019ve got the opening quatrain.<\/p>\n

But at no point in our relationship has Paige ever lorded these things over me\u2014we keep playing chess and I learn to be more patient in my moves, we keep going out to memorize poems and my slowness means we get to take longer walks. If your beloved is making you feel defective or lesser than them, maybe it\u2019s time for you to take the example of Davis\u2019s speaker and send him a list of your own.<\/p>\n

\u2014KA<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

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

My (lesbian) wife is a hoarder. I recently told her that I needed to move out of the house we shared because it was making me physically and emotionally ill. I had hoped that couples therapy would help us through her unwillingness to help keep our place clean and healthy. She made a therapy appointment for us\u2014then, a few days later, informed me via text that I had violated our marriage vows, that she considered my attempts to address the hoarding to be intimate-partner abuse, and that she wanted a divorce. I\u00a0just wanted to live in a place where I can breathe. Can you share any poems that address losing someone you love because of hoarding?<\/em><\/p>\n

Thank you.<\/em>
\nSuffocating<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dear Suffocating,<\/p>\n

It is so difficult to lose a beloved to a glitch in their brain chemistry, and I\u2019m sorry your wife is suffering from what sounds like a pretty intense case of hoarding disorder<\/a>. The cruelties you describe, the accusations she\u2019s levied against you, are typical of the cries psychopathology makes when trying desperately to protect itself from external intervention.<\/p>\n

For you, I offer Rigoberto Gonz\u00e1lez\u2019s \u201cCasa<\/a>,\u201d a poem in the voice of an immigrant hoarder\u2019s house, fed up:<\/p>\n

I am not a time capsule.
\nI do not value pithy things like locks
\nof hair and milk teeth and ticket stubs<\/p>\n

and promise rings\u2014mere particles
\nof dust I\u2019d blow out to the street if I could
\nsneeze. Take your high school jersey
\nand your woman\u2019s wedding dress away
\nfrom me. Sentimental hoarding bothers me.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

I love so much the image of the house sneezing out all the useless junk, like so many motes of dust. If only it were that easy! The separate journeys you and your wife now face will each be far more difficult than a sneeze or a simple farewell. I hope you are each able to find your way to the help you need.<\/p>\n

\u2014KA<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

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

I have recently had an old friend come to me and tell me he\u2019s been in love with me since the first time we met. I had been in love with him, too, but then I went to the hospital for an undiagnosed mental illness. Since then, it\u2019s been difficult for us to communicate. He doesn\u2019t know how to approach me, nor I him. Do you have a poem that may be able to soothe either of these frustrations? I am beside myself.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Sincerely,\u00a0<\/em>
\nCrazy in Love<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dear CIL,<\/p>\n

Reading your letter, I thought immediately of this poem<\/a> by Jenny Xie:<\/p>\n

Never mind the distances traveled, the companion
\nshe made of herself. The threadbare twenties not
\nto be underestimated. A wild depression that ripped
\nfrom January into April. And still she sprouts an appetite.
\nInsisting on edges and cores, when there were none.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

It can be horrifying to have your life upended by mental illness just when it\u2019s starting to get good. When your brain\u2014the same organ that controls your heartbeat, your breathing, the contractions of your intestinal muscles\u2014is conspiring against your happiness, what hope can there be for joy? \u201cA wild depression that ripped \/ from January into April\u201d might have seemed endless at the time, but eventually? May arrives. Edges, books, and \u201cthe hard daybreak.\u201d<\/p>\n

I hope the hospital gave you what you needed to begin moving down the path toward wellness. And if that path is wide enough today to accommodate a companion, then I hope you can call him to your side. Maybe try something gentle to break the tension\u2014a walk, a movie, or a poetry reading\u2014something that\u2019ll allow your gazes to be parallel, not intersecting. But the urgent thing is that you are tending to your own healing, your own recovery, with the help of trained professionals (poets don\u2019t count).<\/p>\n

The ongoing work of loving someone always begins inside yourself. Xie says: \u201cShe had trained herself to look for answers at eye level, \/ but they were lower, they were changing all the time.\u201d You might meet a lover at eye level, but look a little lower and you\u2019ll find your own hands. They\u2019re changing shape, reaching for, then eventually holding, whatever they need to make you well.<\/p>\n

\u2014KA<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Want more? Read earlier\u00a0installments of\u00a0Poetry Rx<\/a>.\u00a0<\/i>Need a poem?\u00a0Write to us<\/a>! In the next installment, 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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