{"id":140092,"date":"2019-10-09T12:05:41","date_gmt":"2019-10-09T16:05:41","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=140092"},"modified":"2019-10-09T12:31:43","modified_gmt":"2019-10-09T16:31:43","slug":"what-poetry-can-predict","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/10\/09\/what-poetry-can-predict\/","title":{"rendered":"What Poetry Can Predict"},"content":{"rendered":"

Naja Marie Aidt\u2019s\u00a0<\/em>When Death Takes Something from You Give It Back<\/a> is an account of the first few years after her twenty-five-year-old son Carl died in a tragic accident. The excerpt below is addressed to him.<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Photo: Amanda Hill. Credit: the NOAA Weather in Focus Photo Contest 2015.<\/p><\/div>\n

My first book, a poetry collection, was published in 1991. I wrote it when you were a baby. I wrote it as I nursed you, as I rocked you, as I got to know you, as you learned to crawl and walk. There\u2019s a poem in the book in which I describe a dream I had when you were a year old. A dream about you. In this poem:<\/p>\n

I woke
\nand the dream will not leave me
\nmy son is about to drown
\nand I can\u2019t save him
\nhis brand-new self
\nsoft as a bear\u2019s snout
\nsinks in the clear water<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Here was my anxiety over losing you. Here was the powerlessness\u2014not being able to save you from death. An anxiety so overwhelming. The worst that could happen: that you\u2019d vanish. <\/p>\n

When you were sixteen years old, I wrote two poems about death:<\/p>\n

When death takes something from you
\ngive it back
\ngive back what you got
\nfrom the dead one
\nwhen he was alive
\nwhen he was your heart
\ngive it back to a rose,
\na continent, a winter day,
\na boy regarding you
\nfrom the darkness of his hood<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

 <\/p>\n

When death takes something from you
\ngive it back
\ngive back what you got
\nfrom the dead one
\nwhen you stood in the rain in the snow
\nin the sun and he was alive
\nand turned his face toward you
\nas if wanting to ask something
\nyou no longer remember and he
\nhas also forgotten and it\u2019s
\nan eternity
\nan eternity ago now<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

You are the one hiding in the hood\u2019s darkness. I thought intensely about you as I wrote those two poems. I saw<\/em> you before me as I wrote them. I didn\u2019t know why, I didn\u2019t ask myself why, the poems came to me as something from you, something I could not understand. All I understood was that I obviously had written two poems about death, and that you in a way gave me the images\u2014or that something associated with your being<\/em> got me to write them. The sun, the rain, the snow. Your face turning questioningly toward mine.<\/p>\n

I read the two poems out loud at your funeral. I realized that as early as when you were a year old, I received a sign in my dream that you would vanish from me. As early as when you were sixteen years old, I saw you hiding in death\u2019s dark hood. That I had already predicted the eternity that would replace your life, the eternity I now live with, and which you are absorbed by. Just as I dreamed that you fell and hurt yourself shortly before you fell to your death from the fifth floor.<\/p>\n

But images and signs cannot be interpreted before they\u2019re played out in concrete events. You understand them only in retrospect. That\u2019s why omens can only be expressed. As language, as poetry. It becomes an experience that belongs to the future, which can express<\/em>, though they are not yet experienced in reality<\/em>. That\u2019s what poetry does sometimes. And it\u2019s one of its most beautiful qualities. It\u2019s also what makes poetry dangerous and portentous. The feeling of knowing something that you can\u2019t understand yet or connect to anything in reality. As if poetry makes it possible to move freely in time, as if linear time is suspended while you write and a corner of the future becomes visible in a brief and mystical moment.<\/p>\n

But poems also say something about giving back what the dead gave us when they were alive. That the dead\u2019s being in a way still needs a place in life, and we should pass on the love they gave us. Here lies the hope. A hope that what you gave me will grow in others, if I am able to share it. And that my love is strengthened and made more beautiful because now it contains your love. This must not be destroyed by sorrow. It says in the poem, \u201cgive it back.\u201d As if giving goes back and forth all the time. From the living to the living. From the dead to the living. And from the living to the dead. A circular movement, not linear.<\/p>\n

Even still, these poems fill me with rage and a violent hatred for the predictions they contain. It\u2019s an impotent rage. A rage that reminds me of what I experienced as a child. Just as children do not understand the forces they\u2019re up against (the adults and their incomprehensible actions and refusals), the bereaved do not understand death. But there\u2019s nothing to do about it. You can rage as much as you want, nothing will ever come of it. The adults decide and death decides. You can\u2019t escape the loss of love from the adults, from the dead. Hard and furious and despairing, children and the bereaved must struggle on through life, and hope that the love underlying the feeling of loss is larger than the loss itself, and that this love creates love and compassion.<\/p>\n

A heart, a rose, a winter day. A boy who drowns in the clear water.<\/p>\n

The world\u2019s beauty and cruelty. Love\u2019s power.<\/p>\n

\u2014Translated from the Danish by Denise Newman<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Naja Marie Aidt was born in Greenland and raised in Copenhagen. She is the author of eleven collections of poetry, a novel, a memoir, and three short story collections, including <\/em>Baboon, which won the 2008 Nordic Council Literature Prize, Scandinavia\u2019s highest literary honor. Her work has been translated into sixteen languages.<\/em><\/p>\n

Denise Newman is a translator and poet who has published four collections of poetry. She has translated two books by Denmark\u2019s Inger Christensen. Her translation of Naja Marie Aidt\u2019s short story collection <\/em>Baboon won the 2015 PEN<\/small> Translation Prize.<\/em><\/p>\n

This excerpt is used by permission from <\/em>When Death Takes Something from You Give It Back: Carl\u2019s Book<\/a> (Coffee House Press, 2019). Copyright \u00a9 2019 by Naja Marie Aidt.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In poetry, I had already glimpsed the eternity that would replace my son\u2019s life, the eternity I now live with, and which he is absorbed by.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1852,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-140092","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nWhat Poetry Can Predict by Naja Marie Aidt<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"In poetry, I had already glimpsed the eternity that would replace my son\u2019s life, the eternity I now live with, and which he is absorbed by.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/10\/09\/what-poetry-can-predict\/\" \/>\n<meta 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