Poetry as lifeblood
Happy National Poetry Month
“Poetry is the lifeblood of rebellion, revolution, and the raising of consciousness.”
Alice Walker said those words, and it’s one of the quotes I like to return to in April… which is National Poetry Month in the United States. A month to celebrate how poetry gives voice to the rebellions that need to happen, the revolutions that have the power to shift our energy toward something more life-giving, and the celebration of how language and imagery can raise consciousness and add to the healing of the world.
I love the art that arises from a well placed word, or the beauty of a poetic paragraph. The way words can open up worlds has always intrigued me.
But I didn’t set out to become a poet, even though as a young person I did write a number of epic poems about horses. No, epic horse narratives aside, I stumbled into the practice of writing poetry as an adult, the year I emerged from a persistent illness. I was sick for about eight months; a cold developed into bronchitis and wouldn’t quit. Vaporizing eucalyptus, drinking gallons of tea, resting, and all the usual home “self-care” remedies failed. Antibiotics– also ineffective. My family got tired of the incessant coughing; it’s hard to relax when your loved one is up half the night. I landed in the emergency room on Thanksgiving Day that year after waking up disoriented and with a solid case of vertigo and nausea. Turns out I was dehydrated, and after IV fluids, a clear chest X-ray and a negative strep test, they sent me on my way, feeling less dizzy, but still coughing.
Weeks after the Thanksgiving ER fiasco, I was still coughing, so I went back to the doctor–received a round of Prednisone and took home an emergency inhaler. Later, I saw a specialist, learning that I didn’t have asthma, but “looked really healthy.”1
As spring arrived my lingering cough invited a bout with the flu and a double ear infection. In the midst of this, I was trying really hard to claim what was going on with me and figure out what I needed to do to own the illness and learn from it.
That April I started writing a poem a day. Nothing lengthy, just thoughts about what I was noticing outside in combination with my internal battle to heal. As an essayist, I didn’t have the energy to write at length, so poetry’s desired brevity seemed like something to try on.
After months of no answers from all the doctors I saw and beating myself up for failing to heal through positive thinking and “raising my personal vibration,” something shifted. I stopped trying to find deep meaning in the experience of being sick. I stopped putting so much pressure on myself to improve, and I started paying attention to what I needed in the moment—a walk outside, a cup of tea, a hard conversation, or letting someone else carry part of a burden.
As I write in the afterword of the poetry collection that came into being after that time period, Cold Spring Hallelujah, “Years after the illness—resolved now—I have no answers or solutions for others who are suffering (I’m definitely not an enlightened being), but I have somehow transcended the experience with enough time, self-compassion, and patience. That’s how things go, as much as we want it to be otherwise. We want a quick fix, the kind of ‘self-care’ that is Instagram worthy, a pill that will make things better. I wanted all of those things, and likely will again in the future. Now though, instead of trying to find deep meaning in the midst of challenge, I focus on doing one thing at a time. I try to offer myself grace.”
When combined, the many little things, plus gentleness toward self, invite my body and mind to a place of wholeness, even if this doesn’t include perfect health or deep insight. I’ve continued to write poems, to notice the details, and to process how those details interact with my internal dialogue. This is, and always will be, a practice of patience.
And it’s something all of us can do. We’re all poets, because we all have a unique way of reaching into silence to pull out the right words to tell our story.
The above is a recording of a version of “One Way to Be a Poet”, from Slouching toward Radiance.
And below is a poem for welcoming spring, since it’s sure been a cold one in many places.
During this month of April, as we celebrate how poetry can help with navigating some of life’s more challenging periods, be it personal illness or figuring out how to resist and rebel in ways that are effective, here are some poets whose work I admire.
River Maria Urke – Her latest release, a chapbook called Songs of Silence, is wonderful. She writes in a way that makes me feel more connected to nature, beauty, and what's real. I'm a better human for spending time with her words.
Connor L. Wolfe, whose poetry until now has been written under the name L.M. Browning – Their most recent release, Drive Through the Night is a powerful collection of poetry and photography, a testament to the healing power of nature when it comes to claiming what’s ours to embody.
Chris La Tray – His poetry always reminds me what’s truly important–both of his poetry collections, called One Sentence Journal and Descended from a Travel-worn Satchel, are full of wry humor, poignant reflections, hard truths, and the beauty of ordinary things.
Meta Carlson – Her series of books on Ordinary Blessings are a balm in this era, a reminder that to bless something is to simply extend love in an acknowledgment that it matters–even the small, the mundane, and the often overlooked moments.
And there are SO many more.2 What poets will you be reading this month for inspiration? What might you write yourself after spending enough time paying attention to the ordinary?
What not to say to a sick person, especially if you’re a physician.
Also on my list are Mary Oliver, Joy Harjo, Camille Dungy, Wendell Berry, Kaitlin B. Curtis, Maggie Smith……
I love so much of this post. I, too, can get caught in looking for deeper meaning where there might be none, or where the meaning hasn't revealed itself yet. I, too, have shied away from saying I am a poet, though I've been a writer for decades, and when I finally allowed myself the gift of poetry, it was a little balm to my soul. I'm reading Ross Gay, Ada Limon, and Joy Sullivan.
Geez, thanks for reminding me about my too forgotten love :)