There is no excuse for poetry. It arises like spring bulbs buried in the sunbaked loam, waiting for what signal, what elemental combination to begin their ascent? What compels the poet that is different from the novelist or the journalist? Does one write truth more truly? Does the use of language differentiate them, the application of simile and metaphor, the cadence, meter, or tempo of the syllables? Does the heart of the poet beat with rhythms unrecognized by others, their lives more complex, their stories less complicated, their climaxes more captivating, their denouements less conclusive?
Does one decide or formally declare, “I am a poet.” I confess, it is a declaration that scares me beyond my most terrifying nightmares. As the son of poets, I went through life burying my poetry. I barely shared my prose with them unless it was already published. That didn’t mean the poems didn’t come. They just rarely made it beyond being private gifts for my beloved. Expressions of love that invariably embarrassed my daughters.
Early in my mother and step-father’s relationship, they wrote a book of poems to each other called, “Letters to the Same Address.” Each poem alternated back and forth, expressing, in the clearest and often graphic ways, the nature of their love. When they gave a Valentine’s Day reading of this work–it could have been at Beyond Baroque–old family friends came up to me and asked, “Ronnie,” They had known me since I was a child, “Ronnie, didn’t that embarrass you?” Being the liberated young man I had become, I scoffed. “I love that my mother has a vibrant love life.” They skulked away. My answer nearly as embarrassing to them as the declarations they had just heard.
At the time, I was a magazine journalist, able to speak with anyone in the world with whom I wanted, just because of the license and authorization of an editor. I took full advantage of that, speaking with world-class scientists, politicians, sports figures, writers, actors and directors, psychologists, religious leaders, and even poets, all because I had been qualified by the editor of a publication. What a great life!
I went on to publish dozens of books, filled with interviews of the knowledgeable and influential people I thought most interesting. But with all those credits, I never published a single poem. I produced a TV series featuring 22 of the leading poets in the West reading their works, many of those now dead poets. But none of my poems were ever heard.
When my marriage fell into a what seemed an inescapable abyss, my poems poured forth for an audience of one and only one, and ultimately regained the day. But they were for her eyes only. Whenever one of my daughters happened on one of those open-hearted, often graphic works – I had learned something from my parents – my children did not appreciate their parents love life as I had mine. That’s OK, they were heard and felt by my beloved. That was all that mattered.
So, what was so terrifying about sharing these poems with the world? They were invariably the very same words I had used in articles and books, but these particular juxtapositions were kept private.
Once my children were long gone from our house, I began posting my poems, written on birthdays, anniversaries, Mother’s Day, and the like, on our bedroom and bathroom mirrors, so they would not be missed by my beloved. They weren’t. Of course, they were occasionally read by our daughters, but these “social media posting”, as they were referred to, remained. That meant they could be read by friends and even, as previously documented, people who broke into our house. I broke my personal cover as gently as I could. And I know why I was now willing to do so. It’s been nearly four years since my mother died. I felt that was enough distance between us that I would no longer be devastated by her critical eye. Ah, the culprit revealed. Yes, a mother’s criticism had buried my poetry away.
But the house postings had allowed me to slowly get over my fear of exposing those personal rumblings that arose in spite of my fears. I am not a poet. I simply write poetry. I’ve just decided I can survive if they were read by others, and I began attaching them to essays I wrote for Substack and my own author site, knowing there would only be a limited viewing.
“Ronnie, weren’t you embarrassed?” It seems, no longer. Gabriel Garcia Marguez declared that writing was writing. And William Goldman told us all that no one knows anything. So, like the poems that arise from the fertile soil of my love for my beloved, I have begun in my own tentative w ay to share what I consider my most personal writing. I am embarrassed, but I am getting over it.
Here is the most recent:
The garden is resplendent, teeming with new life, the great promise renewed
Our covenant is restored, faith blossoms against the dark hope of the fading winter
The rhododendrons, the ranunculus, the columbine, the peonies, the poppies,
The allium, the meadow rue, the delicate bastard balm, the shower of clematis
All breaking through the solid crusted soil, with reds, purples pinks, yellows, and whites
Butterflies from chrysalis to pollen, the folly of the brown squirrels, the nesting of scrub jays
Without spite, they all ignore the perversity of retaliation and thrive on their diversity
They have no need or time for anything beyond their emergent moment
Unaware in their budding of any limitation, of any potential, of any expectation
That is our realm, our curse, our separation from the spring
The abundance is right in front of us, surrounding the air with the fragrance of the lilac
We miss it again and again, thinking we own the sun, the gentle breeze, the grace of birds,
The cultivars have no pretense, beyond the glory of their many colors beckoning the hovering bee
We sustain each other, what is mine is also yours,
There is no transaction fee for the allure, the beauty, the rejuvenation, the rebirth
It’s spring again, thank goodness.
Do any of them know its brevity?