Wednesday slipped by without a poem, yet it’s OK, because, you know, life.
It wasn’t so much that there was nothing to share, more that the holidays have jangled up days and dates and routines.
Yesterday I saw this beautiful quote and I thought it was a good vibe to start the year on:
When I say be creative, I don’t mean you should all go and
become great painters and great poets. I simply mean let
your life be a painting, let your life be a poem.
Let your life be a poem. I just LOVE it.
Those few words feel magical. Simple, but magical.
A distillation of thoughts into a single focus of flow. Just let your life be a poem, and see where it takes you on a sea of simile, metaphor, imagery…
I’m currently reading The Siege by Helen Dunmore (Leningrad is surrounded and food rations are dwindling. I’ve had this book for over a year but I’ve never been able to get by the first few pages – because the right time to read it was not then, but now).
This short extract from page 143 is the protagonist’s father recalling poetic verse from Puskin’s Eugene Onegin:
…Tatyana is lost in her dream. The plains, the fir trees, the ghostly light and the creak of her footsteps in the snow: all these come to me so powerfully that it’s as if I’d never really read about them or thought about them before. I almost say aloud that I’m sorry I didn’t understand until now. My eyes fill with tears, and I don’t know why. But I know that it’s by these things, and nothing else, that we survive. Poetry doesn’t exist to make life beautiful. Poetry is life itself.”
I can almost hear ‘the creak of her footsteps in the snow’, and that indeed is poetry.