Literary Criticism

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Literary Criticism

I have read and re-read the story of your life

A thousand times since you left us without warning.

This was a story I was intimately familiar with.

I had collaborated on every chapter.

And the early chapters, when you did not have a vision for the story,

While those were still characterized by your unique voice,

They were written in my hand,

And the hand of your other collaborators, major and minor.

But the ending of the story did not have my input

And it so shocked and transformed me,

 That I now mark time and understanding by its revelation.

And now the familiar story that I thought I knew,

Challenges my former interpretations and insights.

So I go back to the text again and again,

Searching for meaning and truth.

As we worked on it together

I was convinced that it was a happy story.

It’s true, it began with heartbreak.

For us the start of the story ended a painful chapter

But for another, written out of the rest of the book,

A heart wrenching choice allowed our story lines to cross.

And for you, a loss, a rejection, was the prologue for your tale.

Redemption, reunion, rejoicing followed so quickly after,

That I lost sight of that theme as the work progressed.

Other rejections and losses occur as the story continues,

But they seem so ordinary.

Not significant enough to highlight or comment about in marginalia.

But I missed the connection of these superficial wounds

To that primal wound, didn’t I?

A rejection like that can’t be healed or covered up with a bandage.

And once wounded, you are forever vulnerable to future injury.

I get that now.

There is also an undertone of fearfulness that runs throughout the story.

I caught that, had underlined it, had noted it in the margins.

I knew it was important to the story.

It built barriers for you to overcome

And created conflict that, ironically, fanned the flames of fear.

But I never understood where it came from or its control over you.

I couldn’t get inside that part of your character.

Until now. I get that now.

Now it seems linked to a sense of isolation I am newly getting from the story.

But I’m not sure of this interpretation.

Neither fear, nor isolation seem to fit with the intrepid performer

Whose talent and confidence and gifts of song and gab

Pulled people in and moved them,

Creating the feeling that you were in the presence of someone special.

How could someone like that feel isolated?

Am I projecting myself onto the text?

You see, I’ve recently learned that there are two kinds of isolation.

External isolation can be battled.

New friends, new surroundings, new technology,

Can tear down walls.

But the isolation that comes from within,

The kind that shouts at you that you are different,

That your pain is unparalleled,

That isolation is a tougher foe.

It hides in the crevices of your mind and heart.

Fighting it is like jousting in the dark.

I’m fighting that fight. I get that now.

Toward the end a new theme emerges -

The search for identity.

Before I was forever changed by the story’s end,

This theme was hard for me to follow or relate to.

You seemed to try on personas

Like you were a little girl playing dress-up again.

But what was the motivation, the meaning, the metaphor?

Was it symbolic of searching or discovery?

As I look over the highlights and notes and dog-eared pages

A new thread emerges.

Perhaps this theme of identity is connected to the theme of rejection

And amplified by the underlying fear and isolation.

These things inhabit the same space, as I now know all too well.

Traumatic loss creates fear, fuels isolation, and ignites identity,

Until you are burned beyond recognition,

 Even to yourself.

I get that now.

10/24/09
Inspired by Workshop by Billy Collins

Remnants

Remnants

 

A downy feather, a stray seed

A fleck of shell, like a paint chip,

Sky blue on one side, cloud white on the other.

Small twigs, dried grass,

A sprig of yarn snipped off of a finished project.

From this fragile start, a strong home is built.

The spiny leaves of the holly,

Within which the home rests,

Create a fortress to protect fragile new life.

Patience, warmth and care

Coax the infant to emerge

Wet and blind to face the world.

How frightening the first moments must be,

Alone, exposed, unfamiliar,

Totally dependent on another being.

The fortress keeps the world at bay

While the guardian feeds and warms

The tiny new babe.

It grows stronger, hungrier

More confident and curious

Feathers replace fluff and the stage is set.

On a sunny afternoon the mother returns

To find the youngster, no longer a babe,

Has stretched its wings and taken flight.

There is no trace of the path taken

No assurance of safety or security.

Just the remnants of the life that started there.

A downy feather, a stray seed,

A fleck of shell, like a paint chip,

Sky blue on one side, cloud white on the other.

The Poetry Phase of Grief

I wrote the poem Come to me as a Butterfly in August 2009, just a few months after Emma died. I had been writing pretty much daily in a journal, recording emotions, questions; tracking what helped and didn't help; and, in a way, just checking my pulse. The daily entries were a testament to the fact that I had survived another day.


It was around August that I began to feel compelled to find some meaning in these daily musings/rants and poetry became my medium. I had never written poetry before, so I'm still not sure why I reached for it then. Looking back, I think it was symbolic of where I was in my grieving: finding meaning and connection in signs and symbols and stories, but not in ways that could be coherently articulated through prose. Poetry allowed me to organize the jumble of ideas and emotions in my head, even if I was still not able to make sense of them.


Poetry also gave me a sense of connection to and empathy for Emma. I am not a poet, a conclusion you have surely come to on your own, but Emma was. As I was going through my poetry phase, I wondered what meaning was hidden in the fact that Emma liked to write poetry. Was poetry a crutch for Emma, just as it had become for me? Was her poetic flair really a reflection of deep unconquerable despair? Did she grasp at poetry to try gain control over jumbled thoughts and emotions, just as I was?


These are not questions with answers, just raw material - unanswerable questions to be noted, cataloged, and tucked away in the orderly stanzas of a poem that can tidy up the messiest parts of life.

Come to me as a Butterfly

Come to me as a Butterfly

You come to me as a butterfly

White-winged and delicate

Full of grace and purpose

You come close,

Drawing me in

With your dizzying dance

My gaze follows you

As you whirl through the garden

Appearing and disappearing

Amethyst tinged hydrangea,

Lavender dusted spirea,

Violet budded oregano

And though I vigilantly track your flight

I cannot hold you in my gaze

And you are gone again

I climb toward the heavens

To search for you

And see the world as you now see it

From a rocky peak

I take in the paint-splattered valley below

And soak up the last of the retreating sun

In the distance, a spark catches my eye

You appear again,

Your wings transformed by the colors of fall

Mosaic patterned top wings

Fiery orange and burnt red

Dusted beneath in summer’s purple

I hold my breath

As you come close

Gently alighting upon the rock beside me

Your stillness 

Holds the same sense of purpose

As your frantic flight

I cannot resist,

My smile blooms into a giddy laugh

We are together again

Though I long to hold you, I do not reach out

I know my touch upon your wings

Would steal from you your freeing flight

You lift off, circle, disappear

Leaving me earth-bound

And searching

August 2009