POETRY AND HOME
“Multitude, solitude:
identical terms and interchangeable by the active and fertile poet. The man who is unable to people his solitude
is equally unable to be alone in a bustling crowd.”
--Charles Baudelaire, from "Crowds" in Paris Spleen
When I moved, after living for decades in one house, one of
the first things I did was create a bedroom like a seaside sanctuary in shades
of green and blue and sand. This is my
serene thinking place, with late afternoon’s gold light streaming through the
rippling, grey-green curtains. Next, I liberated
my poetry books from their boxes and relocated them to alphabetical places of
honor on shelves in my room and the connecting hallway. I needed their silent wisdom, their beauty,
their bright light and deep shadows to surround me. They flicker alive as each day’s changing
light passes over them.
This morning, as I drift barefoot past the shelves, I stop
and draw in close to my books. I breathe
them in, as if I can inhale those many words, rich with meaning and messages. I notice how they stand side by side,
companionable, leaning against each other as if whispering. I touch some of their spines in welcome,
admiring their titles. Some titles are
poems in themselves.
I feel compelled to get up from my desk and pull Charles
Simic’s books from the shelf. I carry
them back with me, and here they are, sitting on my lap. His masterpiece titles: “Dime Store Alchemy,”
“The Monster Loves His Labyrinth,” “My Noiseless Entourage,” “Night Picnic,” “The
Voice at 3:00 A.M.,” “The World Doesn’t End.”
So few words creating such big worlds. These titles speak to each other, and to me.
With a little electric zap, I realize that my entire
community of poetry books creates “found poetry” with their wealth of striking
titles. Titles brought together by
alphabetical chance create haiku-like poems of their own. In twin, triplet, and even quadruplet assemblages,
the accidental poems arrive. Here is Joy
Harjo’s “A Map to the Next World,” adjacent to Jennifer Michael Hecht’s “The
Next Ancient World.” Thrillingly, “On
Love” by Edward Hirsch stands shoulder to shoulder with “The Lives of the Heart”
(Jane Hirshfield), which is next to “Lives of Water” (John Hoppenthaler), which
is next to “What the Living Do” (Marie Howe).
And – wonderful – René Char’s “This Smoke That Carried Us” connects with
Ye Chun’s “Travel Over Water.” Some matches
are eerily comical: Beckian Fritz Goldberg’s “Never Be the Horse” rubs
shoulders with “Circling the Tortilla Dragon” by Ray Gonzalez. All the magical correspondences turn into
inspiration and personal connection. (And
uplifting play.) That same zap crackles
when my eye, hungry for poetry’s odd juxtapositions, forms the bridge that
links book to book.
I love those serendipitous interconnections. Early-early this morning, I was reading at
random from two books, Baudelaire’s “Paris Spleen” and “The Selected Works of
Tomas Tranströmer.” I like to meander
inside a varying landscape, sampling surprise vistas as I wander book to book. I like to inhabit other poets’ eyes and minds
and hearts. Baudelaire’s quote above
seems so fitting. And here are lines, seemingly
meant for me, from Tranströmer’s poem, “Baltics”: “Foghorn blasting every other
minute. His eyes reading straight into
the invisible. / (Did he have the labyrinth in his head?)”.
Inside my new place, I’m finding my way home. I still live among the conversations of my
community of books: the comforting, the unsettling, the wild and heady and
inspiring. I keep company with so many
geniuses. Together, we have moved
through late winter into spring.
