Lessons from Poetry

Dear friends, 

Sorry for my absence these days! I’m still counting the omer––I’m still writing the poems. Little omer poems will come in the next post but I wanted to share a few lessons poetry has taught me thus far. 

1. On Rhyme:

   1. I originally found comfort and even exhilaration in the idea that rhyme would be full of spaces to hide in. Turns out, one can hide in rhyme as much as they can in a European locker room, ie. not much. This scares me lots. 

2. On Seriousness (and Rhyme): 

   1. Rhymed poetry to me, before this whole thing, consisted of Dr. Suess, Shell Silverstein, old guys and Emily Dickonson from Mastriano’s sophomore English, poems I wrote for comedy stuff, and desperate words in diaries. Rhymed poetry was unserious and, as such, I anticipated that––similarly to the theme of hiddenness–– I’d be safe in it. No one would take it seriously and neither would I. Well, Joke’s on me–– turns out, I take it seriously. This scares me lots. 

So, my friends, unlike I had anticipated, rhyme does not hide and rhyme is not flippant––oh, no! (But really, oh, no!)

3. On Control 

   1. I guess the third thing that I’ve learned from the poems, and writing in general, is that oftentimes it is not one’s own. I don’t mean plagiarism, of course, but, rather, that the writer reigns over words no more than the musician reigns over notes or the  sculptor reigns over a piece of earth. The words predate the writer; the notes, the musician; the earth, the sculptor. There’s no such thing as a master of words. If anything, you’re so vulnerable in the face of them that you work with them in any way you can, so that you might make something of meaning and use in them. It’s the lack of control that makes writing poetry in rhyme feel like playing tennis with the heaven. You hit the ball, it comes back to you––maybe in the way you had expected, maybe not. And the more you do it, the more it sometimes feels like things just fall into your lap––and would’ve just as well have fallen into the next person’s perfectly good lap if they had decided to play tennis that day. Where did the musician create a melody? No one can really know. 

I am reminded of a book we read my senior year of High School called The Awakening, by Kate Chopin. I don’t remember anything about the book (because, admittedly, I didn’t read it) but I do remember what my Lit teacher, Dr. Hobbs, said about Kate Chopin. Chopin received all of this fiery criticism for having written a character that leaves her post of mother and wife by throwing herself into the ocean. In response, Chopin underscores that it wasn’t in her control: the writing had fallen out of her hands, the character had taken a mind of her own.  Chopin responded to these criticisms, writing, “I never dreamed of Mrs. Pontellier making such a mess of things and working out her own damnation as she did. If I had had the slightest intimation of such a thing I would have excluded her from the company. But when I found out what she was up to, the play was half over and it was then too late.” One could argue that Chopin threw her character under the bus, that it was just a clever response from a clever woman, but I believe her. It’s not just vain cleverness, it is the truth. Chopin was not the master over her character. She was not the master over words.  

So, I guess I’ve learned that I don’t have a semblance of complete control with this––these poems often take on a mind and life far away from my own. So please talk to me and make fun of me about them (so I’m not so lonely on this Substack Island) and know that a real sense, I am just reading these poems too.

4. On Completeness 

   1. Fourth and finally, rhyme has taught me something about completeness. Please read a passage from Jane Taylor’s The Star:

As your bright and tiny spark

Lights the traveler in the dark,

Though I know not what you are

That’s it. Hope you enjoyed the poem. But…in the case that you feel unsettled, agitated, or incomplete:

Twinkle, twinkle, little star. 

We fully expect rhyme to come back around, so why does it unfailingly surprise us when it returns? What is that feeling that comes to us for a fragment of a second when we’ve seen how the poem coalesces? Yes, we all like what's tied up in a bow, objects in their places, and itches that are scratched, but I’d beg you not to think about rhyme’s return in such superficialities. Not for the sake of me, or the sake of poetry, but for the sake of completeness.

Rhyme versed me in something of return and completeness. The entire momentum of rhymed poetry feels like a constant return to completeness, reminding me that the unalloyed human condition resides in the search for wholeness. To me, at least, rhymed poetry is a very micro microcosm (microisimo!) of that yearn, search, hope, and return to completeness.  

In the Hebrew textbook that I’m learning from, when it says “complete the exercises”, the word they use is השלמו, meaning “complete”. I just learned that the root of this word שלם is the same root for שלום (shalom). Peace is a pretty word, and until two weeks ago, if you had asked me what peace meant, I would have said something along the lines of “when things are good and free from chaos”. But how much more serious is the endeavor of peace now knowing that completeness is at steak! When singing the prayer Oseh Shalom––“make peace”, how much more meaningful is it to think “make completeness” or “make wholeness”?! So the greatest lesson poetry has taught me is something of completeness, for completeness, in turn, taught me of peace. 

I wanted to tell you that these poems are just “games with words”; that they don’t mean anything. I wanted to plead with you not to judge them. I wanted to joke with you that I was a humanities major and so writing poems is the only way I know how to count to 49 (days of the omer), which to be fair is a pretty high number. These poems and the unease they’ve caused me (reasons 1 and 2, plus others) have been all the more fecund in their teaching! So when I tell you that there’s been some anxiety with the poems and the thought of eyes on them, I say it for the same reason that I share the immensity of what they’ve taught me: to bring you close to me. I miss you all whether you’re across an ocean, across a continent, across state lines (even a measly 90 miles away in New York City), across City Line, or even across the township. Take me to Vermont and plant me with the Maple trees for I’m so sappy, but it’s true what I say: in all of you I find completeness, peace.  

May peace be with you [might you be a little more complete]!

Much love, always, 

Maya 

P.S. A couple of things coming up for the next couple weeks of the omer: 

I will be posting translations of some of my favorite poems, which I know doesn’t count as writing poetry but I feel like it. 

I am writing this poem called “Jerusalem” (sad obvi) and I’ve taken it as far as it can go without help. I wanted to ask for help with it. So if you’re reading this, please reach out and help me with it! I think about (even dream) about this poem incessantly and I just want it to come out of me.