I spent a few hours with Linda yesterday afternoon, and we talked and talked about any old thing that came into our heads. I told her about Frost's farmhouse and the view of the mountains from the front porch, and she told me that, when her mother-in-law died, she left behind a stack of old schoolbook poetry anthologies. Nobody else wanted them, so Linda gathered them up and stored them in her attic. Last week, after her daughter and grandchildren were killed, she went upstairs and got down those poetry books and started choosing poems to reprint on the funeral program and to display in other places during the service. In other words, she lamented their deaths by way of the sentiments of 1918 schoolbook publishers. For whatever reason, this seemed exactly right to me, and it made me doubly grateful I had not attempted to read anything at the service.
Here's the poem that Linda chose for the back of the program:
I Know Not What the Future HoldsI know not what the future hathOf marvel or surprise,Assured alone that life and deathHis mercy underlies.And if my heart and flesh are weakTo bear an untried pain,The bruised reed thou wilt not break,But strengthen and sustain.And so beside the silent seaI wait the muffled oar;No harm from him can come to meOn ocean or on shore.I know not where His islands liftTheir fronded palms in air;I only know I cannot driftBeyond His love and care.And thou, O Lord, by who are seenThy creatures as they be,Forgive me if too close I leanMy human heart on thee.
6 comments:
I wanted to write something pithy about the mysteries of poetic power, the way in which even sneered-at poems can sometimes rise to the task, the way in which people who know nothing at all about poems turn to them at moments of crisis. But I didn't have the heart. So perhaps you'll be so kind as to imagine that I wrote about these things.
The last lines really get to me. I'd read this long ago in high school and recall thinking at the time that I was fortunate to have poetry as a comfort in times of grief. That idea of a 17 year old girl is still a hallmark of my interaction with poetry.
Dawn, there is a reason you are about to head off to Frost. It may have seemed as it this was all about the "normal" conference time and experience. But I think it will be a way and a place for you to begin to heal your own heart. Go ahead and lean it on the mountains you will see from the porch. They are strong and willing.
I am remembering the woman who called you not long ago just to verify that a poet really lived in Harmony. Indeed - and how fortunate.
As Peggy Rosenthal of Image Journal has written, ". . . everywhere there is personal loss, personal survival, personal grief, personal hope. Everywhere there is transience... yet everywhere there are miracles of recovery. And everywhere, the crafting of art can be an agent of this recovery."
May you enjoy your time at Frost Place.
Those last lines really got to me, too (as Carol said). I also agree with Carol about the Frost trip helping you heal. And maybe (I'm sorry if I'm assuming too much based on how I myself would feel...) to give yourself permission to enjoy life again. As you say, grief is not logical.
(p.s. I'd just like to add that I really love your blog, and it's been "nice" to get to know you a little better through all this...thank you)
Yes, The Frost Place is right up there in importance with everything else. If it weren't for poetry, there wouldn't have been that pile of poems in that attic for her to find solace in and choose from. Even if you didn't feel like the poet for the occasion, it was right. You will be for another occasion. And so will those you teach at the Frost Place. It is so very worth it.
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