There are poems I read and I say they kill me. My professor would say she is jealous that she didn’t write them first. But I think the feeling is essentially the same. There’s physical ache when you read them and afterward you’re never the same. I’m trying to read more poetry these days, because I usually stick to my favorites. Neruda, ee cummings and Derek Walcott. I’m sure most of you have heard of and read poetry by Neruda and ee cummings, but what about Walcott? He was a poet that I had never heard of before I took a post colonial literature class my freshman year. I don’t know what exactly it is about him, but his poetry is just beautiful. He writes about the islands of his birth with such beauty and honesty, I can’t get enough of it. Most of his poetry is very dense, begging to be read outloud.
While looking for the perfect poem/quote to feature, I found this one:
Broad sun-stoned beaches.
A green river.
scorched yellow palms
from the summer-sleeping house
drowsing through August.
Days I have held,
days I have lost,
days that outgrow, like daughters,
my harbouring arms.
It’s quite the departure from some of his other poetry, but it’s that last line that really gets to me. “days that outgrow, like daughters,/my harbouring arms” is that gut-wrenching line that I love. The image is so perfect, so original. I love it.
(Button photo credit: alsoknownascassie)