Day 201: Trying On The Writing of Others

(I'm part of a continued community of writers and mourners in a 30-day writing workshop found here: http://www.refugeingrief.com/30daywriting/) This is day 10.

September 16, 2014

Holy mother. I need to come up for air. I've noticed a bit of trouble sleeping the past few nights- that awake until 3 a.m. with mind racing kind of thing like the early days. I'm not surprised. All of the writing from this course I'm in is probably acting like an open window with a sudden breeze disturbing all of the recently settled dust in my heart.

Today's prompt introduced us to the poem below ("Weariness" by Hannah Arendt) and invited us to write in her style, borrow a line, or merely write in response to her piece. I was reminded of the "echo poems" I did with my 7th and 8th graders- a process by which a poem's structure is mimicked allowing the writer to substitute his/her own words and create a different meaning entirely. I especially loved hearing 20 or so "versions" of the same poem in a single class. (For teachers/writers out there, Billy Collins' poem "On Turning 10" is a great one to do. Pick an age and brainstorm some memories about that particular age, then use his structure to create your own piece.)

"Echo poems" are like trying on different things and seeing how they feel on you.

I decided to set the grief down for a moment. And by "set it down" I mean it is still firmly wrapped around my being. I just leaned back and propped the heaviness against the nearest object behind me to relieve myself of the weight. And in doing so, I'm able to engage with the lighter feelings a bit more. I need some lighter feelings.

And I want to point out that this is not always a conscious choice with certain results, lest I give you the impression that someone in deep grief can just "decide" to set it down for a moment and concentrate on joyful things. In fact, nothing infuriates me more that being told that if I just "focus on the positives" my grief will dissipate. Grief is there. And it's heavy. And it's really, really hard. It washes up and over without the recipient's invitation and is not set down at will. However, at the moment, I'm choosing to write about more joyful feelings because I've been granted the energy and the space in which to do that. In the longer, unseen process of things, this is where I need to be right now.

And it's a bit of a relief.

So, below is the original poem and my "echo."

I enjoyed that so much that I looked up some other grief-related poems with the intent of echoing my joy. I selected a piece by Elizabeth Browning, aptly titled "Grief." My writing follows:

“Grief” Elizabeth Browning

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness,
In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare
Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express
Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death–
Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless woe
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:
If it could weep, it could arise and go.

“Joy” by Bridget Maret
(with apologies to Elizabeth Browning)

I sing to you, boundless joy is memory;
That those who have climbed deep in into love,
Wholly-disclosed one’s being, shows through midnight walks
And beating hearts outward to the one who hears
Its rhythm and recognizes it as his own. Full joy,
In bodies as maps, explored luxuriously bare
Under the blankets, wanting eyes follow
each state’s boundary. Heaven. Deep-hearted me, express
Joy for your Love Lost out loud- like a wild announcement-
Most like a pronouncement of what was held
In joyful hands and exploding hearts
Till the joy itself sparks and illuminates my heart inside.
See it; my heart is not only heavy in grief:
If it could tell you of its joy remembered, it would sing and rise.

Echo poems are a great way to plop your stuff right down on top of someone else's writing. It allows me to think about word choice and the structure of writing more than just spilling out my experiences on the page let me do.

Tonight my writing could exist within the boundaries of someone else's writing. I had edges that kept me from spilling off the page and onto the floor. And within those edges I could remember joy. And the love I felt and still feel for Gareth Lochhead.

For that I am grateful.