Plato must have judged it true
that her eyes were not of fools,
but bright and wit of tongue she was
the highest love she said pursue.
Divine is out of fashion ’cause
beauty is from skin; I must
know the earth we love to taste
and not the mind that gets the trust.
Out of the quickened, fleshly haste
I spy a material-like waste,
then we dismiss Platonic love,
but for it the heavens make the case.
And those hands are of Diotima’s glove,
I’ll never know why it comes from above,
I’ll never know why it comes from above.
Copyright @ A.E. Edwards 2014
I turn to poetry when something hurts or feels weird, or when the world seems a bit tilted. It cuts it all down to the essentials…to the images, the metaphors, and the abstract thought condensed in a single verb and noun relationship. Poetry employs juxtapositions, which is a powerful technique. Playwriting should do the same with dialogue. It distills the complicated moment, the essentials of the characters, and the metaphysics that take place around it. Don’t worry, this is not an English paper. There is no time for that around here. This is an introduction to a contemporary poem by Poet laureate Ted Kooser. I turned to this poem last night.
I feel a great loss for the families in central Arkansas that lost their lives, their family members, their homes, their heirlooms, photographs – it hurts. This poem struck me in that place of great pain and loss. It was a place if empathy and compassion that I could barely stomach. That’s what I needed. I tossed it away “with great force”, as Dorothy Parker would say. It made me angry and I had to read it again. I battled with this poem all night. It pretty much describes the essence of how poetry is timeless and necessary in our cultural history when dealing with loss. I have not done a critical analysis of the poem, therefore it may not be about a particular storm, or a storm at all. It actually seems more like a story of a family losing their farm for monetary reasons. But for me it captured that loss juxtaposed with a sigh of relief I felt when I heard about the damage that the tornado on April 27, 2014 caused in central Arkansas. I felt a loss in that it is my own state, because I am a wife and parent, a family member, a friend, a homeowner, and all of the above. There is a story in every piece of rubble that remains from whatever storm may come through our lives.
BY TED KOOSER
He was a big man, says the size of his shoes
on a pile of broken dishes by the house;
a tall man too, says the length of the bed
in an upstairs room; and a good, God-fearing man,
says the Bible with a broken back
on the floor below the window, dusty with sun;
but not a man for farming, say the fields
cluttered with boulders and the leaky barn.
A woman lived with him, says the bedroom wall
papered with lilacs and the kitchen shelves
covered with oilcloth, and they had a child,
says the sandbox made from a tractor tire.
Money was scarce, say the jars of plum preserves
and canned tomatoes sealed in the cellar hole.
And the winters cold, say the rags in the window frames.
It was lonely here, says the narrow country road.
Something went wrong, says the empty house
in the weed-choked yard. Stones in the fields
say he was not a farmer; the still-sealed jars
in the cellar say she left in a nervous haste.
And the child? Its toys are strewn in the yard
like branches after a storm–a rubber cow,
a rusty tractor with a broken plow,
a doll in overalls. Something went wrong, they say.