Writing in the Darkest of Times
I never thought I’d write poetry until an English professor prompted the class to write a poem about a personal struggle. I’d gone through a lot of personal turmoil, and I found a voice, scattered fragments of my soul bleeding across the page, between each line, and inside each word. A poem that healed a wound and gave me closure when I was sure there’d be none. I would’ve never picked up a book by Elizabeth Bishop had I not stumbled across her poem One Art, in a film. It struck a nerve in me, “The art of losing isn’t hard to master. So many things seemed filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.”.
The influence of literature in our lives and those around us captures the beauty of intelligence, comfort in times of darkness, and shared passions. A friend of mine started writing poems after reading Sylvia Plath, Bishop, and some of my own. Something that seems so small, so insignificant, but it had enough power to encourage another to create and think creatively. It’s the best gift humanity has to offer one another. Lines that string our hearts together.
In desperate times filled with fear and uncertainty, we find ourselves grasping onto the things that bring us comfort. The memories left by people, places, and things that bring light into a mind, or a world filled with darkness. As the void of chaos begins to swallow us whole, we find hope and serenity amongst things of simplicity.
I cling tightest to my most valued book of Elizabeth Bishop, a little blue book, one from her first publication of her later Pulitzer Prize-winning North and South: A Cold Spring. I wondered if Bishop cherished her artistry in the same way that I do. Leaving pieces of herself in between the lines of her craftsmanship left for me and others who find solace in her poems.
I find comfort in the poems when my mind feels as if it will explode from the trauma the world is experiencing. The divide seems to be ever-growing, as humanity grows bitter and callous toward each other. I wonder if those who’ve suffered long ago clung to literature as I do. It calms my soul, provides a pretty distraction for a minute. I don’t know about everyone else, but I find myself avoidant, wanting to disappear between the pages. I’m sure some use social media to disassociate from reality, but it’s filled with the plague that’s blackening our souls. We forget to find kindness, forgiveness, and love. Mercy seems far and few between as the world begins to burn from the chaos and angst growing deep in the belly of the beast of despair.
I fear humanity will lose its way. Hate becomes thick, and we’ll drown in it. I try to remember when I became so consumed by my anger and despair, when poetry found me. It grasped me in its arms and allowed me to weep; brokenness never felt so comforting. I’ll continue to hope that literature. Poetry. Writing. Will find a way to keep humanity connected, disrupting the horrors of the world for moments of peace. Becoming the salvation for those who’ve lost their sense of hope. I’ll share the pages limning the edges of my heart to find beauty amongst the evils of humanity.