I am a novice reader of poetry.
So when I mentioned my fledgling aspirations to explore poetry to my erudite, literature-loving husband, he brightened and pointed me toward the podcast Poetry Unbound which he himself had only recently discovered. Its host, the Irish poet Padraig Ó Tuama, doles out poems in manageable minutes-long aliquots, and the podcast’s pattern is as consistent as a limerick. He offers his commentary on why poetry matters, recites the chosen poem, and then imparts his interpretation of the poem’s implications, drawing on his own experiences and finding more generalizable themes. This commentary is often gloriously poetic in its own right, magnified by his gorgeously lilting Irish brogue. Finally, he closes with a repeat recitation of the poem, letting its impression settle on your soul. I am enamored.
Many of the poems shared in Poetry Unbound have brought me to tears, even when not intentionally heartrending. I’ll admit I’m rather emotional at baseline, my eyes watering easily during movies, graduations, you name it. But poetry is uniquely evocative. And furthermore, when you have a space to stop and really listen, as I do these days, and allow a poem’s lyrics to penetrate, the words can strike hard, and the chasm of your heart can be laid bare even if only to expose the most loving and positive of emotions.
New to appreciating poetry, I fretted at first over whether what I felt was what the poet intended me to feel in reading their words. I have come to realize it doesn’t actually matter what the poet intended. Like all art, and so much of life, poetry only holds meaning because of the meaning you, me, the reader, ascribe to it. While there is obviously a special bond between poet and their poetry, there is another equally special connection between the poem and its reader and the latter relationship admittedly may or may not resemble the former.
Poetry, to me, is an enabler, a giver of permission. Permission to say, to feel, to let words, artfully crafted, awaken emotions. Poetry is a permission slip. It took me 48 years to let myself be awakened by poetry. So let me share one particular poem from the podcast that evoked unexpected emotions. (You can listen to Padraig Ó Tuama’s rendition and interpretation in Poetry Unbound here.)
1383 by Emily Dickinson
Long Years apart — can make no Breach a second cannot fill — The absence of the Witch does not Invalidate the spell — The embers of a Thousand Years Uncovered by the Hand That fondled them when they were Fire Will stir and understand —
Oh, how this poem makes me think of you and you and you, dear friends, who have accompanied me on this, my life’s journey. You know who you are. The ones I can text or call or see after not having spoken for lengths, and in an instant, the distance erased, we fall back into a comfortable cadence born of time and shared experience.
I hear in Emily Dickinson’s lines an ode to the enduring power of friendship. How often have you rekindled an old bond, wondering how it will feel, only to discover it feels just as it last felt so long ago? This poem brings to mind those friends, my people, the ones for whom “long years apart can make no breach a second cannot fill.” The chasm of time so quickly bridged. Ah, friendship.
But then I read the poem again on another sitting, in a different emotional place, and something different flashed forth from the these lines. I saw poem 1383 in another light, in the glow and also shadow of motherhood. I am coming to terms with the departure of my elder child. I lie. I am not coming to terms with it at all. I miss that kid like crazy. I have the sense that he’s gone. Gone forever. And it seems to me that this particular heartbreak is the prize for the ultimate success in parenting. Craft a courageous, resilient, independent human to go off and do his thing in the world, and you will be rewarded with the agonizing gift of a unique kind of loss. He’s off living his best life, as he should, working his tail off in class and contentedly engaging in the quintessential college experiences outside the classroom. He calls infrequently, though when he does we get him for long stretches. He still wants our guidance and advice. He still comes home for holidays and clearly enjoys our company. He’s still eager to go on family vacations with us, sprawl out on the sofa begging for a massage, play a round of golf with his mama. I realized he’s not really gone, and never will be, but I know now that the majority of his life from here forward won’t be spent with us. It just won’t. And that’s amazing for him. And that’s a sadness for us. I love that kid. And I miss him.
So when I read this poem again, as I appreciate this distinct kind of loss, the lines took on new meaning. And I am trying to find in its words something heartening.
Long Years apart — can make no Breach a second cannot fill —
Oh child, our bonds will persist, no matter time nor space nor circumstance.
The absence of the Witch does not Invalidate the spell —
The mother’s spell of love once cast does not dissipate. The embers of our kinship still burn bright. I will always be mom. You will always be child, not a child any longer, but still my child. Love will have to take new shape, never invalidated, but altered to meet the moment.
It also makes me think of my own mother. Where in life was she when she was the age I am today, 48, smack in mid-life? How old was I then, and what must she herself have felt watching me launch into the world? The year would have been 1993. I would have been 18, a first-year at Harvard, studying hard, playing hard, and falling in love hard for the very first - and only - time. I was disappearing into the miracle of the life I get to live today. Heartbreak and loss and pride and joy and fear were probably all intermingled for her. She never let on. Funny, that is just how I feel today.
Fast forward to now, after long years “apart,” my mom and I easily fall back into a comfortable stride, one loss (my dad’s recent death) balanced by an unexpected, or maybe completely predictable, gain (she + me), an old relationship stirred, born of understanding. And I imagine, long years from now, my son and I too will fall back relaxedly into the comfort of an old relationship.
Poetry has allowed me to pause and see just how beautifully cyclic our gains and losses are as parents and children. And despite time and circumstance, how steadily persist the burning embers of friendship and love.
1383 by Emily Dickinson
Long Years apart — can make no Breach a second cannot fill — The absence of the Witch does not Invalidate the spell — The embers of a Thousand Years Uncovered by the Hand That fondled them when they were Fire Will stir and understand —
Reena, thanks for sharing. I am currently reading a book you might enjoy- Once upon a Prime by Sarah Hurt.