IT'S ALIVE!!!!!!!!

I was watching an interview on PBS this evening featuring Charles Simic, the new Poet Laureate of the United States. At one point during the interview the questioner asked, "why is poetry important?" Mr. Simic responded with the following (I'm paraphrasing), "While teaching one semester a student asked me that same question, I was a taken aback as the question is really quite profound. After a moment a young woman in the audience raised her hand, I asked if she would like to take a stab at it. She said poetry was important because it reminds us of our humanity. That it's raining out, or that the flowers are in bloom. That we love, or we hate. Maybe there is a god, maybe there isn't. But it reminds us that we're here."

I enjoy poetry but I'm far from an expert. Very seldom do I purchase a book of poetry or check one out of the local library. I don't construct poetry well but I've always been fascinated by it in the sense that, good poetry, always seems so emotionally pure. In being so, it's an act of baring one's soul. Which makes it powerful.

I tried thinking of other things that "remind us of our humanity." Films, like something from Ingmar Bergman maybe, or a good piece of literature can certainly do the trick. But the thing that has probably had the most humbling affect on me in my life, thus leading to a reminder of my humanity, was a personal trial or tribulation. For me, the most difficult periods in my life led to a greater understanding of myself, the people around me, and life in general. They were difficult times - of which a few I barely survived. But in the end, I not only had a fresh perspective on life, but a better grasp on what being human means. And that leads to a greater appreciation for life.

Whether watching a philosophical film, reading a thought-provoking book, or ingesting a poem, one of the key ingredients seems to be a recollection of a personal difficulty. A recollection of pain. But what I inevitably fail to see is that in itself the piece of work is as much a tale of redemption as it is a recollection of pain. Someone had to do the writing, which mean someone survived, which means someone learned. Why is it so easy to experience the pain, but so difficult to recognize the redemption? It has become an instinct. Or maybe it's always been an instinct.


Hotel Insomnia

I liked my little hole,
Its window facing a brick wall.
Next door there was a piano.
A few evenings a month
a crippled old man came to play
"My Blue Heaven."

Mostly, though, it was quiet.
Each room with its spider in heavy overcoat
Catching his fly with a web
Of cigarette smoke and revery.
So dark,
I could not see my face in the shaving mirror.

At 5 A.M. the sound of bare feet upstairs.
The "Gypsy" fortuneteller,
Whose storefront is on the corner,
Going to pee after a night of love.
Once, too, the sound of a child sobbing.
So near it was, I thought
For a moment, I was sobbing myself.

Charles Simic