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Dear Little Evan, #5
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Dear Little Evan, I see that you have discovered poetry. As it would happen this coincides with your finding of love, which is the beating heart of all the best poetry. Your friend who, out of respect for her person will remain here unnamed, is quite better than you at writing poetry. You've noticed this yourself and are wondering incessantly however you may impress her. She told you about this website, PostPoems, and she wants you to read what she's written. She's even asked you to write some poetry of your own.
I know it is difficult for you right now, that it doesn't come naturally and you think you aren't very good at it. But I promise, after some life experience and lots of practice, you'll find poetry to come to you magnificently with time. My first bit of advice, which you'll ignore for the next eighteen years, is to stop writing poetry with the intention to impress anyone else. Your readers will notice your desperation and that very desperation will detract from your poetic voice. My second bit of advice, which I have only just now learned to employ, is to write poetry with the intention of being honest. Care little or not at all for what others think of your poetry. Care only for your own feelings and bravely tell the truth in love about what you feel. Weave these three together into your poetry, love, honesty and courage. When you manage to do that, your poetry is bound to impress.
I know you'll give up poetry in a few years, when that girl you love goes away to another school. I know that heartbreak is going to drive you to incinerate every last piece of parchment that you've meticulously poured your spirit into. I wish you wouldn't set your poems on fire, but I understand, truly, I understand why you do. You'll write quite scarcely the next four years, and only ever when you think on that girl you loved who left for another school. But you'll get another burst of inspiration after you graduate high school. You see, that girl is going to come back into your life and when you read the poetry that she's written over the years you'll fall right back in love with her.
I'm sorry to tell you this, Little Evan, but she doesn't feel the same way for you. You're going to make a fool of yourself and drive the girl away. You're going to say and do some regrettable things and you won't hear from her again for another three years. The most regrettable of which is deleting all the poetry you write those two years. I wish you wouldn't do that, Little Evan, but I understand, truly, I understand why you do.
You'll quit writing poetry, again, Little Evan, this time for three years. Until one day that girl, now a woman, comes back into your life. You'll go on a few dates. You'll kiss. You'll lose your viginity, making love twice; and then she'll disappear, impressed with your poetry but not in love with you. You'll only ever see her a few more times. I wish you wouldn't quit writing for seven years after her departure, but I understand, truly, I understand why you do; but I am so thankful that you keep those poems tucked away in a little, hidden corner of the internet. You thought you were writing them for her, but really, you were writing them for me, and they are beautiful, Little Evan. Thank you for writing them and keeping them hidden away until my time of need.
Here I am, nearly two decades from when you are now, and after an seven year hiatus I have begun to write again; and while you don't end up with the girl (the girl who wrote so beautifully and inspired you to write), you do end up with something far more precious. You end up loving yourself and writing for yourself; and your poetry will be wonderful someday, Little Evan, I can promise you that.
There will be other girls, one of whom you will marry. Some will love you and some will not. You will experience all the throes of love and passion, and all the joys and sorrows which are enmeshed within them. Allow yourself to love, Little Evan, to give love and receive it in return. It will hurt every time, love always does eventually, but the hurt that comes with love is worth it, even when the love story with your wife comes to an end. One last word of advice, Little Evan, when you find the love you give is not returned to you, give your love to poetry. Always remember that poetry found you and will supply you in the meanwhile with all the love you need.
From me to you,
Big Evan
This, also, was rather
This, also, was rather difficult for me to read: not because of any flaw in the verbal presentation, but for the poignancy of the situation, and for the emotional power of your description of it.
I am going to tell you something that I rarely share with anyone. I think I have mentioned, before, that I have been reading poetry for almost half a century; this coming April will mark fifty years, a full fifty years, since that process began. During that time I have read thousands of poems, have re-read hundreds over and over, and have admired dozens and dozens. But only a very few poems have actually invaded me, conquered me, and carved out a territory for themselves within my soul. I apologize if my metaphor seems crude or trite, but it is all I can think of right now to describe the process. In the past before PostPoems, three great Poets invaded me: T.S. Eliot in October 1976; Wallace Stevens in October 1978; and Vergil (starting in the spring of 1976, and intermittently thereafter). On PostPoems, the poems of Patriciajj also gave me this same feeling---and, for the first time, I was seeing in real time what I had only experienced with the other three Poets by reading about in remembered or documented or researched time. But watching Patriciajj post her poems was a vision of the actual living process---and I felt as thrilled as I had when, during my Senior year in high school, Poetry took hold of me with a grip that has never released me. I have said all that, to say this: now, I am experiencing the same thrill as I watch the development of this superlative series of meditations. Although you cast your words in the form of prose in this series, it is still pure Poetry. And you are showing us not only how it is done, but also what it can achieve.
A French Poet whose pen name was Saint John Perse wrote a series of poems about natural phenomena as processes: he wrote about winds, movements of the sea, birds, and even time itself. (I am not nearly as familiar with his work as I should be.) You are working in the same general area, but instead of giving us the processes that the impersonal forces of the world accomplish (and which so fascinated Saint John Perse, who was also a brilliant diplomat for France), you are showing us the processes of the soul by which Little Evan becomes Big Evan. And you are presenting it as a Poetic process, which is a superlatively effective strategy.
Like the Poetry of Eliot, Stevens, Vergil and Patriciajj, your words in this series have invaded me, and will continue to do so. I do not open my soul often, or even willingly, to many; but to your words, I offer the key to the city, so to speak.
Starward
Starward, thank you for your
Starward, thank you for your encouragement. Your words have helped me make this project my chief focus in the days weeks and months to come. I've struggled with so many different things in my life and want for them to be redeemed into something that has made all the years of pain worth it. What the enemy means for evil, God has purposed for good.
And we know that all things work together for good, to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose. - Romans 8:28
"Paper is patient." - Anne Frank
A needful conversation and
A needful conversation and communication. One that I share with a personal investment. Good to see exemplars of this occuring outside of self. Thanks for sharing.
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver
It's one of the hardest
It's one of the hardest things I've ever done. I don't think I've cried so much in years. Thank you for reading and for the encouragement to keep writing.
"Paper is patient." - Anne Frank