Sandra Cisneros says that “poets are in the professions of transforming grief into light.”
On some level, we all feel grief. In Eastern medicine, they believe that grief settles in the lungs. I have asthma, so I find this particularly interesting. I wonder how grief has affected my lungs, and how poetry could possibly help excavate stuck grief.
Covid-19 is a respiratory disease, so perhaps we need to pay attention to the connection of grief and lungs. I wonder how poetry could help us excavate our own grief. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could all clear our lungs and heart from grief, and transform it into something beautiful and tangible?
Poetry– metaphor, truth– help us do that.
Photo by Karim Manjra on Unsplash
Inside lives a cyclone
that can throw him to the floor.
A punch to the arm
he craves, a battle
in his ears to slay
the storm within.
Give him a cinnamon stick,
whiskey cranberry sauce,
a lemon — anything
to burn the fireworks
in his mouth.
I don’t know where he gets it,I say
as I take a swig
of Bulliet Bourbon.
Last night a meal
of bottled up words
popped off like shooting stars,
burned, then faded. Tide
swollen with grief
breaches the seawall and flows
over marsh and hollow, under lampposts
on which two Ravens perch as if extensions
of the infrastructure, beaks kissing.
for the paper towel
found on the floor of the car
to stanch the flood.
Put a cork in it— she tells herself
Do it over with turkey tetrazzini.
Painting: “The frightened Turkey” by Nathalie Gribinski