Thoughts on Writing: Poet Kevin Young

Finding a middle ground: Writing is a necessity, you know. It's not just fun, though it can be fun, and it's not just torture, though it can be torture, too. I think the point is really to find that middle ground between pleasure and necessity, and for me that's what a poem is. --Kevin Young--

As I am sure you have all noticed I have been very 'blogger happy' lately. I find that I want to write and write and write. This is both a good and a bad thing, as I think Kevin Young stated so clearly.

I write even when I really 'should' be resting or trying to get to bed earlier than 3 am. I write when I feel really sick, but keep writing anyways. I write in bed sitting at my computer and certainly aggravating my neck pain more (Stupid, stupid, stupid!). I write when I 'should' be making telephone calls to doctor's offices, or emailing a friend, or calling a friend, or tackling the ever growing piles of papers around the house.

But somehow I cannot stop.

I did not anticipate when I recommitted to blogging that I would want to write so much. I didn't anticipate my subscribers would be in for so much reading!

REMEMBER: Read only the posts that interest you!

I have now added this new section, in addition to Weekend Lyrics, as a way to reflect on the process of writing. Today it is Kevin Young's thoughts.

As I enter this new journey of finding and using my voice again, I struggle to find the balance of which Kevin Young speaks. I write rather than email or call a friend. I am still learning. Please bear with me! At the end of a long day of making calls to doctor's offices or other 'business' calls, I find there is very little of 'me' left to give to others. I end up wanting to be alone with my writing, yet hoping that my writing will keep me connected to those I love.

At this point, writing and blogging is nourishing me spiritually, emotionally, creatively and intellectually in a way that I have not felt nourished in a very, very long time. And as my friends Carrie and Ariella have noted, it is a major sign of improvement that I am even able to write again. For so long I was too sick to even do the littlest amount of writing. I used to journal almost every day starting way back in high school.

When I lost the ability to write, journal, and send oodles of snail mail letters, I lost a part of me. I am finding 'me' again. I am finding my voice again. It brings me so much joy. I feel that I have been holding in these words for so long and they are finally able to spill out of me. It feels so good to write what is on my mind, rather than have the words spinning around in my head keeping me awake at night. It helps me purge the emotions I am dealing with. Now, I just need a few more hours in the day to write so that I won't have emails I need to write spinning around in my head. I literally write email responses and blog posts in my head when I am too sick to type! (The Gmail folks are pure genius--do you think they could come up with a system that reads what my brain wants to say and transcribes it for me? And then mails it to the person?)

I've lost so much of 'me' to this illness that being able to write again feels like finding 'me' again, finding a part of me that is not just illness. It is also an outlet that gives me a tangible finished product--unlike the ambiguous and intangible journey on which illness and relationships take us.

Thank you for reading, for cheering me on, and for encouraging me to find my voice again. I especially thank my mom, who quietly knew that I needed to begin writing again, but waited until my slow deliberate self said to her 'I think I need to write'. She breathed a sigh of relief and said, 'Yes.'

The bottom line is that ultimately I write for me: with the hope that my writing will impact others, move others, and connect me to others. But it's hard to strike the balance, especially with my limited energy, between writing or emailing a friend. Right now, my energy dictates that I must choose one or the other. Choosing writing feels selfish, especially after I've spent the whole day seemingly taking care of me--by making health calls and doctors calls, or just using my energy to get dressed, eat and take a bath. None of these 'selfish' things nourish me though. Writing does. So, somehow taking care of me in this new way for the first time in a long time feels really good. I'm trying to find the balance between feeling guilty (Oh, that Jewish guilt gets me every time!), taking care of others and taking care of me.

This is my new journey...

If you've figured out the balance between taking care of yourself and taking care of others and feeling guilt-free about it...PLEASE fill me in on the magic formula!

Kevin Young was interviewed on PBS during the News Hour with Jim Lehrer. I have included more of the text of the interview (a couple of his poems). One is on grief--which is so fitting for so many people I know. The other is on music and how he uses poetry as music. It reminds me of how important music is to me and so many others.

Enjoy!



This is "Redemption Song," a poem about personal grief but also about the transformative power of beauty and the healing power of time.


'Redemption Song'

Grief might be easy
if there wasn't still
such beauty--would be far
simpler if the silver
maple didn't thrust
its leaves into flame,
trusting that spring
will find it again.
All this might be easier if
there wasn't a song
still lifting us above it,
if wind didn't trouble
my mind like water.
I half expect to see you
fill the autumn air
like breath--
At night I sleep
on clenched fists.
Days I'm like the child
who on the playground
falls, crying
not so much from pain
as surprise.


I can't play any music, so I'm sure that's why I write about music, because I think it's a beautiful solace-producing thing. I think poetry, though, approaches music, and for me, the best poetry has its music in it. It's not behind it like a song where the lyrics are up front and the band is behind, but it's all mixed together.


'April in Paris'



This is taken from "April in Paris" a poem about seeing the jazz musician Lionel Hampton a few months before he died.


Playing the subtleties
of silence, Hampton traces,
like a government agency,
the vibes--quietly--
his wands a magic,
a makeshift. Arthritic solos
hover like a bee
above the flower, finding
the sweet center.
Two days before Easter, Monsieur
Hampton plays the changes,
offering up
songs read off
a napkin bruised with lyrics:
What did I do
to be so black and blue?
his voice wobbles
along the highway
called history,
flying home.
The sax player stops
between tunes to dab
a handkerchief at the drool
gathering his chin.
Such
care. The mind's blind
alleys we wander down.
This is enough, just--
This is Paris--



ALL text and quotes taken from the following link:

http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/entertainment/jan-june07/young_03-01.html

To listen to the interview with Kevin Young or to hear him read his poems (or to read the complete interview) please visit the website listed above.

Blessings,

Emily

Photo: Yes, another picture of a gladiola!