poetry in general, and "PERSEPHONE : Reprise" by Diane di Prima

Friday, January 25, 2008

I've always said that I understand why most people don't read or enjoy poetry, and that's the truth. There are a lot of people in the world who immediately close their minds to anything they view as "vulnerable" (I'm about to use this word a lot) or "melodramatic," and considering the bullshit we're all forced to read and "interpret" in high school (I grew up in Western Mass, so for us it was Emily Dickinson) I don't blame or fault anyone for dismissing poetry if they do.

But that also means I hold an extra special place in my heart for the people who DO love it. I feel like, maybe foolishly, I can be more honest and share more of myself with people who appreciate good poetry. I think it speaks to a soul softness rarely found in people anymore (especially folks in my generation). We're such a masculine society now that there doesn't seem to be any more room for simplicity, beauty and vulnerability, not with all the extra room we seem to now need for sex and war and misogyny. What most people don't realize is that what most see as "weakness" is actually an amazing source of stregnth. Saul Williams, in his amazing letter to Oprah Winfrey concerning whether or not hip hop emcees can also be called poets, had this to say about vulnerability as power:

"You may recall that in immediate response to the attacks of September 11th, our president took the national stage to say to the American public and the world that we would "...show no sign of vulnerability". Here is the same word that distinguishes poets from rappers, but in its history, more accurately, women from men. To make such a statement is to align oneself with the ideology that instills in us a sense of vulnerability meaning "weakness". And these meanings all take their place under the heading of what we consciously or subconsciously characterize as traits of the feminine. The weapon of mass destruction is the one that asserts that a holy trinity would be a father, a male child, and a ghost when common sense tells us that the holiest of trinities would be a mother, a father, and a child: Family. The vulnerability that we see as weakness is the saving grace of the drunken driver who because of their drunken/vulnerable state survives the fatal accident that kills the passengers in the approaching vehicle who tighten their grip and show no physical vulnerability in the face of their fear. Vulnerability is also the saving grace of the skate boarder who attempts a trick and remembers to stay loose and not tense during their fall. Likewise, vulnerability has been the saving grace of the African American struggle as we have been whipped, jailed, spat upon, called names, and killed, yet continue to strive forward, mostly non-violently, towards our highest goals. But today we are at a crossroads, because the institutions that have sold us the crosses we wear around our necks are the most overt in the denigration of women and thus humanity. That is why I write you today, Ms. Winfrey. We cannot address the root of what plagues Hip Hop without addressing the root of what plagues today's society and the world." (read the rest of his amazing letter here)

That being said, I read a poem this morning that made me cry. Even though I've been blocked myself and unable to write for nearly a year now, I still make it a point to read poetry every day. I feel like it keeps me grounded in who I was and am. Granted, as a pregnant lady it's not terribly difficult to make me cry, but this poem seems special to me. Maybe it's subject matter concerning my current condition, maybe it's the amazingly strong bond I have with my own mother, but I feel like this poem speaks a truth about femininity that's often dismissed.

PERSEPHONE : Reprise, Diane di Prima

one "life" is not more real than the other
not in "deflowering" do we come
into bloom; we have been always


there at the fluid boundary of Hades
we spring continuously into life & death
this is the province of the co-emergent mother
this is the daughter, sixteen, wrathful & ready


nor is the daughter separate from the mother
fruit within fruit; a sweetness
known only at the source where the fountain
                                           divides
                                           becomes itself
where fruit & seed & flower dance equally
exchanging shapes         exchanging essences


there is no knife can sever me from her
where I go down to bleed, to birth, to die