The Foundation: 019

Mingling hands and mingling glances

Sometimes at night, like tonight, I read poetry. The rain is nice, the windows are open, the neighborhood’s quiet. I usually do this when I’m having a difficult time focusing on whatever book I’m reading (which isn’t ever a problem of the book; it’s just I can’t focus sometimes.)

And a poem, or short story, is just a way for me to commit to understanding something without fear of losing my place in the story, or not fully appreciating the story, by only reading a page or two at a time. I want to read, even if I’m struggling.

I read from collections because I don’t know what I like, or how to interpret or understand, so I’m feeling my way through the dark here. Short stories are a little easier. The best part of this, having no formal training or education in literature or poetry … I get to feel like I discovered someone’s art. I know I didn’t, I have some sense of what to grab off the shelf because I recognize names of people I “should know.”

And I know my understanding isn’t as deep or rich or nuanced as someone who studies poetry or literature. It’s a novice understanding, mine is. But that’s fine; it’s all new to me.

I have a short collection of poems by W.B. Yeats called “Collected Poems.” One that I like is “The Stolen Child.” (I’d link to analysis of the poem but … I honestly don’t know how to vet all that’s out there.)

Usually when I land on something that feels right, I just stop reading. And next time I’m able to read again, I’ll reread it, just to see how it feels again. This is a short poem, and I felt something when I read. A blink, a glimpse, into something innocent knowing elsewhere, it’s not:

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.