Poetic Paradox
This title means nothing, but it sounds nice
Hello friends,
COVID is still lingering, but it’s nothing more than a bit of congestion at this point. It’s annoying but not particularly awful. I also need to see a physical therapist to get rid of the vertigo. Other than that, I’m feeling more like myself again.
While under the weather, I received the most wonderful review of Letters on Being. My friend Pascal (who is Swiss and speaks English as a third or fourth language) said:
“It’s great! I always read it and mostly understand it. It’s poetic and sometimes has the word paradox in it.”
I don’t remember the last time I used the word paradox here, but now I feel compelled to use it more often. When I do, we’ll all smile and think, “Ah yes, another paradox. How lovely.” Then again, I may forget and never use the word paradox again. Stick around to find out which it is!
Are there any other readers here whose native language is not English? What do these letters sound like to you? Are they poetic? Confusing? Rambling? Meaningful? Does reading in English feel different than reading in your native language?
Sometimes I try to read poetry in Spanish or Hebrew, and while I don’t fully understand the words, I feel them. I think that’s why I enjoy poetry in general. You don’t just read excellent writing; you feel it. The words get under your skin and burrow into your brain. They wriggle their way into your thoughts. Sometimes, poetry slinks into the background, biding its time, until you suddenly realize that everything looks like that poem. Certain stanzas will lie across your field of vision, tinting the world with their point of view. Meaningless word combinations bring tears to your eyes, cellar doors that lead nowhere.
I suppose all art is like that. It means nothing and everything at the same time. It means something different to everyone. Art is a window into the artist’s mind that reflects your thoughts back to you. That reflection can be beautiful or frightening. What’s important is what you carry with you. How you see yourself in a mirror is not how others see you. Perhaps their reflection of you is more true than what your own eyes offer. Maybe the only way to see yourself is to blend all the images together.
We’re all constantly changing. As we grow, we hold certain things close and leave others by the wayside. Sometimes we return to lost loves. Every day we shape ourselves, trying out new designs. Some additions are sturdy, while others crack and fall away under the pressure. At other times, we shave off the excess, trimming what’s no longer necessary. At any moment, something might shatter us completely. But nothing is ever created or destroyed. We shift from one thing to another, always carrying what we’ve learned. Eventually, we destroy ourselves. But hopefully, we’ll leave the best parts behind to become something beautiful again.
Until next time,
Yardena
I agree with the idea of feeling poetry. I certainly experience that with poems as simple as Adlestrop, or as rich as Windhover. On the other hand, it was not until I was on a course in which the tutor took us on a really close -- word by word -- reading of "Daffodils" that I came to fully appreciate the poem.
“Sometimes, poetry slinks into the background, biding its time, until you suddenly realize that everything looks like that poem. Certain stanzas will lie across your field of vision, tinting the world with their point of view. Meaningless word combinations bring tears to your eyes, cellar doors that lead nowhere.”
Beautifully written and so, so true. Rainer Maria Rilke’s ‘Sense of Something Coming’ was one of those poems for me when I first came across it years ago.
hope you feel better soon 🙏🏼