In Poetry’s Mirror

I recently read Ilya Kaminsky’s poem “We Lived Happily During the War” and saw myself in this mirror we call poetry. Why is it that in times of unspeakable tragedy, poetry is the language we speak in?

Poetry is the language I’m breathing and dreaming in these days—both because it’s my refuge and because I’m now immersed in a year-long poetry course.

In class, we’ve been Bashō’s travelogue in prose and haiku (haibun), The Narrow Road to the Interior. I read a few pages before bed each night. Following the poet’s footsteps along roads traversed more than 400 years ago quiets my mind so I can drift into sleep.

But first, inspired by the ancient haiku master, I try to sum up the journey of my day in a few images. I wrote these lines in my journal last night:

The Narrow Road

In the morning paper

Story of a refugee’s violin

gone silent –

 

On the evening news

Pregnant woman on a stretcher

Rescued from a hospital under fire.

 

My bed at last—far from the red line

On the anchorwoman’s map.

Same road—leading north

 

Then west—my great-grandparents’

Feet, wheels, their route

Too.

© Copyright Tzivia Gover, March 9, 2022

What poems, art, music are speaking to you right now?