The Poetry of Life

I was discussing poetry with a dear friend many years ago.  It was a conversation that I have never forgotten.

When you hear it, maybe you will understand why.

I was asking her why she bothered to try to write structured poetry (she particularly likes the sonnet), when freestyle was so much easier.  (Though I don't write poetry often, when I do, it comes out freestyle.)   It seemed to me that she was choosing  unnecessary restrictions for her self expression, like choosing to run the Boston marathon with hobbles on or cooking dinner with one hand tied behind her back.

But she had a different perspective.  She said she enjoyed the challenge of the restrictions. She talked about wrestling for days, even weeks to find just the right turn of phrase.  She might know what she wanted to say, but the number of syllables or the way the rhythm of  the syllables fell in the phrase would not quite fit.  It demanded great patience and an extreme sort of discipline.  But when she persevered and waited for just the right combination of words to come to her, the feeling of triumph and joy was well worth the wait.  The very challenge of the discipline brought her a deep satisfaction.

Listening to her, I thought of bonsai.  I thought of extremely fine wines.  I thought of diamonds, and I began to realize how often things in life that look like restrictions, road-blocks, and annoying barriers lead in actuality to unique, creative, and beautiful outcomes.

I have returned for reflection to that conversation many times in the past ten years.  It has helped me when I am feeling impatient.  It has helped me when I am feeling deeply frustrated by "unnecessary" delays and "pointless" restrictions.  It has helped me.

I'm still not very patient, and I still much prefer freestyle when it comes to writing poetry.  But I am ALSO deeply grateful for Linda's ability to articulate why such challenging artistic expression delights her, and for her incredible patience and perseverance with her art.

Here is a taste of her poetry:

Twin Heresies  

by Linda Simonetti Odhner  10/4/03

He cried, God, why have You forsaken me? 

They must be One only as all are one,

Unless He called Himself mistakenly,

Seeing Himself like any father’s son.   

Faced with the Gospel’s puzzle, who would not

Turn from a monstrous triple-headed God,

The Word made human flesh too dearly bought

By union splintered into shards so odd?

The Christian Mystery is misconstrued

Not just from blind perverseness, but because

His coming turned existence inside out,

Stretched all the laws of order, madly skewed

Appearance, till all flesh of sin cried out:

This Child cannot be born!  And yet He was.