Napo 14

 

Today I was exploring Night Heron Barks, which is a truly exquisite journal. The napo website pointed out two poems, and both of them speak to me in profound ways. I’ll choose “At 23” for a go here, but “The Flower is Haunted By” is a fantastic poem too (the ending of that first section!).

 

This poem builds the metaphor of love as a Minotaur from classical mythology. When the speaker is young, he sees it as exciting, a challenge, but as he gets older, finding love becomes more complicated. The labyrinth hides it, and it becomes illusive.

 

I can super relate to the last stanza, which brings the poem back to the beginning. It explores the tenor of the metaphor (love) in greater depth: At 23 love was inevitable as the sun / on a windowsill. Days disposable. / Nights thinly disguised as afterlives.”

 

I think what the poet is saying is that we think that love comes easy when we’re young, and it does. When you get older, love becomes more difficult to find, and you appreciate its power more. Almost something to fear and strive for at once. YES!

 

There’s some real playful language in this poem, too. I almost feel like the poet chose some fun words and incorporated them into this idea to jazz it up further and/or maybe to make it feel more contemporary. After all, a poem steeped in classical mythology can feel stogy.

 

Words like “razz,” “flabbergasted,” “snafu,” “fuddy-duddy” contrast the serious tone of the poem in an interesting way.

 

Some ideas:

·       Describe an abstraction/feeling as a mythological beast

·       Hope as a siren, for instance (YES!)

·       Incorporate “fun” language in an otherwise serious poem

·       How has my conception of love changed since I was 23?!

 

Hope’s Feathers

 

I imagine hope a Siren.

While drifting through the ashen ocean,

Carried by the currents of despair,

I hear its voice, a dulcet note

 

Of thrush song from the sky.

But I know better than to let myself

Get swept away in this false hope.

I cover my ears. I hum my own tune.

I fasten my hands to the helm

And gaze into the grey horizon.

 

But still, it grows a little louder,

Sweeter, too, in rays of honey,

Gentles wafts of jasmine breath,

the soft touch of down

on the skin of the lips.

 

Could this be it, I wonder,

And I start to listen—

Let it into my heart,

That beats to its soft beat.

 

And suddenly, I find myself

There again, wrecked

On the jagged rocks of hope

Clinging to it once again,

Losing myself in its sweetest of songs.