I always find myself running to poetry whenever I have some
sort of deep hurt. Novels fail me because they are too drawn out and I want a
quick remedy. Poetry gets to the point and I have to concentrate on the words
to pick out meaning and meter. In this way, it’s a small respite for my sore
heart. O how poetic of me.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson |
So off the book shelf flew T.S. Eliot, Robert Browning, and
Victorian poetry. I scrounged through Eliot, but found that although masterful
at his craft and a favorite, he was not what the doctor ordered. I then turned
to Browning and although he has many poems that would work, I did not
feel like scrounging through the dense volume to find something. So onto my
Victorian poetry anthology. And it was Tennyson who caught my eye. His ‘In Memoriam’
is a series of poems about his dear friend who passed away. Actually it’s one
very long poem made up of 133 cantos. The poem tracks Tennyson’s grief for over
a decade. It took him a while to write. It is a beautiful requiem to his friend
and one can see the stages of grief he goes through by reading some of the
cantos.
I found solace in the cantos. The questioning of fate and
God, the acceptance of loss, the anger at loss, the sorrow and hurt all
encapsulated in these verses is so lyrical and beautiful that one cannot help
but feel they've never known pain in the way Tennyson felt the loss of his
friend. Basically, the poem was just the punch I needed to realize my hurt is
not great, my pain is not uncommon, but loss is loss and all suffer it in one
form or another.
Poetry can be tedious and hard to understand, but poetry is
like a shot of alcohol. You don’t pussy foot around; you just get straight to the
damned point. The difference being that you have to be able to pick out the
meaning of a poem, whereas a shot is pretty self-explanatory.