If Ever I Would Read You

I often have difficulty selecting poems to read aloud when asked to do a reading, mostly because my work is so personal. When something is troubling me, I write about it. I encourage other writer friends to do the same and the work of others I read certainly tells me I am not alone in doing this. Yesterday while sitting in the sun on the front porch I read poetry by Billy Collins, a favorite of mine. His “Ballistic” collection contained poems that made me laugh out loud and then choke back tears; if he has not just gone through a divorce himself, he certainly has been close to someone who has. His poetry in this book tells the story of it. I wonder if he can read those poems aloud without tears. Some of my poems I can’t read in public because I still can’t get through them without breaking down.

This week I had the extreme pleasure of listening to Seamus Heaney give a reading. His wealth of words is often what I turn to for inspiration, comfort, and support. Three of his poems would be on my list of my top ten favorites and I was in awe when he read two of them that evening. I will never read them again myself without hearing his Irish brogue.

One of my favorites, one with an ending that tugs at your heart – a style I’ve tried to copy in my work, never hitting the same chord as Mr. Heaney – is “Mid-Term Break”. He recited this from memory, on his 71st birthday, to a full house in Hendricks Chapel on the Syracuse University campus. It’s a chilling poem, so well crafted it sometimes makes me wonder why anyone ever would write another poem. What I did not know until that night was that it was written about a personal experience. I’m not sure why this surprised me, because I write about what happens to me, as do most other poets I know. He recited it so well, the words are so deliciously arranged, the emotions so crisp and raw…..and as one of his very early poems, I simply never imagined it had such personal meaning to him. How he can read it with dry eyes, I do not know, yet he handled it masterfully.

Although Seamus Heaney was inspiring on several levels and I will long remember sitting in those pews with my poet friend Mary Ellen enthralled by the Irish accent and the rhythm of his magical poetry, I will also try to read the poems I’ve written that are personal, because these end up being the most honest, the most real.

Also, I will keep these words of his in mind always now as I write: “Write through your grief for the pure joy of writing.”