the morning will come

every so often i come across what i like to call a "punch in the gut" poem. in my facebook profile i quote kafka:

I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we are reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? We need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.

i think this can apply just as well to poetry, or even more so. i can completely understand the need for a book of fluff, or chick lit, or a mindless read after a book that leaves your mind spinning. and while i have nothing against, say, william carlos williams (i have eaten / the plums / that were in / the icebox, etc.), i personally feel like when you have so few words, you should use them to say as much as you possibly can. yes, yes, different tastes and all - but if it's possibly to achieve so much with so little, why not do it? or at least try?

the point: today i read a poem that speaks volumes to me. it is called "A Litany for Survival," written by Audre Lord. it's a tad long but the beginning and the end are my favorite parts:

For those of us who live at the shoreline

standing upon the constant edges of decision

crucial and alone

for those of us who cannot indulge

the passing dreams of choice

who love in doorways coming and going

in the hours between dawns

looking inward and outward

at once before and after

seeking a now that can breed

futures

...

and when we speak we are afraid

our words will not be heard

nor welcomed

but when we are silent

we are still afraid

So it is better to speak

remembering

we were never meant to survive

what this poem says to me is that we are not meant to just be survivors. we shouldn't sit and endure, coming away with only what the storm did not weather. when we are silent we are still afraid. so speak! maybe we still won't be heard, or welcomed, but at least we didn't have to wonder what might have been. to me, this poem screams, live! to me, this poem screams, be! we were not meant to merely exist; we were meant to do more than just survive. these thoughts, i think, are one of the many things we can hold on to when remembering not to be afraid.