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· Pointed Takes on Style Delineated ·
October 18, 2002
« Midweek Sunday Morning | Main | Wrote.org »
· T. G. I. Friday's Mourning ·
Today's title marks it as Friday's work, the work of mourning, I like to think, not of morning, of darkness, not sunshine, trouble, not peace. Thank God I have time today to consider it here.
I have in mind a particular poem written to acknowledge the loss by miscarriage last winter of a relative's child — Wren Marie — a girl who will never spread wings westward from Minnesota to see the rugged Washington Coast nor eastward ever to visit her grandparents in Rockville, Maryland, where, recently in the news, we have all mourned deaths even more terrible still.
"Flight Song for Wren Marie" is my daughter-in-law's poem, and when I wrote her last winter to mark its pointed achievement, I knew — as you should now — that it came from a woman whose own father took flight when she was just thirteen. As Yeats knew ("a terrible beauty is born"), poetry lives at the hard edges of experience, and people do too:
Boy howdy! Wren Marie's Flight Song made my heart cry. But, alas, the haunting song of the Wren breaches the threshold of silence only when there's sadness in the heart.
An apt, much appreciated comment, which my daughter-in-law would second.
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