" I can't tell you how many times my whole self has been saved by one moment of beauty. One string of words. One image. One thing created by another human being that says: you are not alone. I stand with you." - Sara Lewis Holmes
One of the better reasons for blogging is that sometimes you throw out your thoughts into an echoing universe, and behold -- somewhere there's a wall, and something comes back to you -- changed, smarter, and more coherent than anything you might have thought yourself.
This is what happened to me yesterday. I was reminded of something that I already knew, and now I'm holding on to a tiny thread of ...purpose.
When Yeats wrote this poem (which I discovered in a 1927 edition of The Oxford Book of English Verses, which was on the shelf at this lovely B&B where I am taking a mental health break), he wasn't exactly talking about art making the world heal, necessarily, but that's how I'm taking it. I have been reminded why I write, and that's good enough for me.
Where My Books Go, by William Butler Yeats
All the words that I utter,
And all the words that I write,
Must spread out their wings untiring,
And never rest in their flight,
Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,
And sing to you in the night,
Beyond where the waters are moving,
Storm-darken'd, or starry bright.
Mille graize, Sara.
Poetry Friday is hosted today at the Biblio File, who is reviewing Nikki Giovanni's hip hop poetry book.