Poetry and transience

National Poetry Month has just ended, and I’m going to miss it. I know I should be glad that poetry gets to shine forth in the public imagination in a special way, flaunting its mysterious beauty, for nearly 10% of its life. But 30 days doesn’t feel like enough. In a society where mastery and logic are rewarded far more than dwelling in the ungraspable, I’m inclined to believe that poetry almost always leans us in the direction of goodness.

A few weeks ago, as I sat in a classroom at Calvin College and listened to Anya Krugovoy Silver read her poems, I realized that part of poetry’s loveliness resides in its transience. Anya has the haircut of someone who’s been through chemo, and she writes honestly about living with Stage IV cancer. Her newest poetry collection, which includes the gem “Psalm 137 for Noah,” is as smart, eloquent, and honest as her reviews. Above all, these poems are colorful. A pink rose bloom sits next to a castle. Green are the ferns and the emerald-colored dress that the poet wears one evening. The hydrangeas, the poet’s slippers, and the sky appear in various shades of blue. Red shows up as blood and tumors, strawberries and communion wine. But the most vivid color in these poems is purple. It’s the color of the syrup dripping from a grape popsicle after three days of fasting in a hospital bed. It’s the color of the wanton cry as spring grape vines curl around one another like the legs of lovers. It’s the color of the dresses worn by Amish girls. And it’s the color of the crocuses that push up one Sunday in Lent:

They’re Easter before Easter,
plenty while fasting, open tomb.
Their petals, candled windows.
They’re Hosannas, vessels
that draw in weak sun, cupping
its rays in the last days of dark.