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| Raymond Booth |
Snowdrops
Do you know what I was, how I lived? You know
what despair is; then
winter should have meaning for you.
I did not expect to survive,
earth suppressing me. I didn’t expect
to waken again, to feel
in damp earth my body
able to respond again, remembering
after so long how to open again
in the cold light
of earliest spring—
afraid, yes, but among you again
crying yes risk joy
in the raw wind of the new world.
Louise
Gluck
"Do you know how I lived?" I think this must be the cry of everyone who has lived through trauma and death. There's this great burden of pain and isolation that screams inside, "You don't know me! You don't know how I live! You don't know what I'm going through!" And yet, we can't express it, either. We know there is no true way of explaining it. We know it won't be grasped. This is a powerful poem because it acknowledges all that, even the "I did not expect to survive", which is something we don't talk about much, but some of us have lived through things we feel should have killed us. It is strange and disorienting to find one's self still breathing. How can it be? How is it my body still cycles on? How is it the days pass? Something died. Something was injured and killed within me. There has been blackness and despair and anger and grief, and yet I open my eyes and find I'm still here. Whether I want to be or not. In the poem this is called Winter. Winter is death, dormancy, burial. But it is a season. And seasons pass. And then the most surprising thing of all happens. We discover we're not dead, we're a seed. And a new pain comes, the visceral pain of breaking out of our seed-casing, of pushing up against the blackness that covers us, of rising in spite of the fear we feel. "Crying yes risk joy". I don't know of a better way to say it.
"Do you know how I lived?" I think this must be the cry of everyone who has lived through trauma and death. There's this great burden of pain and isolation that screams inside, "You don't know me! You don't know how I live! You don't know what I'm going through!" And yet, we can't express it, either. We know there is no true way of explaining it. We know it won't be grasped. This is a powerful poem because it acknowledges all that, even the "I did not expect to survive", which is something we don't talk about much, but some of us have lived through things we feel should have killed us. It is strange and disorienting to find one's self still breathing. How can it be? How is it my body still cycles on? How is it the days pass? Something died. Something was injured and killed within me. There has been blackness and despair and anger and grief, and yet I open my eyes and find I'm still here. Whether I want to be or not. In the poem this is called Winter. Winter is death, dormancy, burial. But it is a season. And seasons pass. And then the most surprising thing of all happens. We discover we're not dead, we're a seed. And a new pain comes, the visceral pain of breaking out of our seed-casing, of pushing up against the blackness that covers us, of rising in spite of the fear we feel. "Crying yes risk joy". I don't know of a better way to say it.
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