Friday, November 04, 2011

Leaving


A poet, even in the best of circumstances, rarely sees the kind of success that a novelist or screenwriter, or even a journalist does. The first thing people say to you when you tell them you're a poet is, "Don't quit your day job." Actually, that's good advice for any writer these days, at least until you get that first big break.

However, so many of us let this bit of information keep us from writing at all, much less writing a poem. I'm not going to spend a lot of time on why we should write poetry today. I'm going to tell you a very short story (for me) and then include a poem and a picture and that will be your post for this week.

When I lived in WNC in a little town called Saluda near Asheville, there was a beautiful place I loved to visit both on my own and when friends came to visit. It was located at the base of Pacolet Falls, just outside that tiny town. The location was secret, and I felt lucky that locals trusted me enough to tell me how to get there. I had to be persistent and be willing to walk downhill going, and uphill all the way back. At least for me, the reverse is preferable and easier.

A year or so after moving into Asheville proper, I wanted to write a fall poem. I try to write a poem every fall, as it is my favorite season. Here in NW Arkansas, we have had a delightfully long one this year and I have spent so much time outside after the dreadfully hot summer, that I haven't gotten to my fall poem yet, but I will. It's a commitment. I owe it to that kind of beauty.

One fall, feeling rather melancholy, and wanting to write an autumn poem, I struggled and struggled to get just the right feeling, find the right words. The poem rhymed, which I hadn't counted on, but they do as they will when I write them. Sometimes they rhyme, sometimes they don't, sometimes they do and they don't. I give my poetry a lot of space in which to express itself.

This particular poem, "Leaving" became famous. I never expected that. In fact, I laughingly call it my funeral poem because several people (including my own mom!) requested I read it at their or a friend's or parent's funeral or memorial service. Ministers asked permission to read it at the death of a parishioner or congregation member.

Finally, Leigh published it in the first of her hospice booklets, "A Different Season." This was our first booklet and we have sold thousands and thousands of copies--dare I say a hundred thousand or more--over the past 4 years. Few living poets know that so many people have seen (not all read it I'm sure) or had the opportunity to experience one of their poems; to have it so appreciated.

I am lucky. More than that though, and this is my point to you, when you put those words down from an open heart, whether you are a renowned poet or a beginner, you never know where they may end up or whose life you may touch. One thing is for sure, they will be inscribed on your heart forever. Enjoy the beauty of this lovely, sometimes lonely, but ultimately wonderful season. You can even write a poem to honor it.

Leaving

Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin; yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Matthew 6.28-29

On a hill above Saluda beside Pacolet Falls I lay

gazing though a screen of birch at the remnants of the day.

Not a breath, not a whisper stirred the air when,

like a camera changing focus, my stare shifted

caught the falling leaves that drifted onto clothing

slowly sifted, then gifted me, a weary warrior

with feathers for my hair.

Suddenly, I must know how each leaf fell

and how they felt about their circling descent

from heaven down to hell.

Surely after all that time so close to sky

the ground must seem an alien and far-off place to die.

No breeze shook them from their tenacious holds.

That same thin strength that held them

throughout a summer’s storms seemed gone.

But wait... there goes one on fiery wings of gold!

Why, they’re leaping from their limbs,

they’re not just letting go!

They’re taking turns and laughing,

they seem tickled by the sun,

as if today was a leaf parade and they’re falling just for fun.

Bright red, burnt orange, soft yellow–

all dressed in Sunday finery

as they loose their perches fearlessly

for the first and last time flying

whirling, twirling, spinning ‘round,

singing Hallelujahs until they gently kiss the ground.

I want to learn to leave my life as gracefully as they.

May my certain passing from this place

come to me this way--

Let me leap into forever like a well thought out adventure

leave rejoicing in the splendor of a brilliant autumn day.


Mendy Knott from the book A Little Lazarus published by Half Acre Press 2010




1 comment:

Lara Lynn Lane said...

I love this poem Mendy. And I hadn't heard it yet. It's amazing how that happens...as famous as a bit of words can get, as familiar to some...there are always more ears and hearts yet to find what we leave behind.
--Lara
4 November 2011

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