Blackbird Memories, 2011
Today I read a story about grief.
The story was intimate and fragile. The stiff pages fought against me. I knew they'd rather be closed. The words still unsure if they mistook their need to be set free for value.
And then a poem, about an idea for a poem that vanished.
It reminded me of talking one's writing away. Is it possible? I should cease speaking, until I know. But will I ever? Probably not.
And a few more of her poems.
But I have to leave my table with watery eyes. The words are too real. Especially the imagined meeting with her teenaged self, so close to ending my year.
Teenager by Wislawa Szymborska