Super Cool: Meeting Natasha Trethewey

I was humbled to attend a reading by my favorite poet, Natasha Trethewey, last week in Berkeley (not even the protesters, construction work, and an hour and a half of driving in circles with my Garmin were going to keep this from happening – thirty minutes late and all!)

I can say I was struck, simply, by the surreal nature of being at this event, something I tried to communicate to Ms. Trethewey after the reading, but was left repeating the phrases “I’m speechless, I’m humbled, I’m appreciative.” It’s very difficult to communicate with a poet (or anyone) an encapsulation – in a matter of seconds and without preparation – just how remarkable you think that poet’s work is. So one of the first things I said to her after the reading, and with duly noted hesitation, was “You’re my favorite poet,” despite telling myself that would be such a corny statement to make and figuring this revelation would probably stymie any further conversation of substance. Of course I wanted to blabber about why she was my favorite poet and express to her the extent of my admiration of her work, but instead found myself just telling her that, basically, I couldn’t speak because of the humility and gratitude I had for meeting her. A two and a half hour journey to say a simple thing: This little poet from Sacramento, California (I don’t think she knew were Sacramento was) is appreciative of her work. (I must’ve actually said this about three times, followed by “Oh my goodness, I can’t believe I’m here!”). This was the most honest utterance I could muster. Now that I think about it, I reckon the truest way I can communicate my admiration for her work is to continue to tell others about it, not her. I feel better now!

As for the reading, she seemed to be a kind of reserved reader, not making much eye contact with the audience (or maybe I missed all of the eye contact being a half hour late!). She seemed to be in her own zone when reading and speaking between her poems. I wonder, does frequently looking at the audience during a reading reduce one’s poetry to spectacle or episodic entertainment? Maybe something sacred and meaningful is lost in the performance of reading poems to a group of spectators. When I read, I close my eyes (yes, I close my eyes when I read my poetry!), because I liken the entire experience to prayer. Poetry is a promise of thanksgiving, and my reading is an offering. I guess that as audience members, we are only witnesses, like people sitting in pews at church as they watch the wedding to say “Yes, that happened.”

Poem Thoughts: Myth, by Natasha Trethewey

Myth, by Pulitzer Prize winning poet Natasha Trethewey, is a perfect poem, to me. Every time I read it, it moves me. It’s hard for me to continue on to another poem after finishing this one because it offers more than just a casual reading experience. It’s a haunting meditation on loss.

Myth, by Natasha Trethewey

I was asleep while you were dying.
It’s as if you slipped through some rift, a hollow
I make between my slumber and my waking,

the Erebus I keep you in, still trying
not to let go. You’ll be dead again tomorrow,
but in dreams you live. So I try taking

you back into morning. Sleep-heavy, turning,
my eyes open, I find you do not follow.
Again and again, this constant forsaking.

Again and again, this constant forsaking:
my eyes open, I find you do not follow.
You back into morning, sleep-heavy, turning.

But in dreams you live. So I try taking,
not to let go. You’ll be dead again tomorrow.
The Erebus I keep you in–still, trying–

I make between my slumber and my waking.
It’s as if you slipped through some rift, a hollow.
I was asleep while you were dying.

In examining the poem, I realize that if it wasn’t written in form, it wouldn’t be as emotionally effective (sometimes “free verse” is not the better route people!), because the parameters of the poem reveal the speaker’s own restraint, making the poetic medium seem that much more necessary. Even the repetition causes the speaker to appear as though she is at a loss for words, like this experience is barely accessible by language. Her utterance has been reduced to a series of repeating, almost as though (to evoke some psychoanalysis, oops) she is attempting to return to the womb or a space distinctly maternal, a space distinctly alienated from language.

The poem is so cautious and careful it’s chilling.