I have, and nothing is destroyed...

"The Room" by Galway Kinnell

The door closes on pain and confusion.
The candle flame wavers from side to side
as though trying to break itself in half
to color the shadows too with living light.
The andante movement plays over and over
its many triplets, like farm dogs yapping
at a melody made of the gratification-cries
of cocks. I will not stay long.
Nothing in experience led me to imagine
having. Having is destroying, said
my version of the vow of impoverishment.
But here, in this brief, waxen light,
I have, and nothing is destroyed. The flute
that guttered those owl's notes into the waste hours
of childhood joins with the piano
and they play, Being is having. Having
may be nothing but the grace of the shell
moving without hesitation, with lively pride,
down the stubborn river of woe. At the far end,
a door no one dares open begins opening.
To go through it will awaken such regret
as only closing it behind can obliterate.
The candle flame's staggering makes the room
wobble and shift-- matter itself, laughing.
I can't come back. I won't change.
I have the usual capacity for wanting
what may not even exist. Don't worry.
That is the dew wetting my face.
You see? Nothing that enters the room
can have only its own meaning ever again.

Caution: The following writing may make no sense, seeing as how I am a bit delirious. I couldn't sleep last night. I just sat at my desk and worked on a poem that I began in December until 3am. I am convinced it will never be complete. Around 3:15 I began picking books off the shelf: Atwood, Nye, Sexton, Hughes, and Kinnell. I am in awe of poets that break down overwhelming ideas so effortlessly, like the aforementioned Kinnell. I vividly recall meeting Kinnell at a reading. I remember, in shaking his hand, feeling as though I had made a connection with a poetic genius. I am sure I hoped that some of his stylistic power would transfer itself from his palm to mine. The same idea came to me as I stood talking to Naomi Shihab Nye again in November. I listened intently to the things they said. I looked for beauty in the way they moved. I paid attention to what their eyes focused on around the room. It seems like true beauty attaches itself to these poets, as if by touching a bystander that person could see into the well of the poet's soul and draw out life altering images and symbols, feeling both the light and the dark of their hearts. It's intriguing to think about. What if by coming into contact with someone, that person could catch glimpses of your heart, your thoughts? I feel, as a reader, that through owning books by these writers I already have a very small amount of insight into their minds. What if by stringing together my previous blogs you could begin constructing a more tangible model of me in your head? What if we could all understand each other on a deeper and more human level, feeling the beauty in the people we brush up against at the grocery store. The art of communication has been lost. Does this mean some form of beauty, in its truest sense, has been lost?