Poetry heals me. It does so by letting me dissect my state of being through shiny, sharp word scalpels: Cutting open a wound in this case can be just as curative as sealing it.
Recent events, not to mention the hell of a ride we all are on, made me want to read a poem on ‘Evil’. I wanted to read someone else’s effort at delineating this amorphous giant. I came across ‘Hymn to Evil‘ by Louis Ginsberg (Allen Ginsberg’s father), which was printed in the July 1927 issue of Poetry. It doesn’t speak of the exact kind of ‘Evil’ I was seeking, but it says exactly what I need to hear at this moment. Here’s an excerpt:
Watch a leaf in autumn flit-- Resurrection flames from it. Death, as anybody knows, Feeds the roots of any rose. Gasping of an insect scales Into notes of nightingales. Crushing agonies alone Melt into the diamond-stone Till some earthquake lets us see Long-imprisoned jewels free.
There is hope. There is meaning. There will be a resurrection. I will smell the roses. I will hear nightingales’ notes. I will find jewels. I will.
A fine selection
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I think so too. đŸ™‚
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Yes you will! Big hug đŸŒ· đŸŒ¹
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Hugggg
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