What Is Gained Through Loss Poem by Daniel Brick
What Is Gained Through Loss
I can hear the ground flake
as the mole presses forward;
I can hear the ruffle of the owl's
feathers as she stirs in dappled sleep.
I can hear the solitary passage of a worm
into topsoil, so keen has my hearing become.
I can hear the creak high above in a cottonwood
when the wind silently parts its tallest branches.
And my eyes see into the infrared of distance:
they are scorched by the heat of a faraway fire.
And then they fix on churning eddies, heaving
waves, currents twisted into whirlpools, the still center.
The yellows and greens of Van Gogh shock my eyes!
Staring at Rembrandt's 'Lucretia' is no longer possible.
When I close my eyes for comfort sweet memories appear
in such gaudy colors that I go back, wide-eyed, to reality.
In the Como Park Conservatory the flowers conspired
to blend their aromas into one bouquet of fragrance.
It is called the attar of flowers and petals, precious
and pervasive: I was overwhelmed by this generosity -
in the midst of loss. Who would have thought loss
would be a matter of addition instead of subtraction?
Is this the common work of recovery? To turn attenuated
senses into a riot of competing distractions: but the center is lost!
The yellows and greens of Van Gogh shock my eyes! Staring at Rembrandt's 'Lucretia' is no longer possible. When I close my eyes for comfort sweet memories appear in such gaudy colors that I go back, wide-eyed, to reality.... I like this part. “Such gaudy colours” sometimes are not matched to reality. These colours are revealed to our eyes, but we do not really possess the beauty.Your poem is very profound.I like it.
I like that pasage too. It was not in my rough draft it came to me while typing, and I appreciate those lines which come spontaneously, because that means the poem is writing itself and I am the channel of something greater than myself. You have poems in which this spontaneity takes over.
My son suffers from sensory processing disorder, I think what you have just written beautifully illustrates what he often experiences...a sensory overload.
I had students with that condition, and when theytrusted me and we forged a human bond, student to teacher, I would sit with one, one-on-one, and talk through a piece of literature until suddenly their face lit u with understanding. So many of our students are cheated by the format of ONE-SIZE-FITS-ALL education. Education is about identifying an individual's needs and specialness and building directly on them.
Another time I'll write you a lovely critique of your poem. I'm kind of awed right now. There's just something about this one that makes me lean forward, squeeze my eyes, and go silent. The mix of senses gets me. When you are so attuned to the world, it can be overwhelming and painful and beautiful. Kind of like trying to stare at the sun and contemplate the concept of infinity. Once can go big or one can go infinitessimally small. I hope I am making some sort of sense! Beautiful poem. I love this one. It's going on my favorites list. Wonderful Daniel!
You have done somethiong so wonderful a critique is not need. A critique would answer that awkward English teacher's question, WHAT DOES THIS POEM MEAN? The question you answered instead is, WHAT DOES THIS POEM DO? And you answered that eloquently, living every moment of the poem's life as you spoke, in fact giving the poem l-i-f-e as you described it acting upon you, overcoming you like a summer's day.
A superb write. The visual n auditory images are simply amazing. If our senses are open to the beauty of the world, no loss will be great enough to drown us. Nature n art bring great comfort to the soul but man cannot always take refuge in them. He must come back to reality as you so rightly point out. But yes, without art n nature life would be cumbersome. At least these things add color n aroma to life n provide relief for some time if not always. A perfect 10.
Yes, exactly! This is the spiritual impact of poetry, love, truth, fellowship, all these positive things that havd no price buthave infinite value. You express this essential beliefso eloquently. Prose equals poetry when it relates such truths.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/5/2024 4:10:17 AM # 1.0.0.1119
in the midst of loss. Who would have thought loss would be a matter of addition instead of subtraction? Is this the common work of recovery? To turn attenuated senses into a riot of competing distractions: but the center is lost!