Chels

I’ve always been someone who thrives at project based work. It’s part of the reason why I enjoyed uni so much – writing a dissertation is the perfect scope for a project to keep me focused and feeling productive (as stressful as the process is). In an ideal world, I’d have gone on to do a PhD, but at some point in life one has to grow up and make practical choices, which is a shame, because often what seems like the practical choice turns out to be the opposite.

Two months ago I signed with an agency in hopes of getting some regular work. I won’t go into too much detail, because despite everything I don’t want to lose the job, but since then I’ve worked less than if I’d still been on the job hunt. In fact, not only have I made a financial loss, I’m currently back on the job hunt after what was effectively a two month break.

As you can imagine, it’s left me feeling a bit lost.

As is often the case here at Nonsense&Lit, I’ve turned to poetry to keep me sane. The great thing about poetry is you get to reap the benefits with very little effort, in comparison to other comforts. Reading a novel takes, at minimum, a few hours of commitment, as does watching a comfort film. Exercise and crafts take effort and motivation, and in an emotional slump, it can be hard to gather the energy needed to engage in hobbies. Poetry, however, is short and sweet, and at risk of sounding like a broken record, they’re a little burst of comfort when you need them most.

I often turn to old favourites at times like this. When I’m feeling completely hopeless, Not Waving but Drowning by Stevie Smith usually comes to mind. Upon first read, it doesn’t seem particularly comforting, in fact it’s quite bleak:

Nobody heard him, the dead man,   

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you thought   

And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking

And now he’s dead

It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,   

They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always   

(Still the dead one lay moaning)   

I was much too far out all my life   

And not waving but drowning.

The poem is about being misunderstood, and yet it captures the feeling so well of overwhelm, and of the difficulty of asking for help, that it appears to tell the reader I understand you. The bleakness of the content is juxtaposed with the playful structure – with a jaunty rhythm and rhyme scheme, when read aloud the poem is rhythmic, and almost dares you to read it with a smile. The speaker knows more than the others in the poem, aside from the dead man, and seems almost morbidly superior for the fact. It’s quite an unusual outlook on the tragic death, but I think it perfectly captures the frustration of not being heard.

While Smith provides comfort through discomfort, I always rely on Mary Oliver for a more traditional comfort. I talk a lot about Wild Geese because ever since I first encountered the poem it has brought me endless comfort; a reminder that striving for perfection should come second to appreciating life.

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting  

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

I find great comfort in nature – I love to see new flowers bloom in spring, smell the fresh air, and watch the birds outside my window. Mary Oliver brings nature onto the page, bringing the comfort indoors when the outside world is too much (or, when hayfever keeps me locked inside). I analysed Wild Geese back in April.

My final comfort poem isn’t particularly comforting on its own – rather, I find comfort in the lesson I learned from it. During my A Level English lessons, we read William Carlos Williams’ This is Just to Say:

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold

Rather than analysing the poem, as we always had done before, our task was to transform it. We’d already gone through all the different ways to transform a text, and we were given a lesson to create something based on This is Just to Say. For me, getting to see all the different interpretations of the poem through those transformations completely changed the way I viewed poetry. I had always loved reading poetry, and analysing and writing about them in class, but it gave me a whole new perspective. One that I can’t really explain, other than in a way that was the moment when I began to get poetry.

Poems can’t solve all of life’s problems, but they’re always available for a quick burst of escapism, a literary comfort food as it were. I’ll probably continue to have a stressful week, but at least I have my poetry anthologies to turn to when I need a bit of reassurance.