Robert Creeley, "Oh"

I started reading Sheila Heti's Pure Colour and I think that's my new obsession. I remember loving Motherhood. Her take on wrestling with God and the story of her family in WW2 are parts of the book I want to revisit. Pure Colour has a leanness to it and a punchy humor I would like to learn from. If you have read it or want to read it with me, I'd like to talk about it with you.

Corey Atad's "Look what we do now," an essay on activism and Hollywood, is cut from the "shut it all down, the Internet has been won" cloth. Atad reflects on the earnestness and effectiveness of The Zone of Interest's Glazer given the institutions we're dealing with. A sampling from his conclusion:

When films like The Zone of Interest and Oppenheimer win top prizes, one wonders at the intention. Is it simply a matter of self-delusion? Do the Academy’s voting members think they understood those films and are also on the right side of history? Maybe they’re just cowards. Sometimes it feels more insidious; a systemic dilution of art’s power to illuminate the world by giving it a golden statuette.

Below, I talk about Robert Creeley's "Oh," a short poem which I believe beautifully illustrates some tough emotions.

Robert Creeley, "Oh"

Listen and look. Creeley's sentence does not just surprise with sadness: "Oh like a bird / falls down / out of air." It's an extended sigh. As you repeat it, you start sighing variously. "Oh a very good cup of tea spilled," one like Bigelow's Constant Comment, complete with spice and depth. "Oh they don't want to talk any more," and you're not sure what ended a friendship or relationship. Or simply "Oh," when you know grief will pervade your existence for the rest of your life.

Going back to Creeley's line, "Oh," a quiet shock and horror. Stunned, there's no scream. You can't believe your eyes. Something beautiful—something indulgent of the miracle of flying—didn’t just disappear or pass out of life.

Oh
Robert Creeley
 
Oh like a bird
falls down
 
out of air,
oh like a disparate
 
small snowflake
melts momentarily.

Its body failed. It stopped doing what it had been doing. It died, a result of processes not quite instantaneous. First one critical set of functions fails, then all of them. A moment’s reflection and the mind is drawn to any number of terrors. How frail life is; how little time we have to secure what matters.

Creeley's poem brings into focus the sweep of grief. It has a strangely calming affect. I can't get angry thinking about those I've lost. I can only wonder what flying so high meant to them. I hope I can fly in their vicinity, if not at their height. All loss, I feel, has a suddenness; one is never truly prepared. And that suddenness highlights the uniqueness and necessity of individual lives.

I understand the second part of the poem as a pledge. “[O]h like a disparate / small snowflake / melts momentarily.” “Disparate:” don’t let what’s unique slip away. If it does, you must mourn. You must embrace regrets and doubts, only because you want to embrace what’s lovely when you recognize it again.