"Conflict with human weakness..." ~ Jane Eyre

Last fall, a professor challenged me with this statement after I presented a proposal for a paper that involved Denise Levertov's poetry about Vietnam: "So, perhaps human beings need war to be creative, and maybe the best works of art are because war exists, whether it be thematic or indirect. Without war, there would be no creativity."

My mouth gaped and such a statement; I was rendered speechless for a moment - but just a moment. I always recover to argue; I should be a lawyer. I should. I was able to disagree with him by stating that war is so horrific that artists need an outlet as a catharsis in order to deal with its horrors, that is the true reason why so many great works of art stem from war.

I believe I am right in my analysis, almost a year later.

This past week I find myself lethargic when it comes to my writing. I lack the energy to type, and I have lapse in my responses to other writers and in my comments to them. Indeed, the world seems to be on fire. I am deeply concerned about Israel this week. This Armenian woman knows what it is like for a people to fight to survive and exist. The events of this week just add to a conglomerate of concern for that entire region.

This is the true reason as to why I do not sleep well anymore.

Some days I tell myself that I might as well be living in 1968. My insides are as tight and my heart is as heavy as any other person living in the U.S. during that year who had a friend or loved one serving in the military. I anger quickly anytime I mention I know someone there and they think they are comforting me by talking politics. What does politics have to do with this scenario? How is bashing Bush going to make me feel better? It doesn't. I do enough of that in my own head, thank you. Still, there are others who have been quite a comfort of late; ironically, most of them are practically strangers. Indeed, these moments of comfort illustrate humanity at its best.

Much of my comfort lies in art. The poems like that of Denise Levertov, the lyrics of musicians, the literature of great epic poets and writers, the images of artists. All of these tend to lessen the the stressors involved whilst watching the evening news. The following poem is by Denise Levertov. Each morning I open my door to a huge array of hydrangeas, desiring nothing but peace, and I think about this poem.

July 1968

Topmost leaves of young oak,
young maple,
are red - a delicate red
almost maroon.

I am not young,
and yet not yet old. Young enough not to be able
to imagine my own old age. Something in me

puts out new leaves that are red also,
delicate, fantastic, in June,
early summer, late spring up in the north.

A dark time we live in. One would think
there would be no summer. No red leaves.
One would think there would be

no drawings-up of the blind at morning
to a field awake with flowers.
Yet with my tuft of new leaves

it is that field I wake to,
a woman foolish with desire.