Letters to a Young Poet(ess) II

August  30, 2018  
     
Ahavati    
Cherokee, North Carolina      
     
Dear Younger Poetess,      
     
     These mountains are beginning to herald autumn.  Soon they will sing in a cacophony of color that resembles the pure essence of poetry.  I am enjoying a view  of distant storms from my veranda while sipping evening tea.  I just finished reading your poetry.      
     
     I read between the lines of your verses, where resides meaning within the space of breath.  Where there is joy, there is also pain; where there is longing, there is also contentment prevalent as sadness settling in age.   The once wild state of your being, the turbulent past of your origin, has all but molded you into the extreme talent you have become.    
     
     The immeasurable depth from which you write is both crowned with experience and inspiration from a poetess gone much too soon and young.  And yet she somehow lives through your words, born of her very existence.  It is for this reason you must carry forth the torch of poetic justice for those gone beyond the physical veil that the living can never visit.  But, rather, are touched by the contributions of such poets and poetesses.      
     
     You said once that all you desired was to be taken seriously, as though certain writers in your circle of admiration could not see you for such.  Your young age is maturing into wisdom, and one day you will look back upon these days as stepping stones to something greater: your authentic self; the woman and writer you were destined to become each moment of joy and suffering it took to arrive.      
     
     I write this with certainty because I have traveled the road you now tread, my back ladened with desire for something I thought was lacking in the presence of another.  Nothing lacks within yourself; you are ever whole unto being and fulfillment if you so believe.  For it isn't the letting go that hurts, but the holding on to that which you think you must have, be it just a dream, or a dream of someone.      
     
     For I am not so old that I do not remember the unequalled yoke of my days, the miserable presence of emptiness copulating with the idea of escape.  But to where? To what?  To whom?  Had I only known of poetry, the power thereof unto salvation for the writer at heart, as I believe you to be.      
     
     Poetry salvaged me from the bonds of humanity because it's in my blood, as it is in yours: red, warm, alive with musery.  Be you a physical escapee of circumstance, or a virtual dreamer of something different, poetry remains the same within you.  And should you doubt its presence from the dormancy of hours or days, when words themselves seem to abandon the very expression of your creation, know this;  Poetry is not a choice that can ever be deserted.      
     
     Once born with poetry in your veins, you reside as its fruition amid the space of each breath.  For it is only the space which allows the emphasis of meaning to create life.  Therefore, never doubt the power of yourself or the destiny of your poetry to be lost in even the direst of circumstances.      
     
     You are never alone as long as you breathe, despite how lonely you may feel.  You are but one breath from creation while resting in the space of meaning.  You will always exhale into the inkblood of a poem, written or imagined.      
     
     And yes; you are beautiful. You're also enough.      
     
Very Truly Yours,      
     
Ahavati      
     
P.S. - I still have your gift on my china hutch.      
     
     
     
#RainerMariaRilke