No Regrets?

Kelli Russell Agodon recently posted the notes she took during Mary Oliver's reading and talk at Pacific Lutheran University. The talk, Mary Oliver and The Writer's Story, consisted of an hour-long Q&A. Many thanks to Kelli for her notes which are full of wonderful thoughts. One question and answer that made me pause and reflect for several days:

Question: As a poet, what's your biggest regret?

Answer "I don't' have any." She said she is very happy with her life as a poet and living with her art. She said, "Art is an essential hallway into a spiritual life."

I kept thinking no regrets? None? Is that possible? Okay, so maybe Oliver just means in her poetry life. But still, even with that limitation—and surely her life as a poet must be a huge part of her life—it seems to me kind of, well, not believable. Poetry is the place I go to for happiness, and my life as a poet is intensely exciting and satisfying, even when I'm writing sad poems. Nevertheless, I have lots of regrets as a poet. Why didn't I start sooner? Why didn't I pursue this or that opportunity more aggressively? Why don't I write everyday? Why do I go weeks or longer without producing?

And don't even get me started on other areas of my life. I don't want to go on a real bummer, but I'm always regretting something. The list could go on and on. These thoughts got me to remembering and thinking about a poem I like by Natasha Saje. It's from her collection, Bend (Tupelo Press).


Regrets

I regret I sleep so much, that my body

makes demands I do not refuse. I regret

my thirties, unreasonable as crabgrass,

and I regret the two vertical lines between

my brows, the manifestation of my anxieties

which of course I also regret. I regret

the Swiss milk pitcher broken by the neighbor’s

cat and I regret my soft teeth. I regret nights

I stayed awake baking or reading novels

that changed me only momentarily. I

regret that capitalism is my religion

and the small red purse I do not use.

I regret lying in the sun as a teenager and

not putting a safety catch on my grandmother’s

brooch. I regret the poisoned dish of lacquered duck

in 1977, and the squirrel that last year

got caught in a rat trap. I regret the Procrustean

bed of my job and having no columbine

seeds from the beds by the old library. I regret

the demise of the streetcar and the perils

of color, and that in my sleep I do not

dismantle silence. O my Great Lake of Regrets,

my body a floating island—

I like the structure of the poem, the repetition and list. I like the mixture of serious and trivial regrets, the resulting feeling of disproportion. I like Saje's word choice: manifestation, crabgrass, capitalism, brooch, lacquered, Procrustean, columbine, demise, perils, dismantled. These words appeal to my ear and my brain. And what an ending with its sudden switch to apostrophe and the metaphor that drifts off to an unfinished thought.

Challenge: Make your own list—regrets, minor infractions, things for which you should apologize, or things for which you refuse to apologize. Turn the list into a poem.



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