The Thick Oil of Grief

How poetry brings a stranger's feelings to the surface

I asked her: “What can I write for you about?” 

“My father died two months ago. And there are so many emotions, deep in my gut.” she told me.

“It feels like I have throw-up grief to get past it”  

And so I pressed my fingers to my lips to digest this imagery. She wanted to give me space to write, leaving me to walk down by the river. With my practice of writing poetry on the spot, I let the story I’ve received swirl for a few moments inside me. And I wait for an image to arise. 

I could feel the heaviness of her grief. Taste the acidic burn of tears stained with memories. 

We describe nausea to come ‘in waves’ - even being on the water makes us ‘sea-sick’. The rolling tempest too much for our delicate systems. So starting the poem at the ocean floor felt right. 

Once the opening line appears, my fingers fly across the keys - stamping this thought into the welcoming paper. Letting the musicality of the typewriter lull me into the flow of the poem.

A weight lies at the bottom of my ocean

Tumultuous and tender the waves roll over and over

Not allowing any re-thinking, editing to happen. Just pursuing the path of this image I’ve conjured.

I could see thick greasy oil, polluting the shoreline of her wellbeing. A necessary purging of what the oceans within her wanted to release. 

Until the back of my throat burns - spilling

The thick oil of grief onto the shore.

In the closing lines, I try to land on a specific message or impart a bit of hope - if the poem calls for it. I wanted something to lift her, a striking crescendo to avoid descending into the heaviness.

I hear him again, a comfort on the wind

To soften and calm.

Within a few minutes, the poem complete, she returned. Sitting down next to me on the park bench. I read the poem out loud to her - letting the syllables dance in the air and sink onto her shoulders.

Her soft tears carved valleys in her cheeks as she cupped the small paper in her hands. 

“Thank you. This is exactly what I needed” she said.

I held the space for her to sit with the mix of sadness and adoration for this moment of creative magic being born. Then rising, a little bit lighter, she smiled and turned to continue her stroll along the river. 

I took a few minutes to appreciate the tender emotions she offered and give thanks for this gift of connecting. I’ll never know where that poem now sits. Or how many times she has returned to it, seeking a slice of comfort - or to remember that someone truly saw her. 

It amazes me how quickly these meaningful topics appear at someone’s surface, when I say I’m going to write them a poem. Something about the word ‘poetry’ that allows us to say ‘yes’ to our feelings. Let them out from treasure chest of our our own chest and into the space between me and my typewriter.