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On Seeing the Poem in Lucille
Clifton
by Audrey Wilz
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Lucille
Clifton. photo Courtesy of AWP |
At the time, I listened intently on every word she said. Her bits of
wit and wisdom rained down on my eager mind. Now, months later, I don't
remember a word she said.
I felt in awe of Lucille Clifton's perfect balance of ordinariness
and magnificence. In her core, she was human, an emotional being with
flaws. But, as she read aloud her poetry, she transcended, and she rose
above herself. Reading her poetry aloud, Ms. Clifton took her already
brilliant work and elevated it to exquisite artistry.
I can't quite remember how she looked. But, I can immediately
remember her shoes. She wore old lady shoes. I suppose she did that
because, she was, indeed, an old lady. But, it seemed funny that a
world-renowned poet should be wearing black leather slip on shoes with
socks. It seemed too simple, too practical, and too common-day for the
feet that held up a woman of such distinction. Yet, she wore them with
pride, and somehow, that pride made the shoes striking.
I remember my heart throbbing while she spoke candidly about deaths
of family members whom she mourned. I remember her tone as she spoke
about the illnesses that attacked her own body. I don't remember who
died, and what they had, or even what illnesses she had, but, the tone
of her voice revealed every detail about the conditions of human
suffering.
The words pierced me. I felt the power of their universality-and
their originality. I don't remember the words, but the feelings that
they created left a poem stamped on my heart. As she read the poem
called "To My Last Period," I saw the girls around me smile
without lifting my eyes from her face.
As she signed my book, in her loopy cursive, I realized that in
meeting Lucille Clifton, I read every one of her poems simultaneously. I
consumed her entire collection in viewing her as a poem. From her shoes,
to her sorrow, to her reading, she stood before me, a poem waiting to be
read, deciphered-and enjoyed.
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