I had heard praise for Rupi Kaur from many friends before attending her performance at Colgate, but I had never read her work--or so I thought. You might have seen this post in your feed, as I had a couple of months before:
The poem is from Kaur's new book "Milk and Honey," a collection of pieces addressing trauma, healing and love.
When I walked into Donovan's Pub, where the event was to be held, it was already crowded with people of all kinds, most of them carrying a copy of this book and all anxiously awaiting Kaur's arrival. I was surprised at how tightly packed the space was - that is, until she stepped on stage. She was small but her presence was monumental. She talked about how nervous she was and said that in order to combat this she would stop talking and do "something else." That something else was the first poem which immediately began to flow from her in the lyrical manner of spoken word and was accompanied by the graceful movements of her hands. Silence quickly took over the room as everyone clung to her every sound. I thought to myself that maybe all poetry is meant to be heard and not seen.
Is poetry still poetry if it is written and then hidden away? A poem's journey is a strange one. It starts as just a thought, the experience of one individual. Then, it is written down, maybe in a journal, maybe on a napkin, maybe in the sand. It refuses to be left alone. It might demand one or two or seven makeovers, and then it will demand to be shown off. The author does as told. The poem is seductive, deceptive, however. Once another person gets ahold of it, the poem starts casting its spell. The reader, now readers, think that they are the only ones who really understand the poem, who feel it down to their core - except for the author, that is. But the thing about a poem is that it likes to take many lovers. After a while, its sweetness has been tasted by so many, each one insisting that no one has ever tasted honey as sweet as this, claiming it for their own. When the poem has successfully enchanted its readers, it does something unexpected. It beckons its lovers into a crowded, dimly lit pub in the smallest town Kaur has ever performed in and does something magical: people of all shapes, sizes, genders, races, backgrounds respond in unison to its siren song - laughing, crying, feeling together. Even though each person had a unique relationship with the poem, we all now have something in common, a foundation for connection, a glimpse of our shared humanity.
