I am having an Auden phase at the moment.
One of my favorite poems of all time is The More Loving One. It is one of the handful of poems that I know by heart.
At some point, maybe a month or so after September 11, 2001, when I was still in shock, still running on adrenaline, still trying to get used the new awful skyline across the river, nothing was normal again, nothing was gotten used to – I picked up my book of Auden’s collected poems. (Which was odd, because for about 3 months after the disaster, I was unable to read anything but newspapers and history books. Leisure reading seemed completely ridiculous). But for whatever reason, I saw the dark paperback spine on my shelf, drew it out, and started reading. The More Loving One was the first poem I read.
The Greeks had it right. One of the redeeming purposes of any kind of art is that it provides the audience with a necessary catharsis. Catharsis is extremely important for communities. Especially communities who have experienced some kind of disaster.
New York City was in a state of mourning, agony, grief. It was crazy. Awful. Beyond belief. It could not be gotten used to. I still miss those damn towers.
Auden’s poem cracked the surface for me, when I read it that day. His poem allowed me to begin to truly grieve what had been lost. Grieve the new skyline, grieve all of the people lost, grieve the old world which had disappeared forever. We were in a new world, an unfamiliar world, and a huge part of me wanted to go BACK. I could not remember life on September 10.
And the last line of the poem is, for me, the most healing of all. Especially as a New Yorker who was here that day, and has no interest in anyone who says “Get over it.” He says it perfectly. There is such sadness in the poem: having to get used to this new and awful world, but there is also such hope. It can be done. Eventually. Not now. But eventually.
Okay, enough prologue. Here is Auden’s beautiful poem.
The More Loving One
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now i see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
