Out of Ruination

“To have ruined one’s self over poetry is an honour.”  Oscar Wilde

Much of my poetry comes out of ruin.  I wouldn’t say that my self is ruined, of course.  I’m too young, and too fortunate, to have the privilege of calling myself ruined.  But I firmly believe that every human being can find unhappiness in their own way, no matter how bright their lives may be.  The smallest things can leave gaping wounds in the soul, and often it is out of those withered parts that the most beautiful art springs.  Too often, it's from there that my art comes, beautiful or not.

I couldn’t say why.  Maybe it’s because ugliness in ourselves inspires us to seek loveliness.  Maybe it’s because we appreciate the loveliness more after having slogged through some dark and unpleasant part of our lives.  Maybe it’s just a small and despairing part of ourselves that still wants to leave something beautiful behind. 

Oscar Wilde would have known about ruination.  All his life he carried with him a lock of hair in an envelope, a remnant of the sister who died suddenly at age ten.  He was arrested for loving a man, and the subsequent imprisonment cost him his family.  The last years of his life were spent wandering, his creativity lost to him.  But now, that very suffering has made him into an icon.  I have heard more about the man himself than about his work—many of my fellows at this marvelous school of mine seem to hold him as a hero.  And one of my loveliest memories is that of visiting Wilde’s grave in Paris, the statue over his tomb covered in admiring and loving graffiti.  My favorite?  The simple message, “My dearest Oscar: We are winning.”

So I understand what Wilde meant when he said this.  I believe—I have to believe—that even the darkest parts of one’s life can lead to and even create something beautiful.  Be it poetry, art, dance, theatre, or just a greater appreciation of the good in life, I believe that in the end it is worth it.  It is an honor.