Perspective

Sad

By Jeremy Radin

It is sad to tip the kettle over the cup & discover
there is no more tea in the kettle. It is sad when the
diner is closed. It is sad when the hawk seizes the
rat & sad when the hawk misses. It is sad when the
child encounters too early. It is sad when a mother
apologizes. It is sad when the aphids have chewed
holes in the lacinato kale. It is sad when there is a
shopping list taped to a refrigerator. It is sad in the
morning, Bach or no Bach. It is sad in winter &
depending on the city sadder in summer. It is sad to
finish a book & sad to not finish. It is sad to make
love imperfectly. It is sad when the body is ready
but not the mind. It is sad when [ ] has left the
group chat. It is sad when the wrong thing dies. It is
sad when it is three in the morning & the wind is
howling & the moon is like a burning umbrella oh
god who will put up with me

This poem is like one of those moments when you just sigh – a long deep sigh – because the enormity of something hits you, but you can’t put your finger on what exactly. The pit of your stomach knows, you just can’t bring it up enough. Like after sharing a really beautiful and intimate moment with someone you burst into tears because you just know it is the last such moment. And you can’t decide whether to be grateful it happened or angry it’s over, but either way it’s somehow sad.

This poem is another example of how to use language to say difficult things with sensitivity, grace and balance. It opens up old and painful wounds for the narrator and yet does it with gentleness and love, so that even pain can seem desirable. The words clung to me because they reminded me again of something I’ve grappled with for a while – that no matter what you do someone is going to be sad, depending on whether they’re the hawk or the rat. The entire poem oscillates between different states of sadness, from the mundane (“It is sad when there is a shopping list taped to a refrigerator”) to the profound (“It is sad when the wrong thing dies”) as though there is but one state of existence, and it is sadness, which of course stems from the same source as happiness, just like love and hate are the same thing.

And so there is no escape for sadness. The people or things who bring us the greatest happiness (the tea, the book) also bring us the greatest sadness (discovering there is no more tea in the kettle, finishing the book). The things in the middle which bring us but little joy or sadness are like noise which hums in the background, but which we never fully tune in to, which never really make us feel alive. So let us embrace sadness, the poem seems to say as it reaches its climactic end and unravels into what sounds like a cry, a plea – “oh god who will put up with me” – the sentence left incomplete as if that’s what sadness is – a state of incompleteness.