Milk and Honey is the first collection of poetry from this wondrous Canadian-born lady, Rupi Kaur (b. 1992) who writes and sketches and photographs in order to transform life’s brutality and vitality into understanding and exultant love.
how is it so easy for you
to be kind to people he asked
milk and honey dripped
from my lips and i answered
cause people have not
been kind to me
Many of the poems in Milk and Honey are untitled, uncapitalized, and uncategorized, except for their considered placement in four groups: the hurting, the loving, the breaking, the healing.
Kaur’s inclusion of the article “the” emphasizes the finite. While hurting could be indefinite, the hurting is not. It’s something into which we can enter and leave. Something over which we have power.
i did not leave because
i stopped loving you
i left because the longer
i stayed the less
i loved myself
Kaur’s self-minimalizing presence nevertheless exerts itself on the page. It brings the power and 1presence that poetry should have. Bridging the conscious and subconscious in elegant parry.
the thing about writing
is I can’t tell if it’s healing
or destroying me
I am delighted by Kaur’s willingness to exist in uncertainty, in complexity, in questions. Rilke’s grand advice was to “live the questions.”
Humans have such urgency to sort things out, to make sense. To learn and grow and adapt and make things more efficient to no immediately apparent end. Kaur suggests “sense” isn’t something to be arrived at. But power is. Kindness is. Love is. And—as Rilke reminds us—self is.
i am water
to offer life
to drown it away
Do not read into the simplicity of words a simplicity of meaning. Or thought. “Nothing is simple,” wrote American poet Wendell Berry, “Not even simplification.”2
My most liberally underlined page in Milk and Honey is more prose than poem. I like to call it “Small Talks With Fathers,” although it is unnamed.
father. you always call to say nothing in particular. you ask what i’m doing or where I am when the silence stretches like a lifetime between us i scramble to find questions to keep the conversation going. what i long to say most is. i understand this world broke you. it has been so hard on your feet. i don’t blame you for not knowing how to remain soft with me. sometimes i stay up thinking of all the places you are hurting which you’ll never care to mention. i come from the same aching blood, from the same bone so desperate for attention i collapse in on myself. i am your daughter i know the small talk is the only way you know how to tell me you love me. cause it is the only way i know how to tell you.
Who hasn’t felt such distance? And the impossible love born within? Writer Lynne Sharon Schwartz spoke of sharing a book with her parents expecting small talk. When they called to discuss their opinions, Schwartz said it was everything she’d ever sought.
Pain is incomparable. It is incomparable between people and also within people. The pain I felt when twenty-three is not the pain I feel now because I am not who I was. That being said, pain is transferrable. It is communicative. And it is redemptive.
Rebecca Solnit once wrote “Writing is saying to no one and to everyone the things it is not possible to say to someone.” Did that instinct propel Kaur’s work into the world?
you have made it to the end. with my heart in your hands. thank you. for arriving here safely. for being tender with the most delicate part of me. sit down. breathe. you must be tired. let me kiss your hands. your eyes. they must be wanting of something sweet. i am sending you all my sugar.