Elizabeth Elliott
AUTHOR

Elizabeth Elliott

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I am your everyday woman in my eighties and I'm still trying to learn how to be a bystander. If I am unable to rush in bodily (to just about anything), I rush in with a terrible empathy. It can be a "wild surprise", an unquenchable sorrow (climate change, war, injustice), and when I was ten or fifty years younger, exaltation. The power these responses have over me leaves me with only one recourse: write. Write a poem. With one or two exceptions there has been no time when I was not beginning a poem, working on a poem or feeling certain a poem was complete. Poetry has stopped time for sure; the cause of every poem is still as vivid to me as when I was twenty or fifty. Poems have been, and are, my response to both the world around me and the world beyond me. Nothing has been excluded from my attempts to make what I experience real for me and for readers: politics, science, individuals, and feelings of all kinds -- to make real for my children and grandchildren my unending caring for them --and finally, to make real for anyone reading my passion for nature and for beauty in all its marvelous variety. I have often been drawn to my apprehension of God, or rather the great mystery. And death has pounced on me several times and driven me to words. Of course I have also been wild with anger and disgust and have tried, never conclusively, never with the power so many terrible events elicit, to shout out condemnation, or to weep inwardly a kind of excruciating pity and sorrow. Rage against certain politics and especially slaughter and displacements of the innocents.
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