Surface Dwellers

A HOUSE WHERE ALL'S ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUSMy Rooms at the Beau Rivage, 1918
by Henri Matisse, 1869 - 1954

"I have often asked myself the reason for the sadness
In a world where tears are just a lullaby . . . "
~ Carole King ~
The following poem has been in my notebook of favorites for thirty years now, since my Arkansas days, back when Bill Clinton was governor. I like the combination of grief and evolutionary biology, the mystery of salt water without and within, the existential quest for meaning -- "Not that we know what we're doing here." Yet, despite our sad lack of comprehension -- "We try to do what's right":

Living on the Surface
The dolphin
walked upon the land a little while
and crawled back to the sea
saying something thereby
about all that we live with.

Some of us
have followed him from time to time.
Most of us stay.
Not that we know what we're doing here.

We do it anyway
lugging a small part of the sea around.
It leaks out our eyes.

We swim inside ourselves
but we walk on the land.

What's wrong, we say, what's wrong?

Think how sadness soaks into
the beds we lie on.

Jesus, we've only just got here.
We try to do what's right
but what do we know?

by American poet Miller Williams (1930 - 2015)
Professor of English and Foreign Languages
and Director of the University of Arkansas Press, Fayetteville

Naturalist Annie Dillard draws a similar conclusion in her essay "Teaching a Stone to Talk":

“The mountains are great stone bells; they clang together like nuns. Who shushed the stars? There are a thousand million galaxies easily seen in the Palomar reflector; collisions between and among them do, of course, occur. But these collisions are very long and silent slides. Billions of stars sift among each other untouched, too distant even to be moved, heedless as always, hushed. The sea pronounces something, over and over, in a hoarse whisper; I cannot quite make it out. But God knows I have tried” (89, emphasis added).

When I read "The Death of the Everglades" in Looking for America by nuclear historian Richard Rhodes, I was immediately reminded of Williams' poem. Rhodes writes that "Florida with its imperceptible seaweed tilt is deceptive, a beach itself dropping slowly into the water, a ramp on which the smallest creature may generation by generation crawl out onto the land. We came from the sea by degrees teaching our flesh to wrap the sea inside it. It courses through us every day of our lives . . . We never returned. The fish left the sea and returned, most of them. . . . The shark, with his bitter blood, never left the sea. He is old and well adapted" (56). Not like us: "we've only just got here."

With characteristic philosophic whimsy, StoryPeople artist and writer Brian Andreas captures the same sentiments. Why does the sea seem so familiar? Because all of our days we carry it around inside of us, like a story we used to know:

Place by the SeaHe kept a piece of algae behind his ear to remind him of his roots. A million years ago every place was a little place by the sea, he would say & my mind would go blank & I would swim through the day without a care in the world & it all seemed so familiar that I knew I would go back someday to my own little place by the sea.
Hidden OceanShe held her grief behind her eyes like an ocean & when she leaned forward into the day it spilled onto the floor & she wiped at it quickly
with her foot & pretended no one had seen.

WhalesI remember when the whales had wings, she said. Whatever happened?
I said. It got to be too noisy with all the airplanes & other stuff, so they flew into the ocean & never came back. Some days, she added, I think about going too.

As Williams points out, the dolphin did try living on the surface for awhile before he settled on the sea, and "Some of us / have followed him from time to time." But for the most part, we struggle along, living on the surface, trying to do what's right.

I am not as familiar with this next poem, which Miller Williams wrote for Bill Clinton, as I am with "Living on the Surface," but I include it here for historical context. I know that Williams has been friends with Clinton since the early 70's when Clinton was also teaching at the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville.

Following Robert Frost, who read "The Gift Outright" for John F. Kennedy in 1961, and fellow Arkansan Maya Angelou, who recited a poem for President Clinton in 1993, Williams was the third poet to recite his work at a presidential inauguration. Elizabeth Alexander, reading at the 2009 Inauguration of Barrack Obama was the fourth.

1997 Inaugural Poem by Miller Williams:

Of History and Hope
We have memorized America,
how it was born and who we have been and where.
In ceremonies and silence we say the words,
telling the stories, singing the old songs.
We like the places they take us. Mostly we do.
The great and all the anonymous dead are there.
We know the sound of all the sounds we brought.
The rich taste of it is on our tongues.
But where are we going to be, and why, and who?
The disenfranchised dead want to know.
We mean to be the people we meant to be,
to keep on going where we meant to go.
But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how
except in the minds of those who will call it Now?
The children. The children. And how does our garden grow?
With waving hands -- oh, rarely in a row --
and flowering faces. And brambles, that we can no longer allow.
Who were many people coming together
cannot become one people falling apart.
Who dreamed for every child an even chance
cannot let luck alone turn doorknobs or not.
Whose law was never so much of the hand as the head
cannot let chaos make its way to the heart.
Who have seen learning struggle from teacher to child
cannot let ignorance spread itself like rot.
We know what we have done and what we have said,
and how we have grown, degree by slow degree,
believing ourselves toward all we have tried to become --
just and compassionate, equal, able, and free.
All this in the hands of children, eyes already set
on a land we never can visit -- it isn't there yet --
but looking through their eyes, we can see
what our long gift to them may come to be.
If we can truly remember, they will not forget.

[© Copyright 1997 The Washington Post Company]

And one last connection:
try listening to this beautiful cover of
"Gentle on my Mind,"
sung by the daughter of Miller Williams,
country rock singer and songwriter,
Lucinda Williams.

Rooms by the Sea, 1951by Edward Hopper, 1882–1967
SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Saturday, April 28th

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The Desolation of Abode and Boy

A HOUSE WHERE ALL'S ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUSWaiting for the Moving Van ~ June 2004

************************

This picture of Sam polishing the kitchen tiles
was taken in August 2001, on the day we moved in,
pre-figuring the above photograph of Ben,
taken three years later on the day we moved out.
For today, I have pulled together yet another moving day blog post, this time featuring a poem by my son Sam, written back in 2007, when he was a freshman in high school. At the time, I thought he did very well, and I still think so. I am honored to feature him today as my guest blogger.

I confess, it was my idea (interfering mother) for him to experiment with the pantoum style, thinking that the repetition would capture the echo of the gradually emptying house; but all the rest was up to him.























Farewell

The barren house deserted and devoid,
The home depleted of its frills and friends.
The desolation of abode and boy,
Packed up and sent off to another place.

The home depleted of its frills and friends,
Who will replace the boy that loved her so?
The lonely house cries out; it wants to shout,
“Come Back, Come Back! I can’t be left like this!”

Who will replace the boy that loves her so?
The boy that laughed and cried within her walls,
Humming and thrumming through welcoming rooms,
Now stripped down to bare bones and skeleton.

The boy meanders far from all he loved.
The desolation of the house and boy
Like Tara and Scarlett, separate and sad,
Their barren hearts deserted and devoid.

by Sam McCartney, age 14


To accompany their completed poems, the students were also required to submit an explication of their poetic process. Sam explains:

In my poem "Farewell," I used alliteration, internal rhyme, literary allusion, personification, simile, and hyperbole . . .

Alliteration is definitely my favorite poetic device, so I started my poem with "deserted and devoid" and continued with "frills and friends," "bare bones," "separate and sad" . . .

The lines in which I use internal rhyme are 7: "out / shout"; and 11: "humming / thrumming." Internal rhyme, for me, is a really effective way to enforce an idea. For example, on line 7, I really want to personify the house and enforce the idea that is is crying out in anguish; and on line 11, I really want to enforce the idea of the boy joyfully running through the house.

Finally, I chose an allusion to another work of literature. I think the placement of this device in line 15, which is near the end, really ties the poem together. The whole relationship that is being described throughout the poem between the boy and the house is similar to the feelings that Scarlett, the main character in Gone With the Wind, has for Tara, the house she lived in as a child. She was separated from that house during the Civil War and several years after.

As for the process that I underwent to complete my poem, it was a tough process that caused me a lot of stress and panic. I was trying to write my poem when my mother asked me to download pictures from her camera for her. As I completed this task, I started looking at the photographs from the day I moved from my house in Philadelphia. There was my brother, stretched out forlornly on the kitchen counter - top in our wonderful old house. As I looked at this picture, a flood of memories came to me and the poem wrote itself after that.


When I got the poem written down on paper, I went through a thesaurus to sophisticate* my poem by using words like "meanders" instead of "walks around." Also, I let my mother read the poem to add her insightful ideas. She showed me one of her favorite poems (see below), written in the form of a pantoum, thinking that I might like to experiment with this poetic pattern, in which line 1 of each stanza is an echo of line 2 in the previous stanza (until the final stanza, which can rearrange the pattern in a variety of ways). She also helped me keep the poem in blank verse by using her vast vocabulary** to keep all the lines 10 syllables long.

For example, in line 3, I could not get the line longer than nine syllables. She suggested that I replace the word "house" with "abode," which added one more syllable. Earlier that day, my teacher had suggested that I consider the word "abode" as a synonym for "house," so I knew it was the right choice for my poem.

Using the devices of alliteration, internal rhyme, and allusion taught me a lot about how the sound and sense of a poem go together to create the final impression. In my case, I wanted to capture the sad, hollow feeling of moving day, when residents say farewell and every stray sound echoes bleakly through the empty rooms. I hope my readers experience this feeling when they read my work.

**********************************************************

*sophisticate: at this point, Sam's teacher has written in the margin of his final draft: "Is this a real word?" I think the correct answer would have to be: "It is now!

**vast vocabulary: I swear I did not put Sam up to saying this!

**********************************************************

Here is the other poem Sam refers to, the one that I had suggested he read to get a feel for the pantoum:


Always the One Who Loves His Father Most

Always the one who loves his father most,
the one the father loves the most in turn,
will fight against his father as he must.
Neither knows what he will come to learn.

The one the father loves the most in turn
tells the father no and no and no.
but neither knows what he will come to learn
nor cares a lot what that could be, and so

tells his father no and no and no,
is ignorant of what the years will teach
nor cares a lot what that could be, and so
unties the knot that matters most, while each

is ignorant of what the years will teach,
they'll learn how pride -- if each lives out his years --
unties the knot that matters most, while each
will feel a sadness, feel the midnight fears.

They'll learn how pride -- if each lives out his years --
will lose the aging other as a friend,
will feel a sadness, feel the midnight fears.
The child and then the father, world without end,

will lose the aging other as a friend.
And then the child of that one, too, will grow --
the child and then the father, world without end --
in turn to fight his father, comme il faut,

will fight against his father as he must,
always, the one who loves his father most.

by Clement Long

Long's poem can be found on pp 116 - 17,
in Patterns of Poetry: An Encyclopedia of Forms
by Miller Williams


Our Third Floor Landing, like a drawing by Escher!

P.S.
Even Harry Potter says,
"It felt most strange to stand here in the silence and know
that he was about to leave the house for the last time. . . .
It gave him an odd, empty feeling to remember those times;
it was like remembering a younger brother whom he had lost."
~ J. K. Rowling ~
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, 44
SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Sunday, August 14, 2011

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com