Time Does Not Assuage

THE BUDDING MOON
ACCUSTOMED, CERMONIOUS

"Well, I'll be damned
Here comes your ghost again
But that's not unusual
It's just that the moon is full . . ."
Joan Baez

Reading Duo Dickinson's Lenten Meditations is good way to discover poems by Emily Dickinson that you may have never before encountered. For the past few springs, it has been Duo's Lenten discipline to feature 40 of Emily's poems in 40 days. That's how I came across this one -- Emily's elegant response to the ancient idiom "Time heals all wounds":

They say that ‘time assuages,’–
Time never did assuage;
An actual suffering strengthens,
As sinews do, with age.

Time is a test of trouble,
But not a remedy.
If such it prove, it prove too
There was no malady.

Emily Dickinson

You might not think of Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886) and Friedrich Nietzsche (1844 – 1900), as contemporaries, but in fact their lives overlapped by 42 years. In 1888, Nietzsche wrote: "What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger," an aphorism that stands in interesting contrast to the second line of Dickinson's poem: "An acutual suffering strengthens." Unlike Nietzsche, Dickinson does not say that suffering provides a source of personal growth. Rather, she implies that suffering strengthens itself -- not that it lends any fortitude to the sufferer. Instead, the actual wound itself grows stronger as time passes.

As I observed awhile back on my book blog, perhaps various hurtful incidents actually feel not less but more egregious as you gain the clarity to look back and realize that circumstances were actually way worse than you were able to acknowledge at the time because your emotional survival depended on pushing the reality out of your mind and rationalizing that all was well.

If "it prove" that an ache or pain should dissipate, has it has been healed by Time? No, says Dickinson, it just wasn't all that bad in the first place. On the other hand, if the wound was profound, it is with you for life. Time is not a remedy; time does not assuage.

Writing over a century later, Anne Lamott (b 1954) concurs with Dickinson. Rather than alleviating old unresolved wrongs, Time brings a sharper focus. I appreciate Dickinson's generalities: suffering, trouble, malady; and Lamott's specifics: moving her mother's ashes from the back of the closet and going as "deeply, as I could into the mystery of our relationship":

"I've been angry at her most of my life, even after she died. I put the ashes in the closet as soon as they came back from the funeral home, two years ago, thinking I could finally give up all hope that a wafting white-robed figure would rise up from the ashes and say, 'Oh, Little One, my darling daughter, I am here now, finally.' I prayed and prayed for my heart to soften, to forgive her, and love her for what she did give me -- life, great values, a lot of tennis lessons, and the best she could do. Unfortunately, the best she could do was terrible, like the Minister of Silly Walks trying to raise a girl, and my heart remained hardened towards her. . . . she was like someone who had broken my leg, and my leg had healed badly, and I would limp forever.

"I couldn't pretend she hadn't done extensive damage -- that's called denial. But I wanted to dance anyway, even with a limp. I know forgiveness is a component of freedom, but I couldn't, even after she died, grant her amnesty. Forgiveness means it finally becomes unimportant that you hit back. You're done. It doesn't necessarily mean you want to be with the person again; but if you keep hitting back, you stay trapped in the nightmare . . . My life has actually been much better since she died, and it was liberating to be so angry, after having been such a good and loyal girl. But 18 months after her death, I still thought of her . . . with bewilderment that this person could ever be in charge, and dismay, and something like hatred."

from Lamott's essay O Noraht, Noraht
[See also: Mother's Day]

Just as Lamott is able to claim hatred as one of her residual emotions after her mother's death, poet W. S. Merwin, looking back on his childhood, admits: "I did not know at the time that the names for much of my feeling about [my father] were really dread and anger” (emphasis added). Children, having neither the vocabulary nor the autonomy, don't know these things until later.

If only we could skip all the bewildering memories and have just the good ones. Sometimes I play a game inside my head, going through the years and picking out a series of happy highlights: a fun picnic, a special holiday, a surprise present, and so forth. I think to myself, what if I focused only on these things and let myself forget all the rest? Sadly though, that starts to feel unbearably artificial -- Lamott has already named it: "that's called denial." More truthfully, all the negative counterparts are hovering at the edge of my memory, awaiting validation. Does Time assuage? No it doesn't.

A Few More Connections
1. Additional Emily Dickinson poems
featured in essays by Duo Dickinson

A beautiful poem about both carpentry & parenting:

The Props assist the House
Until the House is built
And then the Props withdraw
And adequate, erect,
The House support itself
And cease to recollect
The Augur and the Carpenter –
Just such a retrospect
Hath the perfected Life –
A Past of Plank and Nail
And slowness – then the scaffolds drop
Affirming it a Soul –

Facing reality:
The Things that never can come back, are several —
Childhood — some forms of Hope — the Dead . . . ~ on facebook

Honoring the child:
Caught Between Two Worlds ~ on facebook

"Every parent comes to know that you have nothing to do with the beauty of your children and every responsibility not to betray it."

2. Ursula Nordstrom: “I am a former child, and I haven't forgotten a thing.”

3. Francine Tolf offers a forgive and forget [or better yet, remember and forgive] scenario, in the poem "Across Time and Death." Recalling a long ago evening of patience and tenderness, she writes:

"Let me dwell on this scene when I am tempted to finger
some distant hurt they caused, for even in middle age,
pain fom childhood thrives greedily if given nourishment.
Let me cradle the seed of this long - ago night to remember
the goodness of these two people, and to tell them out loud
across time and death and the imperfect understanding
that stains every human relationship:
I thank you, I honor you, I love you."

4. Nadia Bolz-Weber: "Perseverating negatively about the past, especially in terms of our resentments about what other people did to us, keeps us stuck in a maze. And being in that maze keeps us from moving forward. And it is difficult to leave the maze because our ego demands fairness. And since it is the PAST, usually there is no real resolution to be had. There is no adjudicatory process available to us . . . ." [previously on FN & QK]

5. Life can feel so unfair but is, in fact, so neutral:
Thomas Hardy's poem, "Going and Staying"

6. Another example of adults foisting weirdly interpreted religion onto kids; but thank goodness they don't always fall for it:

Actor ~ Steven Yeun's recent discussion of his religious upbringing on The Late Show With Stephen Colbert:

" 'I do have a favorite verse,' he said. 'I was taught this in sixth grade. It’s Romans 12:2: "Do not conform to the patterns of this world but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you’ll be able to test God’s good and perfect will." '

"Yeun then explained his confusion on leaders who interpreted that to mean 'Don’t do secular things, just do Christian things.'

" 'I was like, "That’s doesn’t seem at all like what the verse said," he said. 'And I’ve been unpacking it ever since.' "

Next Fortnightly Post
Sunday, May 14th

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.blogsppot.com

Lot's Wife, Who Gave Her Life For a Single Glance

ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS . . . EXCEPT THAT . . .

"The Sodom and Gomorrah motif
from the Nuremberg Chronicle by Hartmann Schedel, 1493.
Note Lot's wife, already transformed into a salt pillar, in the center."
A couple of connections to my two most recent previous posts:

1. Together with my Penelope poems, I have a collection of poems about a few more long - suffering legendary heroines, the nameless wife and daughters of the infamous Lot, Abraham's nephew, who ushers his small family away from the Biblical destruction of Sodom. His wife is often portrayed as shallow or heedless, with her priorities all mixed up, but these poems show otherwise.

2. One of my favorites is "Ms Lot" by Muriel Rukeyser, who also wrote "Waiting for Icarus" (click or scroll down). The voice of Lot's daughter is similar to that of Icarus's girlfriend, particularly the combination of lament and outrage. She is humiliated by her father's treatment of her, his inability to treat her or her mother with respect. How can he accord them so little dignity? Would he really have done away with his own daughters so easily? She does not question her mother's priorities, but she questions her father's:

Ms Lot
Well if he treats me like a young girl still,
That father of mine, and here’s my sister
And we’re still traveling into the hills—
But everyone on the road knows he offered us
To the Strangers, when all they wanted was men
And the cloud of smoke still over the twin cities
And mother a salt lick the animals come to—
Who’s going to want me now?
Mother did not even know
She was not to turn around and look.
God spoke to Lot, my father.
She was hard of hearing. He knew that.
I don't believe he told her, anyway.
What kind of father is that, or husband?
He offered us to those men. They didn't want women.
Mother always used to say:
Some normal man will come along and need you.

by Muriel Rukeyser, 1913 - 1980

Avant - gard band, Charming Hostess has set Rukeyser's lyrics to music: click to listen and analyze.

Lot Fleeing With His Daughters From Sodom
by Albrecht Durer, 1471 - 1528

Another long - time favorite, from which I take my title today is the lyric poem "Lot's Wife" by Soviet modernist Anna Akhmatova, who wrote from personal experience about flight, exile, and staying put. During the 1920s and 30s, she saw many friends and fellow writers leave St. Petersburg, but she herself declined the option to flee. In the poem "When in Suicidal Anguish," she writes:

I heard a voice. It called consolingly,
It said, “Come here to me,
and leave your backward, sinful land,
abandon Russia for all time. . . .

But indifferently and calmly
I covered up my ears
so this dishonorable speech
could not defile my grieving spirit."

These stanzas suggest that Akhmatova understood very well the dilemma of Lot's wife. Thirty years ago, I typed up Akhmatova's poem, neglecting to include the name of the translator. Google has revealed a number of translations, though none precisely like this version from my personal archive:

Lot's Wife
And the just man walked behind the one sent by God
Enormous and bright along the black mountain
But alarm spoke loudly to the wife
"It's not too late; you can still take a look

At the red towers of your native Sodom
At the square where you sang, at the courtyard where you spun
At the empty window of the tall house
Where you bore children for your dear husband."

She glanced -- and riveted by a deadly pain
Her eyes were no longer able to look
And her body became transparent salt
And her quick feet grew to the earth.

Who will mourn for this woman?
Does she seem any the less for her losses?
Only my heart will never forget
She who gave her life for a single glance.

by Anna Akhmatova, 1889 - 1966
[Very similar to translations by Judith Hemschemeyer & Richard Wilbur]

Scholar and translator Clare Cavanagh mentions Akmatova's poem briefly in contrast to a longer poem on the topic, also entitled "Lot's Wife" (click to read) by recently deceased Polish poet Wislawa Szymborska, 1923 - 2012 (excerpt):
They say I looked back out of curiosity.
But I could have had other reasons. . . .
I felt age within me. Distance.
The futility of wandering. Torpor. . . .
I looked back involuntarily. . . .
I crept, I flew upward
until darkness fell from the heavens
and with it scorching gravel and dead birds.
I couldn't breathe and spun around and around.
Anyone who saw me must have thought I was dancing.

Lot's Wife

by British artist John Bulloch Souter, 1890 - 1972

A few more recent poetical discoveries:

1. "Lot's Wife
by Katha Pollitt

2. "What Lot's Wife Would Have Said (If She Wasn't a Pillar of Salt)
by Karen Finneyfrock:

3. "Mrs. Lot"
by Vassar Miller
And, to conclude, one last favorite from my old notebook. It would have been nice if four of the seven poets mentioned here had not picked identical titles for their poems. We will, however, just have to work around the repetition. I'm sure that I can think of a subtitle for each. Akhmatova, obviously: "Lot's Wife: A Single Glance." For Szymborska, I'm thinking: "Lot's Wife: Involuntarily Dancing." And for Pollitt: "Lot's Wife: What Did She Expect?" Finally, I think "Lot's Wife: Drawn to Earth" captures the essence of Batey's message:

Lot's Wife
While Lot, the conscience of a nation,
struggles with the Lord,
she struggles with the housework.
The City of Sin is where
she raises the children.
Ba'al or Adonai--
Whoever is God--
the bread must still be made
and the doorsill swept.
The Lord may kill the children tomorrow,
but today they must be bathed and fed.
Well and good to condemn your neighbors' religion,
but weren't they there
when the baby was born,
and when the well collapsed?
While her husband communes with God,
she tucks the children into bed.
In the morning, when he tells her of the judgment,
[that is, God's decision to destroy the city]
she puts down the lamp she is cleaning
and calmly begins to pack.
In between bundling up the children
and deciding what will go,
she runs for a moment
to say goodbye to the herd,
gently patting each soft head
with tears in her eyes for the animals that will not understand.
She smiles blindly to the woman
who held her hand at childbed.
It is easy for eyes that have always turned to heaven
not to look back;
those who have been--by necessity--drawn to earth
cannot forget that life is lived from day to day.
Good, to a God, and good in human terms
are two different things.
On the breast of the hill, she chooses to be human,
and turns, in farewell--
and never regrets
the sacrifice.

by Kristine Batey, b. 1951

Lot's Wife Looking Back at the Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah
by Toussaint Dubreuil, 1561 - 1602

Previous References to Muriel Rukeyser
on my daily blog The Quotidian Kit
All the Little Animals
Another Good Poem by Muriel Rukeyser
The Wrong Answer

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Wednesday, November 14th

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

And check out
Prodigal: Poems by Francine Marie Tolf

which includes this poem:

One Family's Story
Genesis 19

Her body shook from the explosions,
hot wind and horror sang in her ears.
She looked back at what had been home,
not prudent like her husband
who did not waste a glance on her cinder.
An expedient man. Quick to choose,
years earlier, the greenest pastureland
when he and his herdsman brother parted ways,
but ingratiating when it served--
offering, in those days before catastrophe,
his own daughters to drunken thugs,
rather than risk insult to guests
who could help him escape.
He made forgetting an art,
but could never erase his wife's last soft cry,
or the moans of his two girls,
pressed against him on the cave's floor
that evening the sheets of fire
finally stopped raining,
and the three of them drank a calfskin of wine
to celebrate their deliverance.