POEM: TWO POEMS: ENOUGH AND OTHER ACTS

Enough

Casting deep—as deep as an arrow

lodges in the body of a dying animal.

Searching far, as far as oceans reach

distant shores (oars dipped wet

and glistening.) And waiting,

waiting as patiently and as smooth

as a pebble sitting on the bed

of some warm and languid stream.

But it’s not enough.

Days begun in pain, then false triumphs,

and the seemingly endless displays of possibility.

All the while your careful visage

is chipped away by the wind and rain,

and mocked by birds.

And still it’s not enough.

Circles are drawn around everything;

boundaries defined,

yet your body seizes with convulsions,

twisting away like some night-time creature

caught unawares by the sun.

And for what? Some faded pillow?

Some germ of essence? Some bit of theater

with an audience of bumpkins?

All of it is not enough. It can never be enough.

But a single leaf is enough. A cough,

a shifting of fabric, a note carried on the wind,

grit under a fingernail, a quiet presence,

the cool of window glass in winter.

They are enough.

OK FOLKS, I HAD A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT poem in mind when I dug up this one. I had an image of something I had written a while ago about a small stream or a brook. [Q: What’s the difference between a stream and a brook? A: as always, size mostly] It had water gently flowing over smooth stones warmed by the sun at a ford, all in some kind of happy-happy glade of Bambies and unicorns. Peaceful. Gentle. I knew it was there somewhere. Instead, this was what I had written, and while the image of sun warmed stones (Okay, “pebbles”), is there, along with slow moving water, the rest of the thing is, well…a bit testy. There are images of violence, anger, frustration and bitterness, and what I can only term as misanthropy in this poem. Bummer.

“Enough” seems to lash out in all directions: The speaker in the opening stanza is searching for something. The violence of his search is seen in the image of a hunting arrow. Such searching kills, it seems, or is on the serious level of life and death struggles between humans and animals.

The speaker searches far and wide, to distant shores, and I do like the image of “glistening oars” which suggest the effort of the journey and the immediacy of the quest. The idea patience or waiting, like stones 'wait' while slow waters pass over them is an option for the speaker, but one he rejects as being “not enough”. Interestingly, both the “casting deep” searches and the “distant” journeys the speaker engages in are also inadequate. What does the speaker need to aid him in his quest? A further question is just what is he searching for in the first place?

The second stanza I can’t help but feel is something of a ‘pity party’; its tone seems a bit petulant, to me. Yet at the same time there are elements of anguish in the speaker’s life—in the daily pain he experiences, though the nature of his pain is unclear. The speaker is aware of the vacuous nature of his  accomplishments (“false triumphs), and the “endless display” of possible futures is exhausting for him; he has too many options. Which will he choose? Any? And are some of these possible choices ones the speaker has already made, or ones he contemplates? The image of the speaker as a kind of statue slowly weathering away is a compelling one, suggesting immobility. Even the birds mock him, adding to his sense of impotence.
The third stanza continues the speaker’s growing agony and feelings of confinement. Oddly, the “circles” and “boundaries” he describes initially seem to be there as a sort of aid. And a question that might be asked is what is what is the difference between"circles" and "boundaries"? One clearly defines a physical space while the other may not represent a physical space at all and their purpose is unknown. (Do they keep something in or something out? Or both?) Yet the speaker suffers “convulsions" within the spaces he has chosen to stay. Why? He then likens himself to a nocturnal creature exposed in the sun. He goes on to ask why he is suffering, and what is the goal for all of his torments. (Another question to ask is should there be goals for suffering? Is that why we suffer, for what comes after? I guess what I mean is that suffering seems to be a process in and of itself. When we are 'happy', do we set goals that will signal the end of our happiness? What comes after suffering and happiness just is. On the other hand, we do things we know will be painful--we make sacrifices for others that might involve considerable suffering and pain, even death. So there's that. Maybe the speaker does not see any rhyme or reason for his suffering? Or won't accept any; maybe that's it: he feels it's a 'directionless' suffering. A sense of purposeless in life maybe his true suffering. )
The speaker next lists some ‘rewards’ for his suffering: a “faded pillow”. Does this represent the death, the absence of a loved one, old age, perhaps? The “germ of essence” image suggests children, but not in the sense of any kind of relationship; no bonds of kinship or family seem evident. It is a rather bleak image, perhaps only referring to the speaker's 'biological' essence. Finally, the characterization of engagements he has with others he calls “bumpkins” is about as misanthropic as it gets!

The speaker seems alienated from the world, from people, from life and living things. The channels for exploring and understanding his world appear to be inaccessible to him, or for some reason not part of his makeup. Nevertheless, he needs to explore the world in order to understand it and his place in it.

For me, the final stanza suggests he has developed a level of communication and in a limited sense he does ‘reach out'. But what he considers “enough” of an engagement, to me seems not nearly adequate to sustain him. It is interesting that three of the examples he cites involve a human presence somewhere in the speaker’s life—either in the present moment or in memory. And where are they in his life now? I do find this poem annoying because I feel there should be further growth in the speaker. (But hey, it's a poem, not a diary!) 

All in all, it’s a picture of a rather insular personality, of someone stranded on a rocky peninsula. I sure hope he finds a boat or some water wings or something and explores a bit further down the coast. Why, he might happen upon a beach party or two!

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Other Acts

An age or two.

Then a broken fountain.

Sometime later,

its cliff side drain

spills new water

down among the rocks

and tumbled walls,

engraved now

with flowering vines

and the new growth

of summer.

And sitting there,

with the soft waterfall

as sure as any backdrop

on a stage set for a play

forever played,

is you.

I THOUGHT I WOULD ADD THIS SECOND poem by way of an antidote to “Enough” which, I think you’ll agree, was a mite ‘testy’ in tone, somewhat fatalistic or just a plain bummer. Despair is in the air up there with only a whiff of hope in the offing.  

So take a deep breath and read this one. I wrote it last year, I think.  And thus, I present for your reading enjoyment: “Other Acts”, a poem in many acts. [But it’s actually quite short. ED.] This offering comes with a reasonably tranquil setting. Of course, it also comes with the passage of time, and change. I had the Roman Forum in mind when I was thinking of ruins, and that famous image, I believe from the Middle Ages, of sheep grazing in the heart of what was once the greatest city of the ancient world. And there was another image of a waterfall that I recall seeing once in a black and white 19^th Century print, though the setting was a glade amid the backdrop of a giant, untouched old growth forest. These images influenced me.  

     Here in “Other Acts”, the waterfall spills down a course through ruins of some sort. There is a “broken” fountain and “tumbled walls” that form its spillway. It is interesting that, while the fountain is broken and no longer performs its original function, it nevertheless provides the flow of water the speaker observes. And it begs the question of whether the “cliff side” drain was always at a cliff side, or has the land shifted or broken up in some fashion. It is also important to reflect that the water continues to act upon the rock and stone and tumbled walls, and that, in the course of time, it will create something new.

     An age or two has passed. On this day, the speaker describes the summer growth and flowering vines taking hold amid the ruins. There is “new” water spilling on the rocks; the old has given way, as is the way of things. The speaker likens the setting to a stage, with the falling water as the backdrop. And on the stage sits someone whom the speaker sees as the main actor in this drama. I have always liked the crisp image of a setting or a place, almost like a photograph, to ground me when I try to write anything. That’s why I like imagist poems, though I will be honest and say I don’t have a great understanding of “imagism” or its historical roots. But there is something compelling about latching on to a particular image and drilling down, so to speak, to its bedrock, its essence.      

     One thing I think is important is the fact that there is a stage or or place for these two people to come together in the drama of their lives. Again, it is a hopeful sign that despite meeting amid ruins, their present lives are supported by the natural world—nature adds garlands of summer to decorate their space, and the water flows freely. This image of two people, lovers perhaps, fully engaged with each other amid the ruins from another time is a hopeful one. For me, it seems a very universal and human moment.

     As for the play the speaker imagines? Well, we will never know whether it will be a comedy or a tragedy, farce or high drama, or some combination. We only know that it is play that will continue to be performed for as long as there are humans left to walk across its stage. 

Cheers, Jake.