--from the Peony archives
A poet himself, he remarked to me that he thought that, "as a rule of thumb all poetry is bad poetry."
I said, NO. Because, of course, bad poetry always comes as a shock.
(And, I think we have all had the experience of reading bad poetry-- which like bad theater, can have the peculiar ability to cause embarrassment).
No, I said. Good poetry leaves us somehow changed. I really said that it somehow stains you with its feeling. But, no, what I meant is that like all great art -- in subtle or profound ways-- fine poetry can change you.
He was working on a poem himself at the time. Given his fascination with boats, shipmen and the crew, his choice was not all that surprising.
Palinurus:
Palinurus, at the night helm, watches the ebb and cease
of the evening light from his post. Palinurus dreads:
the sea, the chill of the lorn coast—
he dreads what lies beyond the ship,
he dreads the slick slip of a day into dusk,
dusk into night, the swathes of offusc
threat, the roil and rumble of the waves.
For years, I too have felt as if I am in a rickety wooden boat being tossed about on huge frothy, beast-like waves. This is no Polynesian outrigger gliding gracefully, effortlessly on the water's surface-- headed south toward Tahiti-- no, I am talking about a tiny boat full of gaping holes being tossed about atop cold, deathly waters.
Sometimes at night when I close my eyes, I almost feel the rise and fall of the swell.
Yes, I know what it is like to feel as vulnerable as Palinurus.
Others could gratefully succomb to the temptation of sleep. Release, as he calls it. But not Palinurus-- for his promise was too great.
Despite his dread he behaves
as a man must: for he who holds the tiller
commands the crew's trust. In his arms he cradles an oar
as a totem against death, mutters and dumbles
to himself, with an eye on the stars and rocks.
As he steers, his oar rocks in his arms
and becomes a wife's calf, a friend's wrist,
a friend half-remembered, and wreathed about in mist—
Grasping the tiller, he is griped-- bathed in mist-- it's power proves too much, and he slips quietly overboard.
You see, this is why I hate boats.
Sailing toward Athens across stormy Adriatic waters-- all I could think of was the limbless bronzes, sunk down at the bottom looking up at us. Laughing at our temerity. Yes, I pity Palinurus-- I pity his promise, I pity his occupation, I pity his fate.
And, I loath the feckless waves. I once shoved out of my way a group of Buddhist monks-- dressed in orange robes, heads shaved bare en route to some temple in Bangkok, to be the first one off a boat on the Chao Praya when the current got too rough. Creating bad karma perhaps, but what would they understand about being pulled down under the water?
Sleep alofts and thrusts the body overboard;
night, obliviscous night, sticks and clutches at the helm.
The stars no more illuminate the rocks, unshored,
and the ship she drifts and rocks and wanders from the realm.
Exquisitely crafted, beautifully resounding, reading his poem I realized something I had never thought of before: The boat. Drifting without its helmsman, it still made it to where it was fated to go. Believe it or not, up till now, I had never imagined that rickety boat would land anywhere...Thinking that, I smiled, feeling oddly at peace-- and even perhaps somehow changed-- for a moment or two.
Peony, thanks for your charming meditation on my poem. A point of clarification: Palinurus does in fact survive--he reaches shore and it swiftly killed by the natives. Hence:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palinuro
Posted by: Conrad | September 01, 2008 at 07:13 PM
Why in the world would any of us bring up that?? Especially considering how I am myself surrounded by natives-- :)
Yes, an appple to astonish paris. Bravo Conrad, my ever encouraging friend (??)...
Posted by: Peony | September 01, 2008 at 07:19 PM