As the oyster forms the pearl,
So the poet pens the verse
As balm for the current ache
Born out of the ancient curse.
As the oyster feels compelled
To shellac the sandy grain,
So the poet feels the urge
To transmogrify the pain.
So the pearl grows rich and round
As its luster covers the sand.
So the verse unseen takes form
In its way, designed unplanned.
Sad the pearl that lies unseen
In the depths of the murky sea.
Sad the verse that dies unheard
In the heart clandestinely.
So the diver frees the pearl,
Breaks the stony shell apart.
So the poet frees the verse
Ripped out of his broken heart.
There’s a pretty spot along Fjord Drive in Poulsbo, Washington, called Oyster Plant Park. I don’t know the details of the history, but if you were going to put up an plant to process and can oysters it seems like good place.
Liberty Bay is shallow, and at low tide, it reveals a large expanse of shoreline covered with shellfish.
The first time I walked along the shore I was puzzled by the way oyster shells were littered all about the surrounding neighborhood. It looked like it has been raining oysters. Shells in the street. Shells in yards. Shells on the roofs of houses.
I determined that the hungry gulls must have figured out how to snatch the oysters from the shore, fly to a proper height, and drop the unfortunate mollusks so they would crack open. Brutal but effective.
That place sparked a metaphor, which turned into this extended metaphor of a poem, which, as my high school English teacher Paul Hagedorn reminded me, is properly called a “conceit.”
No way we could know
at this playful reunion,
it would be our last.
Notes: While there may be a later photo of my brothers and I all together, I do not know of it. Less than four years after this shot, Bill (third from the bottom) would perish in a scuba diving accident in San Diego bay.
John (second from the bottom) was an electrician who would touch the wrong wire in a Colorado coal mine many years later.
Larry (at the bottom) would die after a stroke in 2010.
That bleak season the cold creek ceased to run,
Grey weeds withered beside the roadside ditch,
Flat leaden clouds obscured a sullen sun,
Winds lashed ice-lacquered leaves without a twitch.
Field stalks bowed down to winter’s weary weight,
The world conspired to pile pang upon pang,
Even the crusted snow cried, “Much too late!”
Caged by a skeleton hedge, no bird sang.
That bleak season love went the way of leaves,
Good green seeming, but poised to take the fall,
First frost stunned then assailed by windy thieves,
Some futile few sought stubborn to forestall
The impending end ’til a fell gust cleaves
Asunder with only a scrawny squall.
Notes: This endless winter has reminded me of the poem above, written not too long ago, but inspired by events in another time, in another life.
The Yuletide lights are packed away, +++++Grey leaves creep down the street.
The trees at dusk are shades of grey, +++++Grey sky makes grey complete.
The old man mutters as he scrapes +++++His trash can to the curb.
The trees complain and sway their shapes +++++As gusts their peace disturb.
Thin clouds scud past the frozen moon, +++++The distant highway drones,
Debris from windy storms lies strewn, +++++The path gives way to stones.
A solitary sparrow picks +++++A solitary seed
Out from the desiccated sticks +++++To slake its piercing need.
We’ve reached the nadir of the year, +++++The time when flowers sleep.
No wish can make them reappear +++++From their repose so deep.
NOTES: Winter can be dreary in the Northwest. The days are as short as they are long in summer. It rains incessantly. Storms roll in from the Pacific and wreak havoc with trees and electrical power grids.
I know. I know. This may sound wimpy when my friends back in Minnesota are staring at temperatures in the 20s below zero Fahrenheit this week. It’s true that we enjoy a Marine climate here on the Puget Sound. It doesn’t get that cold, and I’ve shoveled snow exactly one time since I moved here 25 years ago.
But winter is long, and I’m eager for the page to turn and the return of the crocus and the robins.
I’ve noticed that walking without earphones or music stimulates the poetry center of the brain. I think it’s because I hear what’s going on around me. As I walked this past week on a windy evening, I noticed the tall evergreens making a perceptible swishing sound, back and forth, back and forth.
Read the second stanza aloud and see if you can hear it, too.
And though one high school English teacher did his best instill in us his conviction that Walt Whitman was the greatest of poets, by then it was too late. By that point my ear was trained, and while Whitman’s soaring verse in Leaves of Grasshad a certain charm, it was the charm of a foreign language.
Over the years since, I have made an effort to appreciate free verse with some success. Raymond Carver broke through. Marie Howe has landed a punch or two. So did Donald Hall and Hayden Carruth, (and I appreciate the latter’s occasional return to rhyme.) I’ve even attempted to write a few free verse poems myself. But all along, it has been a bit like learning a second language.
One of the best debates about the relative merits of formal poetry and free verse takes place on the pages of a book I recently picked up off the bookshelf in my adult son’s old bedroom. The book is Old Schoolby the American writer Tobias Wolff.
It’s a wickedly funny story about an elite boys prep school set in 1960. The plot turns on the school’s periodic literary contest. The winner of each contest has the honor of a private meeting with the semester’s guest speaker, which has traditionally been a famous and successful author.
Early in the book, Wolff has the audacity invite none other than Robert Frost into his novel and put words into the mouth of the aging poet. With the students and teachers assembled in the school’s chapel. He recited several of his poems, ending on Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.
During the ensuing question-and-answer period, Frost is challenged by one of the young teachers, a Mr. Ramsey, who introduces his question with a critique of formal poetry.
Your work, sir, Mr. Ramsey said, follows a certain tradition. Not the tradition of Whitman, that most American of poets, but a more constrained, shall we say formal tradition, as in that last poem you read, “Stopping in Woods.” I wonder–
After Frost corrects Ramsey about the actual title of the poem, the teacher forges ahead to make his point.
Yes sir. Now that particular poem is not unusual in your work for being written in stanza form, with iambic lines connected by rhyme.
Frost replies, intentionally mistaking Mr. Ramsey for one of the students.
Good for you, Frost said. They must be teaching you boys something here.
Frost’s mischievous “mistake” triggers an outburst of laughter from the students, but when the poet asks him to continue with is question, Mr. Ramsey is undeterred.
Yes sir. The question is whether such a rigidly formal arrangement of language is adequate to express the modern consciousness. That is, should form give way to more spontaneous modes of expression, even at the cost of a certain disorder?
Modern consciousness, Frost said. What’s that?
Ah! Good question, sir. Well–very roughly speaking I would describe it as the mind’s response to industrialization, the saturation propaganda of governments and advertisers, two world wars, the concentration camps, the dimming of faith by science, and of course the constant threat of nuclear annihilation. Surely these things have an effect on us. Surely they have changed our thinking.
When Mr. Ramsey finally finished, it was clear he was making more of a statement than asking a question. Frost then responded in kind.
Don’t tell me about science, Frost said. I’m something of a scientist myself. Bet you didn’t know that. Botany. You boys know what tropism is, it’s what makes a plant grow towards the light. Everything aspires to the light. You don’t have to chase down a fly to get rid of it–you just darken the room, leave a crack of light in a window, and out it he goes. Works every time. We all have that instinct, that aspiration. Science can’t–what was your word? dim?–science can’t dim that. All science can do is turn out the false lights so the true light can get us home.
Mr. Ramsey began to say something, but Frost kept going.
So don’t tell me about science, and don’t tell me about war. I lost my nearest friend in that one they call the Great War. So did Achilles lose his friend in war, and Homer did no injustice to his grief by writing about it in dactylic hexameters. There’s always been wars, and they’ve always been as foul as we could make them. It is very find and pleasant to think ourselves the most put upon folk in history–but then everyone has thought that from the beginning. It makes a grand excuse for all manner of laziness. But about my friend. I wrote a poem for him. I will write poems for him. Would you honor your own friend by putting words down anyhow, just as they come to you–with no thought for the sound they make, the meaning of their sound, the sound of their meaning? Would that give us a true account of the loss?
Frost has been looking right at Mr. Ramsey as he spoke. Now he broke off and let his eyes roam over the room.
I am thinking of Achilles’s grief, he said. That famous, terrible grief. Let me tell you boys something. Such grief can only be told in form. Maybe it only really exists in form. Form is everything. Without it you’ve got nothing but a stubbed toe cry–sincere, maybe, for what that’s worth, but with no depth or carry. No echo. You may have a grievance but you do not have grief, and grievances are for petitions, not poetry. Does that answer your question?
I suppose we could have expected nothing less from Frost, who once famously compared writing poetry without rhyme and meter “like playing tennis without the net.”
And I must admit, I was cheering on the old curmudgeon as he put the impertinent schoolmaster in his place.