[lit-ideas] Re: Sunday poem
- From: David Ritchie <ritchierd@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Sat, 09 Apr 2005 17:48:56 -0700
Shaggy Dog Poem
Last week I briefly believed the student fallacy about effort and
achievement, believed that if I really worked hard the resulting poem must
be better, so now I'm feeling a bit like the last guy in Pickett's Charge,
the fellow who didn't think it was a good idea to go in the first place, and
who got lost in the noise and smoke of it all; the one who, just as everyone
was packing up to go, walked forward, weaponless and with his arms raised,
to say, "Put me down for a snooze in the sun, please." I went into that
poem like a boy re-building a VW engine, and went at it night and day, until
it became a kind of a Coldstone iceberg, thick with mix-ins, or maybe a
painting in which the first, fresh, attractive strokes had been completely
lost. This week I decided that it'd be better not to write at all or, if
the scratchy urge wouldn't leave, maybe to keep the poem really short, like
one of those squibs you see in the "New Yorker" which begin, "In the large
apartment upstairs, Mrs. Dribkowski keeps a monkey." But then, suddenly,
here come these two questions, which will take a little explaining.
Quick bite of Cadbury's Flake, and here goes. I think I have reached the
age when sentences can begin subjectively; which is to say that I have
reached an age when I know enough about myself to know what I am not. This
week, for example, I thought, "Were I a lawsuit-filing kind of a fellow, I
would sue airline miles programs for breach of contract. Their offer--that
I can fly for free for twenty (or so) thousand airline miles--I accepted,
and the consideration was the increased cost of the tickets I paid for.
Contract, right? And the breach? "We are sorry, but there are no twenty
thousand mile seats between now and when the planet goes cold... but you can
fly free for only double that." It's clearly wrong. Or, alternatively, I'd
file a suit about how it violates separation of church and state to have
flags fly at half mast in memory of the dead pope.
But that's not me, and that's not exactly what I wanted to tell you about.
You need to know that on one of the last long trips I took, we were going to
visit my aunt in Leith. Great Aunty Betty, who once had her portrait
painted on the nose of a bomber, is now frail with asthma and arthritis and
a list of old age ailments that stretches all the way to z, but she is a
trooper, and she is generous, and she is just plain nice. In her council
flat she laid a spread for tea, with home-made meringues, a sponge cake,
chocolate biscuits, bread and butter cut in crustless triangles. Maybe
there were also dates? At one time when you went to tea in Scotland, your
status as a guest would be signaled by an expensive box of dates--a thin
wooden container, with the fruit lying side-by-side in pairs, like galley
slaves, held together by a kind of laddered, plastic stick. Betty was
pouring Earl Grey tea, rather than plain old Typhoo. I don't like the
stuff, but there was no chance I'd tell her that. She had spent all her
energy and who knows how much of her month's money on this A-list table, a
miniature version of "Babette's Feast." She'd got out the porcelain cups
and the lace doilies and the saucers and the matching best plates, silver
forks, knives and spoons.
Perfectly, though we had for years told them that water was better than soda
and other kinds of sugar drinks, the girls quickly said, "Yes, please" to
her offer of orange squash. After everyone had helped everyone, and
everyone had "pleased" and "thankyou'd" according to British custom, and
everyone had tried bites and declared it all delicious, with straight backs
and no elbows on the table, we began to tell one another stories. What was
happening in Sweden? Had anyone heard from Robert in Canada? Which carpet
had she tripped on? Why did grandpa write all those remarks in the hymnal?
As Betty talked, I saw that her hands gently rubbed the edge of the table.
It was as if she were soothing the wood--back and forth, back and forth, in
an easing gesture. My grandmother, on the other side, used to do the same
unconscious thing. I didn't like to ask, but I assume it's a way of coping
with pain.
So, the questions? Just the ones they use in interviews: what are your
weak suits, and what do you see yourself doing in twenty or thirty years?
David Ritchie
Portland, Oregon
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