Waterworks
Aug 9 2010


I sit on the fountain’s rim,
in the square
in the heart
of the city.
The liquid sound
of water,
plunging, tumbling
bubbling over rock,
is everything
the city is not.
The beggars, and buskers
and men in suits, hustling
in dress-shirts soiled with sweat.
The concrete heat
the grid of streets,
efficient, unbending.

Each coin is a wish.
Serious children
with their eyes screwed shut.
Young men, down on their luck
investing precious change.
A lady of a certain age
who makes a ritual of this,
hoping
for a little more goodness.
And late at night
a run-away scoops some up,
wish fulfilled.

A man is cooling his feet,
shoes and socks kicked-off
pants rolled-up primly.
And in sweltering heat
passers-by pause in the veil of spray,
briefly refreshed.

Yet I can’t help but think
of the same few gallons
re-circulating week after week.
The buried machinery
lines that leak
industrial pumps, rusting.
The blush of green
unscrubbed
in a ring around the pool.
And the layer of grime
that makes the bottom slippery.

Nevertheless, we gather here,
drawn to water
on rock,
water falling.
The age-old sound
of running water
holds us still.
And drawn, still, to hope.





I can’t fully reconstruct how this poem came about. I suspect I was glancing at the Real Estate section in the paper (my occasional innocent indulgence in “real estate porn”!) and there may have been a water feature, probably indoors. I’d been in and out of the water on a sweltering day, and all this made me think of was building one for myself. But it also called up the image of a cool forest glade, rippling with deep dappled greens; of walking through the woods and being inexorably drawn to that gurgling sound: the powerful atavistic attraction of falling water. Which is where “water on rock” came from: the poem started with those words. …Inevitably, it ends up becoming another poem expressing my alienation from city life. So, what else is new?!!

More than that, though, is an obvious recurring trope: the idea of hidden layers, of the invisible underbelly, of hiding in plain sight; the idea of the paradox that seems inherent in everything. In this case, of course, it’s what’s buried beneath the deceptive allure of the fountain. I suppose this is what makes me a poet (as well as a misanthrope and a pessimist!): the art of close observation, as well as the compulsion to seek out the layers of meaning that can be found in the most mundane things.

Ultimately, though, there is an uplifting message here -- despite myself! (Uplift without pretension, I hope). The fountain becomes a wishing well, and the resilience of hope is as deeply embedded in our DNA as is the gravitational pull of the sound of water, falling on rock.