Wash-Out
May 20 2013
The road washed-out
in the non-stop rain
that came
before frost had left the ground.
I felt daring
in my compact sedan,
blasting through a foot
of murky water
that might well have been bottomless,
flowing fast
over asphalt
patched with tar.
spinning-off
in the unstoppable stream.
A gaping hole
around a blind turn
where the road abruptly drops,
cut-off
on the wrong side of home.
Standing on the shoulder
cold rain, soaking in
nowhere else to go.
A thin strip of asphalt
a useless car.
The gossamer thread
of civilization
suddenly cut,
solid ground
underfoot
no longer to be trusted.
How rivers flow
where they must.
How all at once
a steady rain
becomes a flood.
This is the 2nd spring in a row when unremitting rain threatened to turn into a flood: dried-out creek-beds became rampaging streams, foundations leaked, and poorly built roads washed out.
My route in and out of town drops down to a low point where, even in a usual heavy rain, water covers the road. Today, it was pouring over, eating away at the edges and threatening to undermine the pavement. I splashed through it almost up to the fender, anxious to hustle back before it either washed out, or was closed to traffic. In real life, I made it (and the next day, was reassured to find that the road held). In the poem, it disintegrates just as I pass; which is when I stop, looking back.
A little more rain, it seems, and nothing much suddenly crosses that tipping point, when first the roads become impassable, then the hydro poles topple, then our homes are swamped: and the thin line of civilization -- the gossamer thread -- is rudely severed "all at once".
(Repeating this phrase 3 (or more) times would have worked really well, as a kind of refrain. But there was only 1 other spot where it fit; and using it just twice sounded to me more like lazy writing than powerful repetition. So, in the penultimate stanza, I instead went with "suddenly": all the while feeling highly conflicted, because not only do I dislike adverbs in general, I especially dislike "suddenly". I'd much rather have the idea of suddenness made obvious by the context. Spelling it out strikes me as patronizing -- almost insultingly so -- to the reader: too much hand-holding; when I think one key to good poetry is to trust the reader -- to make her own connections, to be a collaborator, to experience her own creative thrill.)
In our unthinking hubris, we assume the status quo, imagine our way of life is pretty much impregnable. Which is why I think the key phrase in this poem -- and the part I like the best -- is " ...rivers flow/ where they must." It implies the inexorable power of nature, her sublime indifference to man: that you can cover up the natural landscape, pave over the ancient watercourses; but water seeks its level, follows the path of least resistance, and always flows where it will.
The road washed-out
in the non-stop rain
that came
before frost had left the ground.
I felt daring
in my compact sedan,
blasting through a foot
of murky water
that might well have been bottomless,
flowing fast
over asphalt
patched with tar.
And
then
like
a sand-castle collapsing
as
the tide licks higher
the
roadbed crumbled, pavement cracked,
jagged slabs spinning-off
in the unstoppable stream.
A gaping hole
around a blind turn
where the road abruptly drops,
cut-off
on the wrong side of home.
Standing on the shoulder
cold rain, soaking in
nowhere else to go.
A thin strip of asphalt
a useless car.
The gossamer thread
of civilization
suddenly cut,
solid ground
underfoot
no longer to be trusted.
How rivers flow
where they must.
How all at once
a steady rain
becomes a flood.
This is the 2nd spring in a row when unremitting rain threatened to turn into a flood: dried-out creek-beds became rampaging streams, foundations leaked, and poorly built roads washed out.
My route in and out of town drops down to a low point where, even in a usual heavy rain, water covers the road. Today, it was pouring over, eating away at the edges and threatening to undermine the pavement. I splashed through it almost up to the fender, anxious to hustle back before it either washed out, or was closed to traffic. In real life, I made it (and the next day, was reassured to find that the road held). In the poem, it disintegrates just as I pass; which is when I stop, looking back.
A little more rain, it seems, and nothing much suddenly crosses that tipping point, when first the roads become impassable, then the hydro poles topple, then our homes are swamped: and the thin line of civilization -- the gossamer thread -- is rudely severed "all at once".
(Repeating this phrase 3 (or more) times would have worked really well, as a kind of refrain. But there was only 1 other spot where it fit; and using it just twice sounded to me more like lazy writing than powerful repetition. So, in the penultimate stanza, I instead went with "suddenly": all the while feeling highly conflicted, because not only do I dislike adverbs in general, I especially dislike "suddenly". I'd much rather have the idea of suddenness made obvious by the context. Spelling it out strikes me as patronizing -- almost insultingly so -- to the reader: too much hand-holding; when I think one key to good poetry is to trust the reader -- to make her own connections, to be a collaborator, to experience her own creative thrill.)
In our unthinking hubris, we assume the status quo, imagine our way of life is pretty much impregnable. Which is why I think the key phrase in this poem -- and the part I like the best -- is " ...rivers flow/ where they must." It implies the inexorable power of nature, her sublime indifference to man: that you can cover up the natural landscape, pave over the ancient watercourses; but water seeks its level, follows the path of least resistance, and always flows where it will.
No comments:
Post a Comment