In The High Latitudes

Aug 14 2013


We are unused to sun
in the high latitudes
in the doldrums of summer.
With our fish-belly skin
dazzled eyes
unacclimatized bodies,
we gasp, sweat, fry;
in the soft decadence
that, in the fullness of time
will exact its reckoning.
Because such easy living
can never be free.

But I luxuriate
in unaccustomed heat,
every fibre of muscle
released,
loose-boned
marrow-warmed
at ease.
And my hotly gleaming skin,
as if a barrier
had softened,
my permeable body
melding
with super-heated air.

I would be a bronze god
if not for burning, redness, sweat.
On endless days
when the sun eventually sets,
blazing red, and immense
just above
a hazy horizon.

And the surprising chill
the second it's gone.
Where northern tribes like us
belong;
aspiring gods
who have fallen to earth
from cool clear Olympus.

Summer here is short, sweet, intense. We barely have time to acclimate. And inculcated with that northern Puritan work ethic, we feel vaguely guilty in its indolence and ease. (Speaking generally of course; since so far, this is the year without summer. And speaking generally, of course; since I'm never guilty about indolence and ease!)

I wanted to express that delicious feeling of sun-bathing on a hot summer day -- that bone deep feeling of relaxation and heat. And then juxtapose this with the discomfort of unaccustomed northerners; who, in our injudicious greed, try to cram in every second of precious sun. So when (the admittedly obvious) "bronze god" came to me, it was a welcome gift, leading me naturally into fallen gods, in turn allowing the heights of Olympus of the final stanza to call back to the high latitudes of the first.

I almost always find my poems too wordy. For me, the pleasure of this art is in its discipline: the distillation and compression; the need to trust the reader. So I'm pleased I kept this fairly short and sweet, didn't try to overload it.

Which is also probably why I write these blurbs, the essay being far more my natural medium than poetry: both because I like clarity and precision in my writing, and because I admire logical sequential thought. (And also because I'm far more comfortable with ideas than feelings; with the rational instead of the visceral. Poetry forces me to go outside this comfort zone. But I digress.) Since poetry is more about holding back than being expansive, more about allusion and ambiguity than precision and exactness, a poem often leaves me feeling all pent up: as if I hadn't fully exercised my writing chops. Hence the essay elaborating on its far less wordy poem. Which I know is actually a bad idea, since it implies that there is a correct way to read the poem; when in fact the hypothetical reader should feel absolutely free to interpret however she likes. Not only do idiosyncratic readings of the poem mean I've succeeded, but I'm quite happy to take credit for brilliant connections I never either intended or perceived!