The
Greater Good
Nov 18 2013
The ice is think enough to walk.
Though still open, in the narrows,
disconcertingly soft
under drifted snow.
I feel slow
on the broad expanse of lake,
as if stuck in place
on a perennial motion machine.
But on the winding path, through the forest
I feel quick.
Despite the heavy-going,
ducking under branches
stumbling over roots.
Because without a frame of reference
you feel at sea,
progress imperceptible
and you, terribly small.
How discouraging,
going through the motions
yet going nowhere at all.
We are told the Inuit, when they were old
would be left on an ice floe to die,
freezing to death
for the greater good.
It seems a mercy
to succumb to cold,
drifting out of consciousness
and then no more.
Time accelerates, with age,
while the trajectory of life
slows and slows.
Until it stops,
and you are left with an unobstructed view
too far from shore
to bother.
As the sun sinks
beyond the far horizon;
a dark line
of unexplored forest,
a pink hallucination of sky.
It was as recent as my last entry when I said I would refrain from writing about death. But when I turned my stream of consciousness loose in this poem, that's where I ended up. And since I like to trust these intuitions, that's how I left it.
We all struggle at times with a sense of futility. I can't say I feel particularly overwhelmed these days by angst and ennui (or at least no more than usual!), so I can't really explain the dark tone here. On the other hand, the poem does present a consoling view of the end of life: of going painlessly; of going when you're ready; of having achieved a certain wisdom (the "unobstructed view"); and of finding meaning through those who will come after you ("the greater good").
The "unexplored forest" may mean regrets, the things undone. But the "pink hallucination of sky" seems to be an act of faith: of curiosity in the great mystery of what, if anything, comes after death.
The ice is think enough to walk.
Though still open, in the narrows,
disconcertingly soft
under drifted snow.
I feel slow
on the broad expanse of lake,
as if stuck in place
on a perennial motion machine.
But on the winding path, through the forest
I feel quick.
Despite the heavy-going,
ducking under branches
stumbling over roots.
Because without a frame of reference
you feel at sea,
progress imperceptible
and you, terribly small.
How discouraging,
going through the motions
yet going nowhere at all.
We are told the Inuit, when they were old
would be left on an ice floe to die,
freezing to death
for the greater good.
It seems a mercy
to succumb to cold,
drifting out of consciousness
and then no more.
Time accelerates, with age,
while the trajectory of life
slows and slows.
Until it stops,
and you are left with an unobstructed view
too far from shore
to bother.
As the sun sinks
beyond the far horizon;
a dark line
of unexplored forest,
a pink hallucination of sky.
It was as recent as my last entry when I said I would refrain from writing about death. But when I turned my stream of consciousness loose in this poem, that's where I ended up. And since I like to trust these intuitions, that's how I left it.
We all struggle at times with a sense of futility. I can't say I feel particularly overwhelmed these days by angst and ennui (or at least no more than usual!), so I can't really explain the dark tone here. On the other hand, the poem does present a consoling view of the end of life: of going painlessly; of going when you're ready; of having achieved a certain wisdom (the "unobstructed view"); and of finding meaning through those who will come after you ("the greater good").
The "unexplored forest" may mean regrets, the things undone. But the "pink hallucination of sky" seems to be an act of faith: of curiosity in the great mystery of what, if anything, comes after death.
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