Drift
July 4 2014


Spilling over the dam
water flows so evenly
you can imagine nothing falling at all,
the illusion
of dark concrete
beneath a smooth reflective curtain.

Betrayed

by run-off,
a line of froth, along the bottom
its white hypnotic noise.

The thing about rivers
is how inexhaustible they are.
Or seem,
because rivers do run dry, estuaries recede,
leaving empty deltas
a saltier sea.

You could look down from heaven

at rivulets carved into sun-baked silt,

a web of intricate fingers

dividing thinly

spreading wide.
Like a branching tree
stripped of leaves,
capillaries
that have bled out.

A river
that never makes it to sea
seems without purpose.
Not like a man
cut down in the prime of life,
but one who simply runs out
of meaning, direction
will.

Who can stand still for hours
watching water fall,
seeking comfort
in its soothing sound.

Imagine himself submerged
in quiet darkness.

Carried
by its cool current

steadily downstream,

so temptingly close to the sea.

Several disparate strands seem to have converged in the genesis of this poem.

I was reading Alan Gopnik's piece in the recent New Yorker (July 7 and 14, 2014) about the 9/11 memorial/museum at the site of the World Trade Centre. He mentioned the reflecting pool, which is actually a smooth wall of water, descending deep into the footprint of the fallen tower's preserved foundation.

I thought about the concrete dam near me, with its soothing sound, its inexhaustible flow, its smooth reflective surface.

And, from my days as a white-water kayaker, I thought how treacherous low-head dams can be. We called them "drowning machines" because of the hydraulic at the base of falls: which appears benign, but will hold you in its powerful grip, helplessly submerged.

And I thought about a movie I'm in the middle of watching. It's called Watermark, and one of the many gorgeous images it contains is an aerial shot of a dried-up delta. Not only is it beautiful, and not only does its context and scale catch you by surprise, but it is evocative of the recurring patterns of nature: a branching tree, the circulatory system.

I can never resist writing about rivers. (Much like trees. Which is a good thing, since those are pretty much all there is around here!) So with all this in mind, I set out once again: as usual, letting stream of consciousness take over the creative process. Which, as I've said before, feels like automatic writing, or channelling: I can be a surprised as anyone at what comes out!

"Inexhaustible" naturally led to its opposite. And then the dismal imagery -- of skeletal trees, of vessels drained of blood, of a river that does not make it to the sea -- must have put me in a negative frame of mind, and led me to see the possibility of metaphor.

In my own life, I certainly do consider the existential dilemma of meaning, purpose, usefulness; but please do not mistake me for the suicidal character in the poem. ...Nevertheless, I think we have all had times in our lives when we would identify with this feeling: the passivity implied by quiet darkness, steadiness, and being carried; a fatalistic desire for peace, surrender, drift.