Keeping Up
March 16 2015


Is the downspout blocked
by rotting leaves, a clot of ice?
Or is it the gutter
bunged-up by sludge?
The dark congealed gunk
of slow decomposition
I remember scooping-out by hand,
back when I was conscientious
about keeping up.

The gutter brims,
water freezing, drip-by-drip
in a massive spill of ice.
It seems to froth over the edge
like a waterfall
over uneven rock,
frozen, mid-plunge.

In an off-and-on spring
the monster feeds
on freeze-and-thaw,
one long witchy finger
almost touching the ground.
Its cloudy heart
is off-yellow, dirty brown,
malignant, compared to the pure transparent glistening
of picture-book ice.

The gutter sags, pulling away from the eave
like a great protuberant gall
disfiguring its tree.
Thin aluminum bends,
useless screws
point into empty air.
A glaring sign of neglect,
portent
of letting go.
Because gravity's insistent pull
outlasts us.
Because all our works

are transient,
relentlessly tending
to the dreary entropy
of low, flat, cold.

Just as water seeks its level
the path of least resistance
takes us down.
It starts with a gutter
and ends in a derelict house,
returning to the soil
and overgrown.

Things disintegrate.
The centre does not hold.



Defer home maintenance enough, and the ubiquitous signs of disintegration, neglect, and resignation become glaringly apparent. I think the neglect here is not so much moral failure as a parable for all things coming to their prescribed end, as well as graceful acceptance.

Entropy is the lowest state of energy. So the laws of thermodynamics predict an ultimate future that's flat and cold, a universe consisting of a low homogeneous hum just this side of absolute zero. My accusing eavestrough is the most obvious sign of collapse: just as dripping water seeks its level, the path of least resistance is down.

The title is not only both literal and metaphorical (metaphorically -- keeping up with chores; and literally -- resisting gravity) but also misdirection. It's recapitulated in the first stanza, which I hope sets up an expectation that accompanies the reader until she finally realizes it's time to let it go; until she recognizes that the poem is about the opposite of keeping up: tak(ing) us down, surrendering to gravity, acknowledging this common end. Of course, I stole The centre does not hold (Yeats -- The Second Coming). But what could be better to describe the centrifugal disintegration pictured here: the eaves trough pinging off its attachment, the beginning of things spiralling out and away?

The personification in the 3rd stanza almost takes on the quality of a fairy tale monster. Especially when you get to the last line -- the reference to picture-book ice. So I'm not sure how well the subsequent comparison to a tree gall works: after the witchy monster, it kind of comes out of nowhere; then worse, leads nowhere. But looking at the house with a bit of distance, and seeing this big deforming bulge, that was the image that almost immediately came to mind. It seemed too good to let go ...despite my evil internal editor whispering his misgivings into my ear!

I can understand this poem being read as dark: the perfect accompaniment to feeling overwhelmed by to-do's on a cold, wet, overcast day. But I think it also suggests a certain enlightened serenity: a philosophical acceptance of the ultimate reality; an admirable humility toward self-important busy-work and material possessions. This is especially so in the lines Because/ gravity's insistent pull/ outlasts us/ and all our works are transient. And what's really so negative about returning to the soil? It suggests to me the source of life, new growth, and a kind of posterity.

... Meanwhile, when the weather warms up, I'm going to see what I can do about that awful looking eaves trough. Apparently, I'm not yet ready to gracefully let go! (Although there isn't actually an icicle. Just the steady drip-drip-drip of cold water, the deformed silhouette of the roofline, and an eaves trough I hope isn't yet a total write-off.)