Pebble

March 27 2018

There are consequences, no matter what.

Like concentric rings, rippling out

from the small rock

in the still water

you idly tossed that day.

But even when you kept on walking

and never bent

and never lobbed

inaction still has its effect;

like the lie of omission, the thing unsaid,

the best of intentions

that went unexpectedly wrong.

So either way

damned if you did, or did not.

Even in death

which you'd think would be the certain end

the world grinds relentlessly on,

secrets revealed, trust betrayed

memory corrupted, or lost.

Because events inexorably unfold.

Because we control so much less than we thought.

Except that time I paused

and watched the ripples decay.

Until the small pond

was at rest, again

and it appeared nothing had changed.

Just one more stone, set on the bottom,

smooth and small and grey.

And how many more would it take?

Water seeking its level.

The pond

eventually drained.

In a column in today's paper, something Niall Ferguson wrote really struck me. I thought every history teacher should start the first class by chalking this up on the board, and then leave it up there for the entire course: The only law of history is the law of unintended consequences. I thought about the truth of this, and what a humbling corrective it should be for all who confidently believe they should lead, and for those ideologues who pursue their beliefs with such intransigent conviction. I also thought how it applies not only to what we do, but to what we choose not to do. There are consequences to everything. Choosing inaction can be as consequential as blundering on. Or, to paraphrase the poem, you're damned if you do or you don't.

So I thought it would be interesting to play around with the theme of “unintended consequences”, and this poem is the result.

As I often do, I like to toy with cliche.

It's a challenge, locking yourself into a cliche while at the same time trying to be fresh and original.

It's kind of ironic and self-mocking, as well: the last thing a poet wants is to fall into platitudes and triteness. So intentionally jumping into the deep end is like a wink and a nudge between the reader and me.

And I like interrogating a cliche: taking a tired metaphor, and rendering it instead as something literal and concrete. Which at least wakes up the expression, making it at the same time more illuminating yet utterly silly.