A Constant State of Surprise

April 12 2020

The snow and the sky

are the same flat white.

Dormant aspen

stand in small exposed clusters,

bare branches and thin trunks

a slightly darker shade.

What a cold drab April,

still locked in winter

when by rights it should be spring.

How surprising, then

when the website shows

these highs and lows are close to average

and there's almost always snow.

That last year it was similar

the same the year before.

How memory keeps failing me.

How I should keep better track;

a diary of weather, perhaps

a natural atlas of cloud.

And have I always been surprised like this

when the seasons change

and the world seems out of sync?

According to statistics
there is median, mode, and mean;
so “normal” exists

as politically incorrect as that is.

There is also our sense

of the continuity of things,

a stable foundation

that bridges the future and past.

And there is judgment, of course,

the gut feeling

that makes us ill at ease

when confronted by difference;

the abnormal

the foreign

the strange.

Yet how often we firmly believe

we live in exceptional times,

some kind of “new normal”

which is nothing like before.

The new normal

after the towers fell.

The new normal

after the crash of 2008.

The new normal

we hopefully await

after the viral pandemic has passed.

But there will be no such break.

Not in historical patterns of weather

and not from the recent past.

As they have it in French, and English as well

plus ça change . . .

plus c'est la même chose.

Because we are simply forgetful.

Because we lack perspective

on the fullness of time.

And because human potential

reliably disappoints,

our better angels

and even greater flaws.

Still, I can at least be sure

that winter's behind us

and summer is certain to come.

And while April may be the cruellest month

that it too will end;

as Elliot said

mixing memory and desire.

Or, in my forgetfulness
simply desire.

But forgetting 
has its virtues, as well,
allowing a poet to see the world
as if for the first time,
when there is no such thing as normal
and life is a constant surprise.

I glanced out the picture window from my easy chair, and was struck by the drab monochrome, by the convergence of land and sky. A first few rough lines came to me, and although I wanted to write, I felt constrained by the subject and theme: one more weather poem; one more seasonal poem; one more poem framed by that same damned window! I'm not just getting repetitive, but starting to actually plagiarize myself!

But as I noodled and riffed, this idea of forgetfulness, of what is and isn't “normal”, led me to all this talk of “a new normal” ...and my skepticism about it. Because we've heard this said so often in this new century, yet nothing really changes. Probably because we are human, and human nature is stubborn: not only forgetful, but deeply flawed. So all our foibles persist, despite circumstance and knowing better. Lessons learned ...and then as quickly forgotten. Do you remember that 9/11 was supposed to herald the end of irony? And how after the great recession of 2008, cowboy capitalism was going to be reined in by strict regulation and an ethos of modesty instead of greed? I've read numerous articles speculating on how the world will change once this pandemic is over. I'm hopeful about some of them; but dubious about them all.

I also thought how every year the change of season seems to catch me by surprise. Especially so in April, such a mercurial month. But why apologize for being surprised? Isn't this the state of being that perfectly suits a poet, and that we all should cultivate? To see the world with the unjaded eyes of a child; to actively observe; to remain open to wonder and awe.