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Drought
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She gets us inside of the drought with the clogged tear ducts ,parched soil and flat clouds empty of moisture. I don't know the technical name for this type of descriptive poetry ,but she made me want a drink of water. The last line brought me up short, I wasn't expecting it to finish like that.
Yes, it's those details that work for me, too. She doesn't just tell us it's dry and awful, she makes us experience it. The slaughtered cattle, the scratching chickens, the tarantulas where flowers used to be.
Ruth,I was listening to NPR - Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac this past week and he closed with one of her poems from Dead Horses. I stopped measuring the coffee beans and just listened. What a voice! (I mean the poet) Just remarkable writing and powers of observation. I am so glad you posted this.
GK did one of her poems? How did I miss that? I usually get the emails.In the interest of full disclosure here, Joan is one of my cyberfriends. But I agree, Katy, she does have a remarkable voice.
You know, they used to say Schubert could shake melodies out of his sleeve. Well Joan shakes out metaphors.
Chickens scratched a pointless calligraphy
Our pockets, once jingling with hope
Clouds float over, empty as pillowcases.
Aren't they marvelous?
I no longer trust my memory. It may have been some other NPR morning feature. I just remember how struck I was by the precision of language and the depth of feeling. Great stuff.
I really love the cloud metaphor, Ruth. That really struck me. We in the Northeast have been having so many fruitful clouds, so this image seems almost perverse.
The metaphors are what strikes me about Joan's poetry every time.
Carol wrote: "The last line brought me up short, I wasn't expecting it to finish like that. "It surprised me, too. Anybody have any ideas about why she went in that direction?
I think it was a warning to beware the affects of global warming. The first thirty lines was the culmination of the result of our neglect, the last two the ultimatum of the consquences. My thoughts only.
Definitely, Carol. I think so, too. But I'm wondering if we can extend the metaphor even further than that. Anybody else want to weigh in?
Here is a thought. The drought could be the diminished memories of our minds, so we need to focus and remember and sometimes make an effort to recall the green(life events) things.
Her line"what can we each give each other" should have been a clue. We can give each other time , which is a precious commodity for gathering our green things , so we will remember people and things in our lives, not just the physical , ( "besides the naming of every kind of water") but the blessings promised("always the blessing of rain") to nuture our lives and ("and to remember one green thing") when we become old . Ruth, I have a question about your mother, even though she had alzheimers she still had some clarity at times , right? I know many don't . So she held on to one green thing in her mind that was in drought? I don't know, what do you think.
I find this poem a poem of hope.
Carol,Exactly! Your marvelous take on this poem resonates with me and you have expressed it far better than I could.
Oh, this is a gorgeous poem. It works on a global level, but also on such a personal level. I think of the droughts between people or emotional droughts, and how when that happens, in order to survive at all, we need to keep saying, but not just saying aloud, "telling each other" oh no, it wasn't "telling" it was "giving each other," much more powerful, "the names of every kind of water into which we ever dipped our hands." The poem seems to be saying that it's not enough to remember, we have to give this memory to each other.
And then the poem ends by sending us back into our own particular present: "Pay attention. Look for one/ Green thing to remember."
I keep remembering the poem as so much smaller than it is. I scroll back up and read and the poem's not sending us back to the present exactly.
We have to pay attention not simply to what is green now, nothing may seem, feel or look green at all. We have to "remember" what is green. It makes the present of the poem so much more parched and desolate, but I agree, not without hope.
I will have to find more of her work. Thanks for sharing, Ruth
Carol wrote: "Here is a thought. The drought could be the diminished memories of our minds, so we need to focus and remember and sometimes make an effort to recall the green(life events) things."Carol, this is one thing I had in mind; I'm happy it resonated for you.
Joan, I have read it three times and each time I find a gem I didn't see before. I have seen others around me lose their memories from dementia, while not as debilitating as alzheimer maybe, it still steals from our loved ones.
Joan, so good to have you here. Carol has such wonderful insights and always shows me something I didn't see before. This poem makes me more aware of the "green" things in my life - ones I want to remember. Wonderful poem.
Scout wrote: "Joan, so good to have you here. Carol has such wonderful insights and always shows me something I didn't see before. This poem makes me more aware of the "green" things in my life - ones I want to ..."What kind words you have for me., Scout. Thank you
Thanks to you, Carol. And thanks to Ruth for posting Joan's poem.
She has published widely in journals such as Poetry, Atlanta Review, South Dakota Review, The Spoon River Poetry Review, New York Quarterly, the new renaissance, Grand Street, Epoch, and Prairie Schooner. Awards include two Illinois Arts Council Literary Awards, Rhino Poetry Award, the new renaissance Award for Poetry, and an Illinois Arts Council Fellowship in Literature. She was a finalist in the GSU Poetry Contest (2007) and Nimrod International Pablo Neruda Prize (2009, 2012) and received honorable mentions in the North American Review's James Hearst Poetry Contest (2008, 2010). She is the editor of Illinois Racing News and lives on a small horse farm in Northern Illinois. Her published books include The Lonely Hearts Killers and The Atrocity Book. Dead Horses is her tenth collection of poetry.
Drought
The wells went dry, then the rivers
Lessened to a trickle and disappeared,
Leaving only indentations studded with pebbles
And the occasional boulder
We sent the cattle to slaughter rather than watch them die of thirst.
Chickens scratched a pointless calligraphy in bare earth and ants
Caravanned through clapboards, not for sugar
But for water.
Now the water witch dances with his willow rod,
Comes up with nothing, his arms numb with loss.
Levels of everything diminish. Even tears
Clog in our ducts, leaving us red-eyed and sorry.
Our pockets, once jingling with hope,
Are full of sand. Scorpions
Crawl where the wisteria used to flower
Over the old pergola. Every afternoon
Clouds float over, empty as pillowcases.
Chac, god of rain, frowns on the Mayan virgins,
Throws his sacks of water over his shoulder and stomps off.
Their bones in the empty wells mean nothing,
Mean less than nothing.
Lining up the constellations
Fails to help.
The dust storms drive everyone to the sea
Where the pickings are slim, the water
Murderous. On the weather maps,
A fiery splotch promises more of the same.
What can we give each other
Besides the names of every kind of water
Into which we ever dipped our hands—
The Great Lakes, the springs, the creeks, the rivers—
And always the blessing of the rain.
Pay attention now. Look for one
Green thing to remember'
*
What does she do here that makes our throats dry, that makes us want to wipe the dust from our palms?