At King’s Pond in February
ducklings leave vee-wakes,
trail traces of gritty ash -
my mother’s remains silt the water.
This is all that’s left: a bed for new birds.
They’ll grow on tadpoles, waterweeds
and seed cast by old women in woolen caps
who walk the gravel path Tuesdays,
then rest on the bench and laugh and laugh
at the scramble of ducks, the clatter of quacking,
the timid approach of the young.
Author notes
p. 290
Please tell me what works for you, and what doesn't.
In a list
Comments
1 - 22 of 22
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I'm sure everything has already been said about this, so I'll just bow out with excellent piece.
Best wishes,
Stacy
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I miss a lot not being here as regularly as I once was. the first stanza here is a poem all its own. even if it ended there, it would be great; tension, noise-music, and ducklings. "gritty" ash would just be ash if it were mine.
clatter of quacking is fun to say. quack quack quack. This childlike summoning of sounds; the learning of animals and the sounds they make, and what starts with q, etc...leads perfectly into the final line which is brilliantly vast.
glad i found this
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I'm sure I was quite pissed at you for not finding it back when I posted. But oh I think I owe you one, too. Did you find it through the AP book thingy? I have no idea how this ended up there, and Lisa says I shouldn't let them have it, but I dunno. What do you think?
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Yes. That's how I found it.
I'm letting them have mine.
I can't really think of a good reason not to.
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Breath Taking
leave vees
and right away I see them expanding as wakes do
and it is a wake as in Finnegan’s (uisce beatha – water of life
the silt of mother’s ashes is such an arresting moment
that’s where my breath fled back into my lungs
This is very Tao
There is great stillness and the importance of nothing.
All of the sense are awakened in a remarkable way – from the sound of gravel pathways to the tactile silt
This is lovely lovely.
Peace.
PS Sorry for taking so long to discover – I am trying to catch up in a few moments before class.
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Tao, huh? I've been thinking about Tao lately, and wondering if I might find my niche in there somewhere. As a spiritual atheist, I feel like a bit of an anomaly sometimes, or a walking contradiction.
Anyhow, thank you so much for a wonderful comment.
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Take what you will, can the rest. Just ideas.
-df-
At King's Pond,
ducklings will leave vee-wakes
and trail traces of gritty ash,
my mother's remains
silt in the water.
Will this be all that is left:
a bed for new birds growing
on tadpoles and waterweed
and the seed old men in woolen caps
who walk the gravel path,
Tuesdays in February
cast from a bench to laugh
at the quack and clatter
of scambling ducks,
the timid approach of their young.
-df-
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Such a sudden, effective twist in the first stanza. The whole poem is strong. I think, if there is room for improvement, it would be--forget it. Hell! Don't change a thing...
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hehehe, thank you for a great comment!
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What goes around, comes around and takes flight in new form.
A hopeful and solemn vision.
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This is a wonderful piece.. but it feels unfinished- like more needs to be said relating to your mothers ashes. I understand this to say that even in loss, the world moves on.. while capturing the sadness of scattering her ashes. It is well written and I am glad I stopped by. I am sorry for your loss.. Blessings. Debby
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very capitavting.
i know i've seen you around from time to time, but i had to stop on in today and comment. i'm very glad to have done so, as this was very vivid and have piqued my interest well.
i think the laughter line was the one that really worked the best for me. i'm not even sure why, but it came off as very nicely done to me.
i'm off to read more of your work. you're great from what i've heard, and what i've read thus far.
j -
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thank you, pi man, for your visits today
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Gosh...not sure what I can add to all this discussion.
I thought the image was beautifully realised and enjoyed reading the poem a lot.
Pretty sophomoric of me, I know...but
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this is a beautiful poem, Why? because it is timeless.
the ducks will always make V's in the water. mother will always float just below the surface.
Perhaps if I said passing should also represent a continuation? Does it really need a third verse? No.
question is does the Poet? -
there should be a verse in the middle. Action must always elicit reaction. It need not violate any closely held dogma, but to cast away means to retrieve, even if it is only eddys in the wind.
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Thank you for your comment, Sir Lute. I have no idea what you said after the first sentence, and would be happy to have it explained. I've asked Lisa, in case you are indisposed.
What would another stanza add? What is missing?
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Don't you think the last line of that poem is wonderous.
I'm reading a book about Pound's translations of his
Cathay poems right now -- I've become instantly fascinated with the art of translations - I'd like to know what the original really said, anyway:
Your poem:
Emotional Response:
It is a place poem. Well sorta.
I was driving past the pond down the street
two days ago and the swans that live there were
making the most beautiful vees. ... I thought about
writing it and then I thought maybe it was too cliche.
But they aren't here, I don't think because here they
are used really to set the place of the poem - the mood.
You have ducklings in February? You really do get spring faster...
Interesting:
This is all that's left
It speaks to me directly about your unbelief in the afterlife, your unbelief in the soul which may
have the ability to live on or even return (of which I believe). When I read that it makes me sad. For you, which sounds strange to me to even reveal, because I'm sure you are quite content with your belief, as well should be and I don't mean to say that in a judgemental way and I'm not at all
but for the sake of discussion about the poem's emotional response, it does, make me feel sad for you. Because of the absolute goneness.
Technical Stuff:
mmmm. a bed for new birds? the water?
I think of the bed for new birds as the marshland or edges
of the pond, not the pond itself.
Might just be the word bed -- might just be me.
seeds cast by old women in woolen caps/ gravel paths/laughs/laughs
is all yummy.
You know some people at mean people dot com
I mentioned I liked the sound of
purple/urge/engorge which were used together in a poem
and after I said I liked it about 4 people said how horrible that sound was and couldn't the person who wrote it SEE/FEEL how awful those sounds were. I think they don't believe in the music of poetry. No I've not been back. But the devastation just lingers...
Argh. Now I have to say something else that I'm not sure jives in my mind -- I said it to Gilly on her poem the other day in the delicious lines she had in her poem about Words being like bees on her tongue -- with the word placate nearby. Me saying Bees and placate images didn't jive in my mind rather bees/busy
scramble of ducks/clatter of quacking
doesn't ring in my mind as
the TIMID approach of the young -- actually, I question the word Timid to describe most young -- more the joyful
the unstoppable, the bounding approach of the young in my mind.
I don't want my mother to leave this earth....
Oops. Squeaked out another emotional response
that has me welling up..
Good response piece. Definitely something to work with
or maybe it is done.
Only you know for sure, I'm just a reader sharing my experience.
xo
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I'll resist the urge to explain. I know that if you feel up to looking again, you will figure out just what is the bed for birds. The adult ducks scrabble and quack, but not the babies -maybe this is a case where "and" would clarify - but anyhow that last line isn't just about young birds. I think you'll also figure out who's among the old women. This is an everywhen piece.
There may be an afterlife, or there may not be. It is neither here nor there to me, as I can't have knowledge of it in THIS life. I'm fine with saying goodbye, anyhow. Feel sad for yourself, if you like - at how you think you'd feel if you didn't believe - but don't feel sad for me.
Richard Hugo said that if you have a choice between going for the meaning or going for the music, always go for the music. Those folks at everycritic are sorely underinformed.
Speaking of translation, please translate Lute's comment for me. I'll ask him, but I'm quite sure he won't respond.
Thank you, as always, for your considered comments. I love your visits.
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Morning.
We keep missing. I'm stupid. I just keep seeing this my way. But it doesn't stop my enjoyment of it. And the bit of mystery at the things I questioned in my mind are not so distracting that I don't enjoy reading it again. (actually if you were a gold member, I might be embarassed at the number of times I've been here).
I can't help who I feel sad for or switch what I did feel upon my readings of this though. Its your fault. The poem writer. And thats what its about in the end, aint' it? Making the reader "feel" something in the pit of themselves, in the place that isn't touchable by human hands
touchable only by poets, poems, love, loss, pain, art...
I'm a fucking Romantic with the soul the size of Texas.
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Ashes to ashes, dust to dust...and the new shall be built upon the old...as cycles spin endlessly in this gearbox of existence.
This reflects, as does the water, the growth of the new upon silted beds of the dead. And it's not sad, but rather a stilted acceptance of what is left of winter before the coming of spring.
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not sure on the ash and silt being so close... but i don't know the poem you've written from .. so it may be a crux to the piece...
i love the metaphorical silting though of a memory... we've got some great shots of beth feeding the mad schizophrenic swans in Stamford Park when she was a toddler... ... the V shape and the way it travels, almost vein-like and arterial in its passage...
i wander around this poem with smiles and pieces of stale bread hoping to find that one bird to feed...
tis good ma'am... ... i shall back when my brain is less fogged out by night shift work
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