Saturday, November 12, 2011
that dark specter
Jane Kenyon: Having It Out With Melancholy
If many remedies are prescribed for an illness,
You may be certain that the illness has no cure.
A.P.Checkov
THE CHERRY ORCHARD
1. FROM THE NURSERY
When I was born, you waited
behind a pile of linen in the nursery,
and when we were alone, you lay down
on top of me, pressing
the bile of desolation into every pore.
And from that day on
everything under the sun and moon
made me sad — even the yellow
wooden beads that slid and spun
along a spindle on my crib.
You taught me to exist without gratitude.
You ruined my manners toward God:
“We’re here simply to wait for death;
the pleasures of earth are overrated.”
I only appeared to belong to my mother,
to live among blocks and cotton undershirts
with snaps; among red tin lunch boxes
and report cards in ugly brown slipcases.
I was already yours — the anti-urge,
the mutilator of souls.
2.BOTTLES
Elavil, Ludiomil, Doxepin,
Norpramin, Prozac, Lithium, Xanax,
Wellbutrin, Parnate, Nardil, Zoloft.
The coated ones smell sweet or have
no smell; the powdery ones smell
like the chemistry lab at school
that made me hold my breath.
3. SUGGESTION FROM A FRIEND
You wouldn’t be so depressed
if you really believed in God.
4. OFTEN
Often I go to bed as soon after dinner
as seems adult
(I mean I try to wait for dark)
in order to push away
from the massive pain in sleep’s
frail wicker coracle.
5. ONCE THERE WAS LIGHT
Once, in my early thirties, I saw
that I was a speck of light in the great
river of light that undulates through time.
I was floating with the whole
human family. We were all colors — those
who are living now, those who have died,
those who are not yet born. For a few
moments I floated, completely calm,
and I no longer hated having to exist.
Like a crow who smells hot blood
you came flying to pull me out
of the glowing stream.
“I’ll hold you up. I never let my dear
ones drown!” After that, I wept for days.
6. IN AND OUT
The dog searches until he finds me
upstairs, lies down with a clatter
of elbows, puts his head on my foot.
Sometimes the sound of his breathing
saves my life — in and out, in
and out; a pause, a long sigh. . . .
7. PARDON
A piece of burned meat
wears my clothes, speaks
in my voice, dispatches obligations
haltingly, or not at all.
It is tired of trying
to be stouthearted, tired
beyond measure.
We move on to the monoamine
oxidase inhibitors. Day and night
I feel as if I had drunk six cups
of coffee, but the pain stops
abruptly. With the wonder
and bitterness of someone pardoned
for a crime she did not commit
I come back to marriage and friends,
to pink fringed hollyhocks; come back
to my desk, books, and chair.
8. CREDO
Pharmaceutical wonders are at work
but I believe only in this moment
of well-being. Unholy ghost,
you are certain to come again.
Coarse, mean, you’ll put your feet
on the coffee table, lean back,
and turn me into someone who can’t
take the trouble to speak; someone
who can’t sleep, or who does nothing
but sleep; can’t read, or call
for an appointment for help.
There is nothing I can do
against your coming.
When I awake, I am still with thee.
9. WOOD THRUSH
High on Nardil and June light
I wake at four,
waiting greedily for the first
note of the wood thrush. Easeful air
presses through the screen
with the wild, complex song
of the bird, and I am overcome
by ordinary contentment.
What hurt me so terribly
all my life until this moment?
How I love the small, swiftly
beating heart of the bird
singing in the great maples;
its bright, unequivocal eye.
If many remedies are prescribed for an illness,
You may be certain that the illness has no cure.
A.P.Checkov
THE CHERRY ORCHARD
1. FROM THE NURSERY
When I was born, you waited
behind a pile of linen in the nursery,
and when we were alone, you lay down
on top of me, pressing
the bile of desolation into every pore.
And from that day on
everything under the sun and moon
made me sad — even the yellow
wooden beads that slid and spun
along a spindle on my crib.
You taught me to exist without gratitude.
You ruined my manners toward God:
“We’re here simply to wait for death;
the pleasures of earth are overrated.”
I only appeared to belong to my mother,
to live among blocks and cotton undershirts
with snaps; among red tin lunch boxes
and report cards in ugly brown slipcases.
I was already yours — the anti-urge,
the mutilator of souls.
2.BOTTLES
Elavil, Ludiomil, Doxepin,
Norpramin, Prozac, Lithium, Xanax,
Wellbutrin, Parnate, Nardil, Zoloft.
The coated ones smell sweet or have
no smell; the powdery ones smell
like the chemistry lab at school
that made me hold my breath.
3. SUGGESTION FROM A FRIEND
You wouldn’t be so depressed
if you really believed in God.
4. OFTEN
Often I go to bed as soon after dinner
as seems adult
(I mean I try to wait for dark)
in order to push away
from the massive pain in sleep’s
frail wicker coracle.
5. ONCE THERE WAS LIGHT
Once, in my early thirties, I saw
that I was a speck of light in the great
river of light that undulates through time.
I was floating with the whole
human family. We were all colors — those
who are living now, those who have died,
those who are not yet born. For a few
moments I floated, completely calm,
and I no longer hated having to exist.
Like a crow who smells hot blood
you came flying to pull me out
of the glowing stream.
“I’ll hold you up. I never let my dear
ones drown!” After that, I wept for days.
6. IN AND OUT
The dog searches until he finds me
upstairs, lies down with a clatter
of elbows, puts his head on my foot.
Sometimes the sound of his breathing
saves my life — in and out, in
and out; a pause, a long sigh. . . .
7. PARDON
A piece of burned meat
wears my clothes, speaks
in my voice, dispatches obligations
haltingly, or not at all.
It is tired of trying
to be stouthearted, tired
beyond measure.
We move on to the monoamine
oxidase inhibitors. Day and night
I feel as if I had drunk six cups
of coffee, but the pain stops
abruptly. With the wonder
and bitterness of someone pardoned
for a crime she did not commit
I come back to marriage and friends,
to pink fringed hollyhocks; come back
to my desk, books, and chair.
8. CREDO
Pharmaceutical wonders are at work
but I believe only in this moment
of well-being. Unholy ghost,
you are certain to come again.
Coarse, mean, you’ll put your feet
on the coffee table, lean back,
and turn me into someone who can’t
take the trouble to speak; someone
who can’t sleep, or who does nothing
but sleep; can’t read, or call
for an appointment for help.
There is nothing I can do
against your coming.
When I awake, I am still with thee.
9. WOOD THRUSH
High on Nardil and June light
I wake at four,
waiting greedily for the first
note of the wood thrush. Easeful air
presses through the screen
with the wild, complex song
of the bird, and I am overcome
by ordinary contentment.
What hurt me so terribly
all my life until this moment?
How I love the small, swiftly
beating heart of the bird
singing in the great maples;
its bright, unequivocal eye.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Blind Puppies Can Swim
One cheerfully sunny September afternoon the year I turned 13 I came home to find a one-year-old German shepherd tied to the leg of the piano in the living room. It turned out my dad went to the farmers’ market for a bushel of potatoes to feed us over the winter and came home with an 80 lb guard dog instead.
My mom was not impressed.
But my two younger sisters and I squealed with excitement. My dad had never been the cool, spontaneous type, and now an awesome, giant dog, on a whim? My friends will be so jealous!
It soon turned out the dog was not a fun purchase after all. My dad, true to character, was being practical—my parents were building a house for us to move into on a plot of land outside of town, and the dog was meant to live at the construction site, as an old-fashioned alarm system.
The dog, who was a girl, came from a military base in town (the military only uses male dogs, I found out), equipped with a name, Aza, an independent spirit and a set of functioning ovaries. We didn’t have dogs spayed or neutered twenty years ago in a small town in Poland, because that cost money, and besides, it was a high-falutin’ idea for fancy city folk.
We kept her as she was and nearly every autumn, when in heat, she managed to run away for a few days and come back pregnant. Every year she had a litter of seven to eight puppies. Some of them we kept for ourselves (at one point we had three huge, gorgeous German shepherds and were famous for it across town), some we sold or gave to friends. But here is the thing: according to my dad, the mother doesn’t have enough milk to successfully feed a litter that big. The smallest runts would be pushed out of the way by their stronger siblings and starve anyway, so the reasonable thing to do was to choose three of the healthiest-looking ones to keep and dispose of the rest.
What does one do about a handful of extraneous puppies, a few days old and still blind? One can supplement with cow’s milk and a baby bottle, you may think. Or, giving up on them, one may pack them up and take them to the vet to be put to sleep. But no, feeding three kids and a dog, building a house (my dad is an architect/engineer and designed the house and did much of the construction himself) while holding down a full-time job was enough to keep him busy. He scoffed and rolled his eyes when I suggested the humane euthanasia approach, chuckling at the concept of emotional teenage girls and their adorable ideas.
And so one frosty November evening, after work, he set out for the new house, where the dog and her puppies were living, to take care of the problem. I ended up coming along, though to this day I cannot remember whether I had asked to go or if he wanted my help, just because the extra pair of hands would make the job easier. In any case, we made our way across the highway and through the woods. We parked the car and went into the garage where the dogs slept. Dad found a shovel and a big metal bucket and filled it with water from the garden hose.
“First we go out back and dig a nice hole,” he explained. He left to take care of that part of the program while I played with the puppies, my heart squeezing tightly, knowing that four out of the seven would not make it to see the light of morning.
“Digging is a headache in this weather,” he complained coming back in. “The ground is frozen already, early this year. Now let’s pick the winners,” he squatted by the dog bed he built from scraps of lumber, thoughtfully adding raised sides so the puppies couldn’t crawl out and lining it with old blankets.
“You always pick the ones on top of the pile of pups, the ones that squirm the hardest and make the most noise. Those are the ones that will grow up strong and alert. The ones curled up in the corner will spend their days sleeping and avoiding action. Okay, you, and you,” he held up two whimpering puppies, “and … you,” he handed the survivors to me.
He scooped up the other four and brought them over to the bucket of water. He dropped them in and took a step back, waiting for the yelping and choking and gurgling and crying to stop as the babies sank to the bottom. If he was a smoker, he’d light up now, relaxing on a break from a chore.
Except the flailing and splashing doesn’t stop.
“Oh, shit, I knew these would be tough. They’re too big, too strong, “ dad sucks his teeth. “I should’ve done this last week, but didn’t have time, with the extra hours at work.”
Apparently, if you’re going to drown puppies, you should do it as soon as they’re born. Two-day-old puppies will inhale water and sink in a matter of moments, whereas puppies who had a week to eat and grow and get stronger, like these, are almost able to swim.
Almost.
Minute after minute ticks by and the puppies keep struggling. My throat is tight and my stomach hurts as I watch them surface for air, beat at the water with their tiny paws and sink, only to find their footing on top of their brothers and sisters and resurface, yelping in panic, over and over and over.
“Alright, let’s go,” he picks up the bucket of dying pups and rushes to the back of the house. In the near-darkness he eyes the hole he’d dug in the ground and realizes it’s not deep enough. Grabbing the shovel, he stabs at the hard ground, struggling and cursing to the soundtrack of the sounds of death. Finally he tips the bucket into the tiny grave, water and fur and all, and starts shoveling the dirt on top of the squirming mess. I stand beside him, watching, and think I may choke and pass out at any moment now, but keeping silent because … what is there to say? He is going to finish the job one way or another, why make it harder for myself by being dramatic about it?
Slowly, as the layers of dirt blanket the puppies, they quiet down. Eventually, there is stillness. Dad finishes up with the shovel, puts everything away and washes his hands. We get in the car and drive home. I don’t remember whether we talk at all during the drive.
My mom was not impressed.
But my two younger sisters and I squealed with excitement. My dad had never been the cool, spontaneous type, and now an awesome, giant dog, on a whim? My friends will be so jealous!
It soon turned out the dog was not a fun purchase after all. My dad, true to character, was being practical—my parents were building a house for us to move into on a plot of land outside of town, and the dog was meant to live at the construction site, as an old-fashioned alarm system.
The dog, who was a girl, came from a military base in town (the military only uses male dogs, I found out), equipped with a name, Aza, an independent spirit and a set of functioning ovaries. We didn’t have dogs spayed or neutered twenty years ago in a small town in Poland, because that cost money, and besides, it was a high-falutin’ idea for fancy city folk.
We kept her as she was and nearly every autumn, when in heat, she managed to run away for a few days and come back pregnant. Every year she had a litter of seven to eight puppies. Some of them we kept for ourselves (at one point we had three huge, gorgeous German shepherds and were famous for it across town), some we sold or gave to friends. But here is the thing: according to my dad, the mother doesn’t have enough milk to successfully feed a litter that big. The smallest runts would be pushed out of the way by their stronger siblings and starve anyway, so the reasonable thing to do was to choose three of the healthiest-looking ones to keep and dispose of the rest.
What does one do about a handful of extraneous puppies, a few days old and still blind? One can supplement with cow’s milk and a baby bottle, you may think. Or, giving up on them, one may pack them up and take them to the vet to be put to sleep. But no, feeding three kids and a dog, building a house (my dad is an architect/engineer and designed the house and did much of the construction himself) while holding down a full-time job was enough to keep him busy. He scoffed and rolled his eyes when I suggested the humane euthanasia approach, chuckling at the concept of emotional teenage girls and their adorable ideas.
And so one frosty November evening, after work, he set out for the new house, where the dog and her puppies were living, to take care of the problem. I ended up coming along, though to this day I cannot remember whether I had asked to go or if he wanted my help, just because the extra pair of hands would make the job easier. In any case, we made our way across the highway and through the woods. We parked the car and went into the garage where the dogs slept. Dad found a shovel and a big metal bucket and filled it with water from the garden hose.
“First we go out back and dig a nice hole,” he explained. He left to take care of that part of the program while I played with the puppies, my heart squeezing tightly, knowing that four out of the seven would not make it to see the light of morning.
“Digging is a headache in this weather,” he complained coming back in. “The ground is frozen already, early this year. Now let’s pick the winners,” he squatted by the dog bed he built from scraps of lumber, thoughtfully adding raised sides so the puppies couldn’t crawl out and lining it with old blankets.
“You always pick the ones on top of the pile of pups, the ones that squirm the hardest and make the most noise. Those are the ones that will grow up strong and alert. The ones curled up in the corner will spend their days sleeping and avoiding action. Okay, you, and you,” he held up two whimpering puppies, “and … you,” he handed the survivors to me.
He scooped up the other four and brought them over to the bucket of water. He dropped them in and took a step back, waiting for the yelping and choking and gurgling and crying to stop as the babies sank to the bottom. If he was a smoker, he’d light up now, relaxing on a break from a chore.
Except the flailing and splashing doesn’t stop.
“Oh, shit, I knew these would be tough. They’re too big, too strong, “ dad sucks his teeth. “I should’ve done this last week, but didn’t have time, with the extra hours at work.”
Apparently, if you’re going to drown puppies, you should do it as soon as they’re born. Two-day-old puppies will inhale water and sink in a matter of moments, whereas puppies who had a week to eat and grow and get stronger, like these, are almost able to swim.
Almost.
Minute after minute ticks by and the puppies keep struggling. My throat is tight and my stomach hurts as I watch them surface for air, beat at the water with their tiny paws and sink, only to find their footing on top of their brothers and sisters and resurface, yelping in panic, over and over and over.
“Alright, let’s go,” he picks up the bucket of dying pups and rushes to the back of the house. In the near-darkness he eyes the hole he’d dug in the ground and realizes it’s not deep enough. Grabbing the shovel, he stabs at the hard ground, struggling and cursing to the soundtrack of the sounds of death. Finally he tips the bucket into the tiny grave, water and fur and all, and starts shoveling the dirt on top of the squirming mess. I stand beside him, watching, and think I may choke and pass out at any moment now, but keeping silent because … what is there to say? He is going to finish the job one way or another, why make it harder for myself by being dramatic about it?
Slowly, as the layers of dirt blanket the puppies, they quiet down. Eventually, there is stillness. Dad finishes up with the shovel, puts everything away and washes his hands. We get in the car and drive home. I don’t remember whether we talk at all during the drive.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Sunday solitude
Rain. Wrapped in Kate's writing like dream weaving. Lost in thought at Rebecca's good fortune.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
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