Stunning poem -- brave articulation of search within culture for the authentic self and the archetypal woman warrior. Not an easy poem, but an important one.
this is an important metaphor for diving deep into old stories, personal myths and collective myths, the underworld of the Descent is an ageless heroic quest
THIS haunting poem!! I return to it, year after year, just to read it, absorb it, get courage from it. How much I love it read in Rich's beautiful voice!
First having read the book of myths, and loaded the camera, and checked the edge of the knife-blade, I put on the body-armor of black rubber the absurd flippers the grave and awkward mask. I am having to do this not like Cousteau with his assiduous team aboard the sun-flooded schooner but here alone. There is a ladder. The ladder is always there hanging innocently close to the side of the schooner. We know what it is for, we who have used it. Otherwise it is a piece of maritime floss some sundry equipment. I go down. Rung after rung and still the oxygen immerses me the blue light the clear atoms of our human air. I go down. My flippers cripple me, I crawl like an insect down the ladder and there is no one to tell me when the ocean will begin. First the air is blue and then it is bluer and then green and then black I am blacking out and yet my mask is powerful it pumps my blood with power the sea is another story the sea is not a question of power I have to learn alone to turn my body without force in the deep element. And now: it is easy to forget what I came for among so many who have always lived here swaying their crenellated fans between the reefs and besides you breathe differently down here. I came to explore the wreck. The words are purposes. The words are maps. I came to see the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail. I stroke the beam of my lamp slowly along the flank of something more permanent than fish or weed the thing I came for: the wreck and not the story of the wreck the thing itself and not the myth the drowned face always staring toward the sun the evidence of damage worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty the ribs of the disaster curving their assertion among the tentative haunters. This is the place. And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair streams black, the merman in his armored body. We circle silently about the wreck we dive into the hold. I am she: I am he whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes whose breasts still bear the stress whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies obscurely inside barrels half-wedged and left to rot we are the half-destroyed instruments that once held to a course the water-eaten log the fouled compass We are, I am, you are by cowardice or courage the one who find our way back to this scene carrying a knife, a camera a book of myths in which our names do not appear.
Very much enjoyed your wonderful heartwarming poem I, too, am a poet and also a short story adult, pre-teen and teen writer and I hope you don’t mind me sharing a tanka , a haiku, and a haibun. The haiku is dedicated to Matshuo Basho with commentary by the late great AHA poet Jane Reichhold who considered it one her top 10 poems of all time. What an honor. Here’s the haiku with commentary: Bashō’s frog four hundred years of ripples The puns and write-offs based on Basho's most famous haiku are so numerous I would have said that nothing new could be said with this method, but here Al Fogel proved me wrong. Perhaps part of my delight in this haiku lies in the fact that I agree with him. Here he is saying one thing about realism-ripples are on a pond after a frog jumps in, but because it refers back to Basho and his famous haiku, he is also saying something about the haiku and authors who have followed him. We, and our work, are just ripples while Basho holds the honor of inventing the idea of "the sound of a frog leaping is the sound of water". As haiku spreads around the world, making ripples in more and larger ponds, its ripples are wider-including us all. But his last word reminds us all that we are only ripples and our lives are that ephemeral. It will be the frogs that will remain. -Al Fogel Next, the tanka: returning home from a Jackson Pollock exhibition I smear my face with paint and turn into art And finally the haibun that I believe will not only appeal to Afro-Americans but to all individual and groups that experience racial injustice. It’s based on a true incident that took place in the 1950s when racial inequality was rampant. But the story has a surprise ending that coincides with my own belief akin to Dr Martin Luther King. Titled “ Eloise , Edna And The Chicken Coop” ELOISE, EDNA & THE CHICKEN COOP There was once a Black woman named Eloise who inherited from her grandmother a parcel of land in the suburbs of Compton California at a time when there was strong racial prejudice against women of color-especially those Black women who owned property in predominately white neighborhoods. It happened there lived adjacent to Eloise’s land a white woman named Edna who did not like the fact that this Black woman owned land next to hers. Eloise would try to be friendly because she believed Jesus when He said “Love Thy Neighbor” and to Eloise that meant even if your neighbor was unfriendly. But whenever Eloise saw Edna, Edna would turn her back in disdain. In fact, ever since her husband died a decade ago, Edna became mean and unfriendly to everyone in the neighborhood. But to Eloise, she was so hateful and full of animosity that one night when all the lights in Eloise home were off Edna went to her own backyard where she kept her chicken coop and gathered up all the manure and dumped it on Eloise land and upon her tomatoes and her greens and everything she was growing, in an attempt to destroy it. And when Eloise realized the next morning that there was all this manure, instead of becoming angry, she decided to rake and mix it in with the soil and use it as fertilizer. Every night Edna would dump the manure from her chicken coop litter box and Eloise would get up in the morning and turn it over and mix it. This went on for almost a month until one morning Eloise noticed there was no manure in her yard. Then one of the neighbors informed Eloise that Edna had fallen ill. But because Edna was so mean and unfriendly , no one came to see her when she was sick. But when Eloise heard about Edna’s condition she picked the best flowers from her garden, walked to Edna’s house , knocked on her front door and when Edna opened the door, she was in complete shock that this Black Woman who she had been so cruel to, would be the only neighbor to visit her and bring flowers. Edna was deeply moved by Eloise kindness. Then Eloise handed the flowers to Edna who said, “These are the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen! Where’d you get them?” Eloise said, “You helped me make them, because when you were dumping in my yard, I decided to plant some roses and use your manure as fertilizer.“ Tears flooded Edna’s eyes. This genuine act of kindness opened the floodgate of Edna’s heart that had been closed for so long. “When I’m feeling better, I would love to have you over for tea,” Edna told Eloise. “Thank you, “ Edna replied , assuring her she would come. And then added “ I will pray for your speedy recovery every night” And with those words Eloise departed. It’s amazing what can blossom from manure. There are some who allow manure to fall on them and do nothing. But then there are others-like Eloise -who “turn the other cheek” when abused or in this case “turn over the soil” to make something new like those bevy of beautiful roses that opened a white woman’s heart. -Al Fogel. All love in isolation from Miami Beach, Florida,
Love that it's here -- but Zachary, the speed on audio is way too fast. It needs to be slowed down, to get the full meaning of how she read and how amazing it was. Just a helpful note.
This poem is my compass. Since the 80’s I’ve held close to her poems, at times I’ve held them for dear life.
Stunning poem -- brave articulation of search within culture for the authentic self and the archetypal woman warrior. Not an easy poem, but an important one.
favorite poem by Rich and maybe of all time. Met her once, she said become a critic, when I did not even know what that meant, and I did.
nice to meet you i have some confusions in the poem can you help me
this is an important metaphor for diving deep into old stories, personal myths and collective myths, the underworld of the Descent is an ageless heroic quest
THIS haunting poem!! I return to it, year after year, just to read it, absorb it, get courage from it. How much I love it read in Rich's beautiful voice!
First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.
There is a ladder.
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it.
Otherwise
it is a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.
I go down.
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down.
My flippers cripple me,
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.
First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.
And now: it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.
I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed
the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.
This is the place.
And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black, the merman in his armored body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she: I am he
whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass
We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.
Diving into the shipwreck and also the identity of woman beyond the patriarchal concepts of fragile woman. I Loved it to hear from the poet.
Loved this...but glad I had not heard it before I did my reading...as it would have influenced me.
I heard her read this at UC Berkeley - unforgettable
I read this story for my class and it is truly sad when you think about what she is saying
I love this poem but please say more about what it is she is saying.
thanks for posting!
great.
Very much enjoyed your wonderful heartwarming poem
I, too, am a poet and also a short story adult, pre-teen and teen writer and I hope you don’t mind me sharing a tanka , a haiku, and a haibun. The haiku is dedicated to Matshuo Basho with commentary by the late great AHA poet Jane Reichhold who considered it one her top 10 poems of all time. What an honor.
Here’s the haiku with commentary:
Bashō’s frog
four hundred years
of ripples
The puns and write-offs based on Basho's most famous haiku are so
numerous I would have said that nothing new could be said with this
method, but here Al Fogel proved me wrong. Perhaps part of my delight in this haiku lies in the fact that I agree with him. Here he is saying one thing
about realism-ripples are on a pond after a frog jumps in, but because it refers back to Basho and his famous haiku, he is also saying something about the haiku and authors who have followed him. We, and our work, are just ripples while Basho holds the honor of inventing the idea of "the
sound of a frog leaping is the sound of water".
As haiku spreads around the world, making ripples in more and larger ponds, its ripples are wider-including us all. But his last word reminds us all that we are only ripples and our lives are that ephemeral. It will be the frogs that will remain.
-Al Fogel
Next, the tanka:
returning home
from a Jackson Pollock
exhibition
I smear my face with paint
and turn into art
And finally the haibun that I believe will not only appeal to Afro-Americans but to all individual and groups that experience racial injustice. It’s based on a true incident that took place in the 1950s when racial inequality was rampant. But the story has a surprise ending that coincides with my own belief akin to Dr Martin Luther King. Titled “ Eloise , Edna And The Chicken Coop”
ELOISE, EDNA & THE CHICKEN COOP
There was once a Black woman named Eloise who inherited from her grandmother a parcel of land in the suburbs of Compton California at a time when there was strong racial prejudice against women of color-especially those Black women who owned property in predominately white neighborhoods.
It happened there lived adjacent to Eloise’s land a white woman named Edna who did not like the fact that this Black woman owned land next to hers.
Eloise would try to be friendly because she believed Jesus when He said “Love Thy Neighbor” and to Eloise that meant even if your neighbor was unfriendly.
But whenever Eloise saw Edna, Edna would turn her back in disdain. In fact, ever since her husband died a decade ago, Edna became mean and unfriendly to everyone in the neighborhood.
But to Eloise, she was so hateful and full of animosity that one night when all the lights in Eloise home were off Edna went to her own backyard where she kept her chicken coop and gathered up all the manure and dumped it on Eloise land and upon her tomatoes and her greens and everything she was growing, in an attempt to destroy it.
And when Eloise realized the next morning that there was all this manure, instead of becoming angry, she decided to rake and mix it in with the soil and use it as fertilizer.
Every night Edna would dump the manure from her chicken coop litter box and Eloise would get up in the morning and turn it over and mix it.
This went on for almost a month until one morning Eloise noticed there was no manure in her yard.
Then one of the neighbors informed Eloise that Edna had fallen ill. But because Edna was so mean and unfriendly , no one came to see her when she was sick.
But when Eloise heard about Edna’s condition she picked the best flowers from her garden, walked to Edna’s house , knocked on her front door and when Edna opened the door, she was in complete shock that this Black Woman who she had been so cruel to, would be the only neighbor to visit
her and bring flowers.
Edna was deeply moved by Eloise kindness.
Then Eloise handed the flowers to Edna who said,
“These are the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen! Where’d you get them?”
Eloise said, “You helped me make them, because when you were dumping in my yard, I decided to plant some roses and use your manure as fertilizer.“
Tears flooded Edna’s eyes. This genuine act of kindness opened the floodgate of Edna’s heart that had been closed for so long.
“When I’m feeling better, I would love to have you over for tea,” Edna told Eloise.
“Thank you, “ Edna replied , assuring her she would come. And then added “ I will pray for your speedy recovery every night”
And with those words Eloise departed.
It’s amazing what can blossom from manure.
There are some who allow manure to fall on them and do nothing.
But then there are others-like Eloise -who “turn the other cheek” when abused or in this case “turn over the soil” to make something new like those bevy of beautiful roses that opened a white woman’s
heart.
-Al Fogel.
All love in isolation from Miami Beach, Florida,
Love that it's here -- but Zachary, the speed on audio is way too fast. It needs to be slowed down, to get the full meaning of how she read and how amazing it was. Just a helpful note.
So she wasnt a diver then.