Page 52 - WTP Vol. X #2

Stranger Love (continued from preceding page)
speaker’s response to objective things implied that his knowledge, while focused on material laws, pointed at realms beyond it.
The boy, all overalls, freckles, and cowlick, might have played a role in some bogus, sentimental movie about farm life. For all his bumpkin appearance, however, his nature seemed an inquiring one, and he clearly trusted in his senior’s wisdom.
But what the old man suggested next was dismay- ingly banal. He said that the dock below could be ripped from its posts by storm. “Hence the chain,”
“The minute I came awake, I recognized
the old man’s talk for the rubbish it was. As so often in my experience, especially as a writer, what had seemed so promising in sleep turned out to be drivel by the light of day.”
he added, meaning one that ran from the dock it- self around an oak. “It will hold everything togeth- er,” he vowed, and yes, he used that archaic hence, as if such elevated diction could elevate his drab commentary too.
Soon the hurricane roared in. Its wind all but instant- ly snapped the chain and spun the dock downstream. The old man ginned up new explanations for these developments. He claimed, improbably and incom- prehensibly, that in fact all this tumult validated his haphazard inklings.
The minute I came awake, I recognized the old man’s talk for the rubbish it was. As so often in my experience, especially as a writer, what had seemed so promising in sleep turned out to be drivel by the light of day.
Having braced my wits with caffeine, I went down to the village post office, where I ran into our townsman Will. He’s been on my mind since we loitered outside, chatting about this and that.
I can’t help marveling at how he confronts the physical aspects of his life. Working on a roof a few years ago, he fell from a ladder. Seven opera- tions have ensued—all useless. He has to wear a monstrous boot. Even standing is painful, never mind walking.
I mean anything but condescension when I say it’s unlikely Will much considers dreams, rubbish or otherwise.
He told me he’d gotten a cashier’s job at a diner, where he could stay seated for most of the day. His boss provided him with a tall stool; he said that boss was a good person and he liked him; he even claimed to enjoy the new position. In short, Will appeared upbeat, but then he always does.
If I made Will into a hero, I know he’d roundly resist. Still, I can’t help admiring his pragmatism and valor. Right after the last procedure went wrong, he told me, Bad things can happen to people, so why not me? I fell off a ladder, that’s all.
Typical unadorned language, unadorned fact—to which Will always sticks. He’s utterly unlike the old man in my dream, handing the boy his mystical bun- kum even after the chain let go and the dock went hurtling seaward.
I trust I don’t engage in such hogwash myself. But I’ve been a poet a long, long time, so I can’t be sure.
~
Excerpted from Earthquakes and Angels, a collection of essays.
Lea is 2021 recipient of his home state Vermont’s most presti- gious artist’s distinction: the Governor’s Award for Excellence in the Arts. A former Pulitzer finalist and winner of the 1998 Poets’ Prize, he served as founding editor of New England Review
and was Vermont’s Poet Laureate from 2011 to 2015. He is the author of twenty-three books, the latest, Seen from All Sides: Lyric and Everyday Life, a compendium of regionally syndicated newspaper columns composed during his tenure as state poet. His most recent poetry collection is Here (Four Way Books, 2019). His work across the genres has appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic, The New Republic, The Nation, The New York Times, Sports Illustrated, all the major literary journals, and more than sixty anthologies.
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