My dearest Anne, How
kind of you
to take
The time to write and
catch me up
on things.
I miss so much our lunches
after
class, our talks,
Our walks along the river
with your
dogs.
And though I hold you dear
in different
ways,
You've become what I had
hoped my
daughter
Would become, were she
alive today,
A companion with whom what
narrow
insight
Old-age affords might be
exchanged
For that wide and mirrory
outlook
which now
Crowns your youth. But she
is not
alive,
Nor is my darling husband,
and so
it is
From time to time I think
of you
As one of them. I hope you
don't
mind,
Or mind too much, for it's
in that
spirit
That I'll ask you, after I
return,
to tell me more
About your plans to take
up writing
Now that you have finished
school.
You are, you know, the
brightest
student
I have ever had, and I'd
think you
could do
Anything you want. Which
makes me
wonder
If you really want a life
that's
so...so what?
So self-inflicted as this
one. Looking
back
On fifty-odd years of it,
I feel
the kind of
Resigned acceptance one
might feel
for
A small deformity, or a
slight impediment
Of speech which, however
politely
it's received,
Nonetheless makes one
think there's
less
To lose from saying
nothing. Be
that as it may,
It's certainly true that
writing
may provide
A "portal of escape" (the
phrase,
I believe,
Is Ruskin's) into some
less tiresome
Version of ourselves.
Speaking of which,
You'll be amused to learn
the foundation
Has finally settled me
into my very
own
Ruined cottage, a stone,
two room
Fisherman's hut complete
with a
sway-backed
Roof that leaks, a rough
wood floor,
And holes in the masonry
large enough
To fire a sizeable
cannonball through.
Creature comforts
notwithstanding,
I wake
Each morning perched atop
a freshly
wind-swept
Promontory three hundred
feet above
The Irish Sea, a shelving
aerie
from which,
Whenever the weather
breaks, I can
see
All the way to the Isle of
Man and
across
To Galloway. On certain
days it
feels as if
I viewed the world from
the highest
terrace
Of human consciousness, a
view
Like that which Wordsworth
claimed,
Looking down on Chamouny
from the
Alps,
Made "rich amends" (though
amends
for what
I can't recall). Other
days, I've
found such
Pleasant consolations
elude me altogether,
And this prospect settles
upon my
heart
A dull unshakeable sorrow,
as though
I'd viewed the world from
the raw
perspective
Of the newly, prematurely
dead.
Fortunately
The weather hardly ever
breaks,
for beyond
All that there's not much
here but
sheep
And us. Which prompts me
to say,
it didn't
Take long to fall back
into the
sheepish habits
Of our little flock. I
write all
day, then pass
The evenings in that
guarded amity
common,
I suppose, to writers'
retreats
all over the globe:
The dinners are served up
"family
style"—
Roasted chickens, legs of
lamb,
heaping bowls
Of boiled spuds laid out
by six
in the dining hall
Of a renovated fifteenth
century
castle
We've nicknamed "Fortress
Hunger."
The way we eat you'd think
we'd
actually
Spent our days plodding
behind a
horse
And plow; and afterwards,
a turf
fire banked
Against the rising chill,
we're
invited to gather
In the sitting room for
some pinochle
And inchoate chat.
Lately,
however, I
find
I'm more inclined to
watch, from
an overstuffed
Armchair beside the fire,
the presqu'ile
city
Of an outgoing ferry
crossing the
horizon
Toward Scotland. It
departs from
Larne
Each night at nine, the
final passage
of the day,
I'm told, and it takes
about three-quarters
Of an hour to slide across
the windowpane
And disappear from sight.
A great
birthday cake
Of a ship with SEA-LINK
blazoned
in huge
Blue letters along its
side, it
moves so slowly
It's hard to tell it moves
at all;
and yet,
While it first sets off so
brightly
prinked
With running lights and
cabin shine
it casts
A green-gold shadow on the
sea,
it soon
Burns down to a smoldering
glow,
snuffed-out
Like a candle flame. One
curious
thing
About it is, no matter how
hard
I try,
No matter how fully I
focus my attention,
I can never actually see
it fade,
I can never
Make out even one of those
thousand
Fine gradations, even one
of those
Incremental shifts by
which it finally
Disappears.
This will, I fear, sound strange
To you, but it's as though
throughout
That brief excursion, that
all-too-fleeting
Sleight of hand, I'd
watched from
afar
My own life pass across
the windowpane:
How it set out glamored in
the burnished
hope
Of what they used to call
"my gift,"
A sort of promissory note
the Certitudes
Launched toward a future
where,
At journey's end, it would
be redeemed
In a light like that which
falls
across
The bees-waxed transoms of
Vermeer.
But the journey, it
happens, is
not toward
Such fulfillments, nor
have I ever
(as I recall)
Been touched by any such
light as
that.
It's more as though,
little by little,
In a slow declension
imperceptible
to sense,
The mind's eclipsed, the
promise
dims,
And the light goes out
altogether.
And then one day you find
yourself
Alone and a little
embarrassed
That you've dared outlive
your gift.
But knowing your tendency
to give
Such things your full
consideration,
I suspect you've already
made your
list,
The pros and cons of the
writer's
life,
And held them in the
balance. And
lest
My letter settles too
easily on
one side,
I'll confess that if I had
it to
do over,
If I knew in advance what
I know
now,
I'd make the same choices
I did
then,
Though I hope you'll
simply entertain
The fact (or call it my
strong impression)
That the supreme art is a
happy
life,
And a happy life anathema
to art.
© by Sherod Santos
