I follow two writers (whose works I enjoy immensely), Lucy Kempton and Joe Hyam, through their individual blogs, and through Questions, their poetry collaboration. A line in Joe's response to Lucy's first question, "What do you know, that I don't know," prompted my Passion post.
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I began reading Joe's response, and was beguiled by his writing in a woman's voice, talking of long, thin wrists with such intimacy it was almost seductive. He/she spoke of bracelets - bangles, actually - marking her days of exile, creating in me a sadness from which sprang an empathy for this forlorn soul. I am moving along with this image, this emotional connection (for I know about exile) through his explanation of how he knows so much and can paint her picture so well. He writes it "...came to me from your memory, drawn out through time," words that allude to a long-lived, personal relationship with his correspondent.
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His woman-in-exile speaks of memories of ordinary things - "shopping precincts and motorways" - and I saunter along on a word-stroll, meandering through the poem, soaking up the words. Breathing in and out in gentle measures, drifting with the sway of Joe's words and the images they conjured, I was unprepared for the departure the next line takes. It felt as if I had stepped off the sidewalk into thin air and could not regain my footing. Seven words, that's all; seven ordinary words.
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"And swamps that steam in every heart."
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Everything I know about swamps, from experience of the real to understanding the metaphorical, flashed through my brain so fast it left my thoughts spinning. Those words took my breath away.
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Summertime in south Louisiana; in Mobile, Alabama, and southern Florida. Steamy landscapes of soggy, spongy land; moss bedraggled trees; tea-colored waterways, the surfaces of which moved and swirled with the submerged passing of the unseen. Crystal clear streams and lakes where one could see the alligators and moccasins trailing the boat, Death incarnate stalking every paddle dip, every blink of your eyes against the overbearing sun. The morass of plants, their stalks and roots entwined, forming a near solid mat so dense one could walk across the swampland on it. Heat and moisture, mugginess and sweat. Thirst you dare not slake by putting your face to the water, because of what lurks beneath. The surreal beauty of plants and animals found nowhere else on earth. The perfume and colors of the bayou in spring.
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The tangle of emotions, the heartache of passion that cannot be consummated, the longing for that which remains unattainable. The jealousies and envy, fears and pains one conceals within the heart's swamp. The memories of loves found and lost, of childhood trauma and nightmares. All the things we dare not raise to the surface, let alone call by name. The wild, the uncontrollable; the wicked and depraved. Those bits of us that give off steam, that soak our dreams, that fuel our tears.
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All that and more, brought out by seven words.
(c) 2009 Martha McLemore
