American poet, Ellen Bass (1947 – )
from Autumn Quince
The world is a blurred version of itself —
marred, lovely, and flawed.
It is enough
Jane Hirschfield from Each Happiness Ringed by Lions, Bloodaxe Books, 2005
from Enough
Enough seen….Enough had….Enough…
—Arthur Rimbaud
No. It will never be enough. Never
enough wind clamoring in the trees,
sun and shadow handling each leaf, never enough clang
of my neighbor hammering,…
Ellen Bass from Poem-a-Day, August 14th, 2015
In the first two parts of this three part series I focussed on two poems, one by Charles Wright and another by Jane Hirschfield. Each of the poems navigated through images of loss and imperfection before resolving in unexpected epiphanies. Hirschfield’s last lines included above from Autumn Quince say it all:
The world is a blurred version of itself —
marred, lovely, and flawed.
It is enough
But now, let’s hear American poet Ellen Bass whose excerpt from her poem above, Enough, says: No it will never be enough. Bass’s poetic style is so different from Wright and Hirschfield. Much looser, relaxed and discursive. And she begins with the big thought con brio, with great feeling! Then watch the surprising turn this poem takes!
Enough
Enough seen….Enough had….Enough…
—Arthur Rimbaud
No. It will never be enough. Never
enough wind clamoring in the trees,
sun and shadow handling each leaf, never enough clang
of my neighbor hammering,
the iron nails, relenting wood, sound waves
lapping over roofs, never enough
bees purposeful at the throats
of lilies. How could we be replete
with the flesh of ripe tomatoes, the unique
scent of their crushed leaves. It would take many
births to be done with the thatness of that.
Oh blame life. That we just want more.
Summer rain. Mud. A cup of tea.
Our teeth, our eyes. A baby in a stroller.
Another spoonful of crème brûlée, sweet burnt crust crackling.
And hot showers, oh lovely, lovely hot showers.
Today was a good day.
My mother-in-law sat on the porch, eating crackers and cheese
with a watered-down margarita
and though her nails are no longer stop-light red
and she can’t remember who’s alive and dead,
still, this was a day
with no weeping, no unstoppable weeping.
Last night, through the small window of my laptop,
I watched a dying man kill himself in Switzerland.
He wore a blue shirt and snow was falling
onto a small blue house, onto dark needles of pine and fir.
He didn’t step outside to feel the snow on his face.
He sat at a table with his wife and drank poison.
Online I found a plastic bag complete with Velcro
and a hole for a tube to a propane tank. I wouldn’t have to
move our Weber. I could just slide
down the stucco to the flagstones, where the healthy
weeds are sprouting through the cracks.
Maybe it wouldn’t be half-bad
to go out looking at the yellowing leaves of the old camellia.
And from there I could see the chickens scratching—
if we still have chickens then. And yet…
this little hat of life, how will I bear
to take it off while I can still reach up? Snug woollen watch cap,
lacy bonnet, yellow cloche with the yellow veil
I wore the Easter I turned thirteen when my mother let me
promenade
with Tommy Spagnola on the boardwalk in Atlantic City.
Oxygen, oxygen, the cry of the body—and you always want to
give it
what it wants. But I must say no — enough, enough.
enough, enough
with more tenderness
than I have ever given to a lover, the gift
of the nipple hardening under my fingertip, more
tenderness than to my newborn,
when I held her still flecked
with my blood. I’ll say the most gentle refusal
to this dear dumb animal and tighten
the clasp around my throat that once was kissed and kissed
until the blood couldn’t rest in its channel, but rose
to the surface like a fish that couldn’t wait to be caught.
Ellen Bass from Poem-a-Day August 14th, 2015
What a journey Bass takes me on. Her poem begins as a praise poem. Praise to all the not- enoughs in her life – not enough noises, smells and tastes. And what a startling first line which begins with a large statement and then she fills in her proof, image after image.
But nothing prepares me for the poem’s turn: Today was a good day. Then out of the blue the mention of her Mother’s dementia, then the shocking on-line image of a self-directed suicide for medical reasons, Then Bass’s discussion of how she could kill herself if (and this seems to be implicit in what she writes) she ends up like her mother.
Lots of images and a lot of narrative. The tone is so conversational. Relaxed. Not spare. And her surprising reversal at the end. How she goes from No. It will never be enough to I must say no – enough, enough, /enough, enough. And then the way she ends the poem with the astonishing image that carries enough feeling to stop a heart in its tracks:
…………………………..my throat that once was kissed and kissed
until the blood couldn’t rest in its channel, but rose
to the surface like a fish that couldn’t wait to be caught.
Three master poets. Three masterful poems.