Islands in the Stream |
Issue 11
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I.
The poem I meant to write: I wanted to pen some fanciful conceit, Something about some islands in the stream, Riffing off of Parton and Rogers singing Of no one in between; But then the metaphor began to break down, For there is something Very much in between: the stream; And the lovers, are they islands, or are they sailing? Sometimes, not that it matters much, I get confused with my own over-figuring. And, after all, writing is always imperfect sailing, And sailing itself not a perfect thing. Writers work in what Dylan Thomas calls Our “craft and sullen art,” Often clumsy, sometimes slipshod stuff, These our arts and crafts, With words that are both tools and What we make of tools, Both chisel, marble, and (sometimes) art, Words that, as Paul Simon sings, Often tear and strain to rhyme. But sometimes, the more we talk of failing With our words the more human we become. Hell, the better craftsman said it best: “It is impossible to say just what I mean!” I both know exactly and have no notion Of what I wish to say. II. In Hemingway’s Islands in the Stream, The protagonist Thomas Hudson In the course of straddling three islands In the Gulf, loses three sons. Three sons: Imagine that, the loss. You see, there were these islands in the stream, Is what I meant to write, And you know I’ve always loved that song, Dolly’s astonishing meteoric warbling, Kenny’s tremulous bass command, Islands in the stream, But that’s not the point, If indeed there is a point. There is no one in between, So the song goes. God let there be No one in between. And yet the stream, be it Gulf Stream, A river, or just a simple stream, It does its works, chisels away At its craft and sullen art, Eroding each of us as it rambles past, Chips and sometimes chops away our shores, And eventually our promontories too, Which is what makes me shift my aquatic metaphor: Let us not be islands, Isolate and diminished as they will be, But let us be together In the boat that sails away. For after all, there are really no rules To this craft and sometimes art, I can do with words whatever the hell I want, With seas and rocks and (look) islands and bows And masts, and I can smell the salt, the sea, And then there is you, and what I am trying to say is, How exactly is it that I can go on, Go on bereft of you, My fellow traveler, lover, friend. There is no time, not enough, These are no rules we agreed to, So yes, let’s just go to that other realm, One lover to another. Forgive me for my erratic tacking, For my meandering, for taking all this time, But all of what has happened Brutally of late Brought all of this and more to mind: Hence the squadrons of words sent out, daring Raids on what I cannot with certitude say, Cannot grasp, cannot wholly know. And so another venture, another attempt At a start: you see, my Love, There were these islands in the stream, And the stream, it’s rushing past, It will not fucking stop, But it was always here: We were given the grace, is all, Of forgetting for a while What is, and what has been, rushing past. I forget what it was, the poem I meant to write: Sometimes I get confused With all this over-figuring. Have I said it all, or nothing? Something about a stream, And islands, and us, and Nothing in between, and (listen, just now, My darling, water lapping the bow) Sailing. |
MARC MANGANARO is a university administrator and author who has written books published by Princeton University Press and Yale University Press, and his work has appeared in journals such as The Missouri Review, Public Culture, and The Yale Journal of Criticism. Recent poems of his have been showcased in Poetry Pacific, Modern Literature, and Poetry Breakfast. He is a former recipient of a National Endowment for the Humanities Fellowship, and some years ago served as Editor-in-Chief of The Carolina Quarterly. A native of Nebraska, he now calls New Orleans home.
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