for example
The Secret
Denise Levertov
Two girls discover
the secret of life
in a sudden line of
poetry.
I who don’t know the
secret wrote
the line. They
told me
(through a third person)
they had found it
but not what it was
not even
what line it was. No doubt
by now, more than a week
later, they have forgotten
the secret,
the line, the name of
the poem. I love them
for finding what
I can’t find,
and for loving me
for the line I wrote,
and for forgetting it
so that
a thousand times, till death
finds them, they may
discover it again, in other
lines
in other
happenings. And for
wanting to know it,
for
assuming there is
such a secret, yes,
for that
most of all.
I loved this poem. I especially enjoyed the easy natural progression Levertov took from the first reason for loving her readers, to the final reason. She builds gradually in importance of the reasons for her love but without making the poem seem structured. It’s like Kant written with water colors. I also enjoy her conclusion and I must say that I agree with it entirely. The closing thought, “. . . for assuming there is such a secret, yes, for that most of all” reminds me of The Shawshank Redemption. At this point you’re expecting me to talk about the closing scene of the film when Thomas Newman’s soundtrack perfectly completes the reunion of Red and Andy Dufresne on the shores of Zijihuatanejo, but I’m not. At that point in the film, they didn’t have to believe any more. Hope no longer required anything of them.
The scene I am going to talk about is when Andy locks himself in the intercom room and plays Mozart’s Berlin Opera for the entire prison. When Red retells the incident as narrator he has this to say, “I have no idea to this day what those two Italian Ladies were singing about. Truth is, I don’t want to know. Some things are best left unsaid. I’d like to think they were singing about something so beautiful, it can’t be expressed in words, and makes your heart ache because of it. I tell you, those voices soared higher and farther than anybody in a gray place dares to dream. It was like some beautiful bird flapped into our drab little cage and made those walls dissolve away, and for the briefest of moments, every last man in Shawshank felt free.”
That is what I think of when I read Levertov’s poem. The idea that music, art, expression, etc., give us something intangible, Melville would call it “the ungraspable phantom of life,” that gives us hope and passion and makes us feel as though we know “the secret of life,” if only for a little while.
This Is Just To Say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
This is written as though it were a note to a spouse. Since it addresses something that had been in the “icebox,” I can see it being posted on the refrigerator, or perhaps lying on the kitchen table, waiting somewhere that he knew she would find it. Just the way it was written lends so much possibility; possibilities for where it is, what it is, and even what it is written on. The way the writing is so squeezed and long rather than wide, makes me think that maybe he wrote on a piece of scrap paper, or even a piece of leftover napkin from the kitchen drawer.
The fact that the writer used the word “icebox” indicates to me that this is from a time before my own; perhaps the fifties? Forties maybe? Maybe earlier or later? Who knows! I deviate from the point. Whenever this was meant to occur, it reveals a familiar, though waning, part of family life; keeping in touch. I think almost any family can relate to someone snagging the snack or lunch you’ve been trying to save in the refrigerator. Heck, coworkers can relate to that. How often do movies parody office life in which someone sneaks into the break room, and cracks open the refrigerator? What it seems one will most often see is the sneaky one lurking through the ‘fridge, only to tear the sticky note off some food, clearly claimed, and steal it away for his own. Obviously, this is quite universal, and it is elegantly and gently reflected in this tiny poem.
At the same time, this small poem reveals character. The fact that he mentions “that you were probably saving for breakfast” indicates that he likely knew that someone, probably his spouse, was either looking forward to having them herself, or was going to use them in a breakfast meal. And what a jerk he is! Not only does he take all the plums for himself, despite realizing that she was going to use or eat them, but then he rubs it in her face! “They were delicious / so sweet / and so cold.” Carlos, or the character writing in the poem, also states “plums” and “they,” showing that there were multiple plums. And yet, he did not save one for someone else. The crassness of the poem almost seems to suggest that the writer could not control himself. He scarfs down the plums without regard, and then spews about how awesome they were.
But, maybe I am taking this poem far, far past what it was meant to be. ☺
I can somewhat relate to the plum subject. My boyfriend loves plums. And on the same subject, I cook really good noodles for us sometimes, for a movie or just to have when it’s cold. He likes them so much, so he kind of shovels them down really fast. I always ask if he can even taste them when he inhales them. Of course, I can’t talk myself. My dad buys these green tea ginger ales, and I am a complete crack-head for them. No matter how absolutely hard I try, no matter what I try to replace them with, I end up having four a day for as long as they last. I love them. Anything with tea that comes into the house, it’s like I can’t resist.
At least I buy my own lunches and dinners parts of the week to make up for it. And Alec goes grocery shopping with me when he can, and sometimes buys the base noodles.
So I suppose it all works out, right? There’s just some things people can’t resist, and it’s not that we or me or he or she is being rude or inconsiderate, it’s just…
Dang, sometimes you just can’t resist that plum. You know?