When I was in middle school, I stole a copy of The Norton Anthology of Poetry from the public library. I didn’t have to do this. I had negative reasons to do this. Of course I had a library card, and my mom also worked at the library, so I truly had no excuse to slip it into my bag and remove it permanently from the library’s collection (yeah, it never went back). I’m not sure what mood struck me, but I was teenaged and perhaps I didn’t want to talk to anyone that day. I exited the library via the side door, which opened to courtyard overlooked by a beautiful Tiffany glass windowpane – the only witness to my petty crime.
Very belated apologies to the staff of the Troy Public Library who did not and probably still do not get paid enough. p.s. do you guys like my blurry screen shot????
I don’t know where that book is now but I loved carrying it with me for a time. I was always fascinated by the Romantics. Blake’s tiger, Keats’ Grecian urn, Coleridge’s crags. Their work met my early expectations of what a poem was required to do in order to be a poem. I loved the humanity and terror and beauty, even if I didn’t have the patience to close read enough to understand what they were talking about at the time (this impatience is a uh, unfortunate theme in how I read).
Recently, the endless exchange of lasts for firsts has been a hard pill for me to swallow as a new mom. Next week I will return to work on a full time schedule. I have allowed myself to cry about it whenever the need to arises, which is apparently often. Becoming a mother has condensed and lengthened what I can experience “in the moment.” Initially the experience of having a newborn was that of a boring miracle. It was so incredibly quiet and dull at times, yet the crushing terror of being responsible for another human life was (is) so wholly overtaking. It is sublime (exactly the sublime of the Romantic poets). For a few infinite seeming weeks I took baby to the garden to stand and sway in the morning sun. I am relieved when we make it through the cave of night together. Motherhood has been so much more romantic (lowercase “r”) than I could have anticipated. Every squeak and yawn that slides into slumber. Seeing him recognize my voice for the first time, and really, actually see me when he looks at me. Watching his eyes move beneath half closed lids. His parade of new sounds and skills. Watching his eye color change from a bright grey into exactly the color of my own eyes…
Reading has been a surprising balm since my son’s birth. Surprising only because how the hell am I finding time to read books? But I am. In fact, I’m reading more than I have in the past few years. Reading has always been a comfort. Growing up, my mom would frequently come home with a bag filled with new books for me and my brother. I typically took the entire stack to my room and tried to read all the books in one night. Even then, I loved to stay up late reading. My anxiety – which was usually stuck on loud even at seven years old – felt tamed or at least in good company.
In an effort to feel less lonely in the wilderness of new motherhood, I’ve read a number of books by writers who became parents and then had to grapple with the loss of their freedom (both perceived and real.) I love the dry, knowledgeable tone of Rachel Cusk’s “A Life’s Work”. She balances her wit against a frenzy that speaks to me. Her book was apparently criticized widely when it was released in 2001. I’m not surprised – her honesty about the experience wasn’t wrapped in pastel bows and inauthentic gratitude - the highest of crimes for new mothers. It’s a strict and unspoken rule that every pitfall you speak to MUST be wrapped in something that invalidates its discomfort (for example: “I haven’t slept more than 2 hours at a time in six months – butthebabyissosweetandthebestthingthat’severhappenedtome.” (note: this is fortunately not my experience, but I hear it is common.)) The complexity of Cusk’s emotions sometimes had no resolution, things were dirty and milk soaked. When she attempted to reclaim parts of her old life she found them missing. She was sleep deprived, dumbfounded and confused by all the contradictory messages mothers received. She was angry, suspicious of other mothers, hated the way her life suddenly pulled towards predictability etc. All of this is exactly why I loved the book.
In one of the final chapters, Cusk mentions re-reading a favorite Coleridge poem, “Frost at Midnight.” She had apparently never paid attention to the baby in the poem before. I sat up a little bit when I read that. There’s a baby in that poem? I immediately went to my phone to re-read the poem myself. I was shocked. So much of the poem surrounds the baby and like Cusk, I had also completely ignored or forgotten its presence. Coleridge dreams and wonders/wanders (you know, it is kind of his thing) across an evening, musing on frost forming on the window pane, the dying fire and his son’s peaceful sleeping. I’m connected immediately. Instead of a fireplace, I have the dim glow of my phone, my notes app, a window filled by a tree, and importantly, a sleeping babe.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, from “Frost at Midnight”
I feel like Coleridge was trying to watch his baby’s chest rise and fall with breath, maybe reaching out to place a hand on his stomach every so often just to make sure…………….. 🫠
I really love revisiting the Romantic poets. You can feel their hands wringing at the beauty, their drunken tears, their love of their friends. You can feel the wind in the poems, the awe. They love to be nature. When Coleridge says “I wandered lonely as a cloud” I know, have always known, exactly what he’s been talking about. Re-reading “Frost at Midnight” at some odd hour of another night, waiting for my son to wake up for his first overnight feeding, I felt at home (well, because I was) and in the company of another creative new parent, up with his thoughts.
But there, in the poem’s last stanza, I found myself suddenly several layers deep in writers I love.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, from “Frost at Midnight”
I had certainly not revisited the Coleridge poem since reading Mary Ruefle’s “Trances of the Blast.” I had no idea. There is a baby not only in the Coleridge poem, but now in Ruefle’s book. Why had I not seen that before? I never thought to consider the source of the title. I assumed that the genius of Ruefle could not be explained to a reader, only felt. (Yeah, this is kind of my enduring failure as a writer and reader. I am typically content with how something makes me feel and don’t always think to investigate beyond that. Downstream misunderstandings happen less than you’d think though–) After my first reading of it, I had understood “Trances of the Blast” to refer to the strange and hypnotic winding and un-winding of our years past and passing. “Blast” almost had a Big Bang quality to it. It’s one of my favorite books of poetry, if not my favorite. “Argot” is usually the poem I tell people is my favorite if I am asked (I don’t really like the question but this poem is perfect to me. It is equal parts simple and mysterious. It TELLS YOU HOW TO READ IT!!!)
However, it’s really Ruefle’s “Saga” that now feels in direct lineage with the Coleridge:
Everything that ever happened to me
is just hanging—crushed
and sparkling—in the air,
waiting to happen to you.
Everything that ever happened to me
happened to somebody else first.
I would give you an example
but they are all invisible.
Or off gallivanting around the globe.
Not here when I need them
now that I need them
if I ever did which I doubt.
Being particular has its problems.
OOF. I could go on about what I understand “trances of the blast” to mean now, but what really struck me about finding Ruefle nestled in Coleridge nestled in Cusk was how hopeful it made me feel. It is an incredible example of what reading and writing (weaving, collaging, borrowing, stealing, building upon) can do. Those nights I’d huddled over baby like his breathing was the fire that first lit the universe, I’d done so in incredible company. The poetry I wrote during my fourth trimester, in my own secretive frenzy, turned away from baby for as long as I could bear it suddenly feel connected to a lineage that I was only able to see once I became a mother.