Hayden’s “Monet’s Waterlilies”

As I noted earlier, violence is a constant theme of Hayden’s poetry, but the later half of Collected Poems contains a few poems that seem to counterbalance this view with the narrator finding personal escape, even enjoyment in the arts and in natural beauty, or, more often, in the combination of the two.

My favorite of these is probably:

MONET’S WATERLILIES

Today as the news from Selma and Saigon
poisons the air like fallout,
I come again to see
the serene, great picture that I love.

Here space and time exist in light
the eye like the eye of faith believes.
The seen, the known
dissolve in iridescence, become
illusive flesh of light
that was not, was, forever is.

O light beheld as through refracting tears.
Here is the aura of that world
each of us has lost.
Here is the shadow of its joy.

I’m definitely a child of the Civil Rights movement and Vietnam, particularly Vietnam since I fought there. It did poison my life, just as much as the constant threat of nuclear war and radioactive fallout clouded my childhood. Looking back, it almost seems a miracle that the greatest love of my life turned out to be poetry and art.

As I’ve mentioned before, art and literature have often reinforced my spiritual beliefs, substituting for religious practices largely lacking in my life. Long before I was drawn to poetry, I loved art, and, though I’ve seldom seen their paintings, I’ve been particularly drawn to the Impressionists, perhaps not too surprising considering my love of photography. I imagine I’ll still be trying to capture the elusive “iridescence” that makes life worth living until I die.

The final stanza, with its sense of loss reminds me a lot of Wordsworth’s Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood one of my favorite Romantic Poems.

Hayden’s “Those Winter Sundays”

am’s uTube link on the previous Hayden entry led me to this uTube reading of another of my favorite Hayden’s poems from the earlier part of Collected Poems.

For me, the childlike graphics complement the sense of the poem being told from the perspective of a young boy truly seeing his father for the first time.

Robert Hayden’s “The Whipping”

Today’s near-record heat gave me a chance to finally finish Robert Hayden’s Collected Poems, a book I started on my recent trip up the Columbia River. I wish I could remember which blogger featured Hayden’s poetry and inspired me to buy it so I could thank them, but I can’t so I’ll just thank all the poetry sites I visit regularly for constantly inspiring me to read poets I haven’t read before, even though I think I’ve encountered a few of Hayden’s poems in anthologies before. I quickly discovered that the poem I’m discussing today is widely distributed and discussed on the internet.

As Arnold Rampersand notes about Hayden’s poetry in the introduction, “Violence is everywhere, but Hayden’s sense of the uses of violence evolved over his lifetime.” As you might expect from a black poet, much of the violence centers on white society’s mistreatment of blacks. But the violence he portrays goes well beyond that, stretching from Aztecs to Nazis.

However, it seems to me that

THE WHIPPING
 
The old woman across the way
     is whipping the boy again
and shouting to the neighborhood
     her goodness and his wrongs.

Wildly he crashes through elephant ears,
     pleads in dusty zinnias,
while she in spite of crippling fat
     pursues and corners him.

She strikes and strikes the shrilly circling
     boy till the stick breaks
in her hand. His tears are rainy weather
     to woundlike memories:

My head gripped in bony vise
     of knees, the writhing struggle
to wrench free, the blows, the fear
     worse than blows that hateful

Words could bring, the face that I
     no longer knew or loved . . .
Well, it is over now, it is over,
     and the boy sobs in his room,

And the woman leans muttering against
     a tree, exhausted, purged–
avenged in part for lifelong hidings
     she has had to bear.

succinctly captures the roots, the very essence, of violence as well as any poem I’ve ever read.

Today, the old woman would probably be turned into welfare authorities, but such incidents were not uncommon in my childhood neighborhood, though seldom as public as portrayed here. Even in these enlightened times, it’s not uncommon to hear parents bemoan their children’s transgressions despite the parent’s all-encompassing “goodness.”

The scene of the boy scurrying around the garden like a cornered animal while the huge woman pursues him, hitting and hitting until until the stick breaks is reminiscent of the pig scene in Lord of the Flies in its very savagery.

Still, the fourth stanza seems to me to be the most moving because the narrator, obviously remembering his own beatings, becomes the boy remembering “the fear/ worse than blows that hateful/ Words could bring, the face that I/ no longer knew or loved.” Strangely, it is this empathy and the sorrow it produces that offers the only real hope for the human race.

Otherwise we end up like the old woman, “avenged in part for lifelong hidings/ she has had to bear,” continuing the cycle of violence that threatens us all.