Edited and introduced by Gibson Fay-LeBlanc.
On New Year’s Day, here is a poem in which the speaker looks back on the person he was by way of the ephemera that falls out of his old books: “feathers, letters, fortunes, / tickets….” I love the humor and humility that he brings to what he finds and that carries through to the “hilarious relief” felt in the final lines, which I won’t spoil.
That humor and humility is all the more impressive if we consider that this poem was written by someone who has lived a good deal of his life in and around books. Robert Farnsworth has for 25 years taught writing and literature at Bates College, and many of his students have gone on to their own writing lives. Farnsworth has published three collections, most recently, Rumored Islands (Harbor Mountain Press, 2010). He lives with his wife in Greene.
Archive
By Robert Farnsworth
Codices, caxtons, concordances–
your books, dusted, rearranged,
reshelved. But it’s what falls
out of them most fascinates:
Feathers, letters, fortunes,
tickets, baseball, post- and birth-
day cards stashed among the savored
or as-yet-unfinished pages. What
would get you back to that one?
A prison term perhaps, or the long
convalescence you have sometimes
thought you craved. The hands
that left these scraps behind, though,
aren’t yours anymore. So you’d
have to start again. The half or
meant-to-be-read ones keep their
air of offering, while others
instantly flash their best ideas
or scenes across the mind. They
were so you. Or vice-versa.
And into all these various books
someone (who had been you)
had stuffed the quotidian confetti
of times when a volume went
with you in a bag. Finding these
was imagining a prior life,
a boy’s life, which didn’t quite
imagine this one. Fossil life,
shadow life, descanted over someone’s
lasting words. Then, slipped down
toward the binding of some Dinesen,
a dozen lines of your own. Lines,
not notes. Whether prompted or just
tucked there, certainly ‘writing’.
So earnest, so intended beside
the weird souvenirs, those sketchy
on-the-wing suggestions, lively
and transient as sparrows. Nothing
even to pity in those lines, seen
clearly at last in the company
of leavings. Which, of course,
you leave (this time deliberately)
behind, interleaved with those pages
you’d read and kept and meant to read,
like fingers locked in prayer; of old
allegiances the lost bright flags.
You leave them all, everything but
your own lines, which, with hilarious
relief, you tear up, very small.
Gibson Fay-LeBlanc is Portland’s poet laureate. This column is produced in collaboration with the Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance. Poem copyright © 2011 Robert Farnsworth. It appeared first in PLOUGHSHARES 2011 and appears here by permission of the author.
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