Ground Swell

Mark Jarman

 
Is nothing real but when I was fifteen,
Going on sixteen, like a corny song?
I see myself so clearly then, and painfully--
Knees bleeding through my usher's uniform
Behind the candy counter in the theater
After a morning's surfing; paddling frantically
To top the brisk outsiders coming to wreck me,
Trundle me clumsily along the beach floor's
Gravel and sand; my knees aching with salt.
Is that all I have to write about?
You write about the life that's vividest.
And if that is your own, that is your subject.
And if the years before and after sixteen
Are colorless as salt and taste like sand--
Return to those remembered chilly mornings,
The light spreading like a great skin on the water,
And the blue water scalloped with wind-ridges,
And--what was it exactly?--that slow waiting
When, to invigorate yourself, you peed
Inside your bathing suit and felt the warmth
Crawl all around your hips and thighs,
And the first set rolled in and the water level
Rose in expectancy, and the sun struck
The water surface like a brassy palm,
Flat and gonglike, and the wave face formed.
Yes. But that was a summer so removed
In time, so specially peculiar to my life,
Why would I want to write about it again?
There was a day or two when, paddling out,
An older boy who had just graduated
And grown a great blonde moustache, like a walrus,
Skimmed past me like a smooth machine on the water,
And said my name. I was so much younger,
To be identified by one like him--
The easy deference of a kind of god
Who also went to church where I did--made me
Reconsider my worth. I had been noticed.
He soon was a small figure crossing waves,
The shawling crest surrounding him with spray,
Whiter than gull feathers. He had said my name
Without scorn, just with a bit of surprise
To notice me among those trying the big waves
Of the morning break. His name is carved now
On the black wall in Washington, the frozen wave
That grievers cross to find a name or names.
I knew him as I say I knew him, then,
Which wasn't very well. My father preached
His funeral. He came home in a bag
That may have mixed in pieces of his squad.
Yes, I can write about a lot of things
Besides the summer that I turned sixteen.
But that's my ground swell. I must start
Where things began to happen and I knew it.
 
From Questions for Ecclesiastes published by Story Line Press, 1997. Copyright © 1997 by Mark Jarman. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Poems by This Author

Descriptions of Heaven and Hell by Mark Jarman
The wave breaks
Dispatches from Devereux Slough by Mark Jarman
Highwayman of the air, coal-headed, darting
If I Were Paul by Mark Jarman
Consider how you were made.
Jeffers by Mark Jarman
To raise a stump of rock into a tower, rolling a stone
My Parents Have Come Home Laughing by Mark Jarman
My parents have come home laughing
Spell for Encanto Creek by Mark Jarman
Tall blades of tufted grasses, keep on flowing
Tale of Two Cities by Mark Jarman
Sick as it approaches, sick as it departs.
The Black Riviera by Mark Jarman
There they are again. It's after dark.
The Supremes by Mark Jarman
In Ball's Market after surfing till noon,
Then Saw the Problem by Mark Jarman
How do you turn into a flower of the field
Transfiguration by Mark Jarman
They were talking to him about resurrection, about law,


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