I once asked my friend Terry about a mutual acquaintance. "Oh he has to be in control," said Terry. "I can smell it!" In her characteristic view, the world is dangerous and needs sniffing out. As Rita Dove points out in her poem Three Days of Forest, a River, Free:
The terror of waking is a trustYou may have heard, "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean someone isn't out to get you." That's the problem with anxiety. There's always some real danger, some anticipated threat that proves the point, and also develops the ability to foresee potential roadblocks -- warning barks if you will. Dove pictures the price paid for being constantly on guard:
drawn out unbearably
until nothing, not even love,
makes it easier...
Who can point out a smell
but a dog?
... duty's whistleAfter mentioning "the things I've carefully left out / descriptions of pain, and sex, and how shiftily / people behave toward each other," John Ashbery (The Problem of Anxiety) leaves the reader slightly nervous:
slings a bright cord
around their throats.
...I've saved the descriptions of finger sandwiches,We all have our glass eye that will never be appeased. Be honest. Do you get on an airplane without feeling the tiniest flash of possibility this will be the one that crashes? When you're walking home alone in the dark and you hear an unexpected sound, do you calmly keep walking"? Do you really like snakes?
and the glass eye that stares at me in amazement
from the bronze mantel, and will never be appeased.
In Lizards and Snakes, Anthony Hecht's Aunt Martha had "an unfair prejudice" toward reptiles, an inflexibility that he and his friend Joe teased out as boys by leaving one in the basket of socks she was mending. They got their comeuppance when Aunt Martha outclassed them in scare tactics:
... we never did it again after the dayAt some time we must all move into the dark of fear, because "in a dark time, the eye begins to see." In his signature poem, In A Dark Time, Theodore Roethke expands on that first line with, "I meet my shadow in the deepening shade." I can't imagine more moving or disconcerting lines than these:
Of the big wind when you could hear the trees
Creak like rocking chairs. She was looking away
Off, and kept saying, "Sweet Jesus, please
Don't let him near me. He's as like as twins.
He can crack us like lice with his fingernail.
I can see him plain as a pikestaff. Look how he grins
And swings the scaly horror of his folded tail.
Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.Roethke also provides a formula for transcending fear, one that echoes Rita Dove's notion of moving through the forest toward freedom:
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
...A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.Though the wind continues to blow, instead of falling prey to the terrors our minds create, we can enter within, find our courage, and become "free in the tearing wind." Instead of letting fears lead us by the nose, we become like William Stafford in With Kit, Age Seven, At the Beach. "What would you tell your child?" he inquires, if you were gazing at a turbulent sea and he asked, "How far could you swim, Daddy, / in such a storm?"
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.
"As far as was needed," I said,"This could be forever.../ from here to the distant edge / where it looks like / you can fall off the world," warns Sharon Thomson in On The Flatlands, "... but you don't. We know that. / Breathe..."
and as I talked, I swam.
The images in Nina Bogin's Initiation II imply a realization of maturity ("When I walked up the road, the string sack / heavy on my arm, I thought / that my legs could take me anywhere..."), of moving through our feelings of powerlessness and into our own "home," as Bogin did:
...I climbed the pink stairs, enteredNote the paradox in "ephemeral as my own certainty." Certainty may be transitory, but we will keep finding our way home when we realize that -- however blown about by external circumstances -- only we have the key. Stephen Spender gives us that key in his poem about Dolphins leaping out of the waves, "The sun fragmented / To broken glass / By the stiff breeze... / their delight / Outside, displaying / My heart within":
the house as calm and ephemeral
as my own certainty:
this is my house, my key,
my hand with its new lines.
I am as old as I will ever be.
...The dolphins write such
With power to wake
Me prisoned in
My human speech