Weekly Poetry Assignment 2: Water
October 21, 2007 by J.C. Hewitt
I live in the desert. In a good year, we get about thirty rainy days. In a bad year, about half that. Much of our water comes shipped in via the Central Arizona Project (CAP), a trench that runs several hundred miles from the Colorado River until it reaches my hometown of Tucson, Arizona. When Tucson was smaller and less of a drain on resources, we pumped most of our water from the ground. It was crisp and clear and the thought of drinking water from a bottle rarely crossed out minds. By contrast, when they first started to pump CAP water through our taps, the pipes ran red with rust and the people panicked. It took the water company two years of process changes and propaganda to get CAP water running through our pipes again, and most people switched to bottled water. I still drink water out of the tap on most days, but I am in the minority. Many people I know haven’t had water from a faucet in years.
Water has a unique effect on the people here. When it rains, we gather by the windows to watch. We get distracted by it. People go a little crazy when they drive in the rain here. The basic concept (drive a little slower and more carefully) is lost on the people here. They drive faster, they make absurd lane changes, they tailgate, and they pay more attention to the rain than the traffic. It’s a circus out there.
For years I have tried to capture this strange effect of water on Tucson’s people and on myself. I have started dozens of poems, but not once have I finished one to my satisfaction. It is a topic that seems so ready for me to write about, but never leads anywhere that I want to go.
It can be frustrating when a topic eludes you. Water isn’t the only subject I have ever had trouble with, but it is one that doesn’t seem like it should be so hard. There is so much going on with water and it has a lot of symbolic potential, but to be honest, I don’t recall ever reading a poem about water that I thought was particularly interesting or insightful. Could this be the great white whale of poetry? What are your experiences with water as a poetic subject?
This Week’s Poetry Assignment
Write a poem that includes at least one reference to water.
For Further Reading
Water poems on the web:
Well, there’s this one, which is not new – and sorry, John, untitled … sometimes the only titles I can think up seem too trite. But I would identify it in a list of Contents by first line.
Apart from that, having lived near some kind of water all my life, I often refer to rivers, dams, lakes, creeks, and the sea. And even rain; I have a long prose-poem called “The rain”.
This is just to go on with; I’ll try for a new one too.
I stand in the shower
saying, ‘Thank you water,
bless you water, I love you
water’ to all the waters
of the world. Blue light
fluid as silk, flows over me,
down through my aura,
fills and surrounds me. Then,
washed with water and light,
I extend the light as a shield
to the tips and edges of my
energy space. Inside and out
I am clean and safe.
© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2005
Well, why not share with you my rain piece too?
The rain
The rain pours in, filling up gutters and drains, drenching the garden, slipping down the sides of the banks, overflowing the dam, its glassy surface covered with lilies and moonlit clouds. Heavier, heavier, sheets of steady drumming, nothing left of space between the drops, only a wall of water pouring out of the sky. Only a world of water, a moving blanket that covers it all, out there. If we would walk in it, out there, it would not be a wall, finite, it would be a river in the air to have to keep moving through.
The whiteness of the sound. Like torrents tumbling. A waterfall of air, airy water, watery air. Triumphant, transcendent, filling up the night. Filling up the black beyond my window. Filling up the silence out there with its one, wild, incessant noise. Gurgling and dribbling, hissing and whispering, telling stories to itself about the things we do here and what we are. The rain is only rain, knows only rain, itself, does not fathom me, does not understand who we are, what we do, does not like much the things it sees us do. Rain is rain and whispers harsh disapproving remarks, mutters to itself, condemns.
Rain is life for trees and birds, insects and earth, even for me. It fills the tank, it fills the river. It floods. Not here – but it does flood. Not here. I tell my friend and my children who live far – no, it isn’t here, the flood. We’re safe, it’s otherwhere. It’s over in the west, and south of here. We’re safe. The rain mutters, mocks, coming down continuously. The rain is silver, looks like mud, not clear. It gets to the ground and spreads out in mud. It gets to the ground and swells the rivers, spreads all over the land. No, not here. We’re safe. Please, let us be safe, we don’t want a flood. We want the drink of the earth, the soaking in, the good rain the birds love.
Afterwards they were all out singing, the rain that rang on Wellington Street when I was a child once. Afterwards the garden hung with drops, and all the birds out in the light, singing. Drips from pink roses, drips from bushes and leaves, tangles of thorns, water and birdsong falling all over pink roses, the sun just coming out. It was not Wellington, it was Brisbane Street. No matter … all the gone gardens in the summers of my lost youth. All the wintry rainy seasons. The church bell chiming through rain. I must go home again. I’ll never go home again. It washes me away, the rain. I can’t go home again. The rain came tumbling down.
© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 1998
In Secret Leopard: New and Selected Poems 1974-2005 (Alyscamps, Paris, 2005)
I love the shower poem . . . it really works for me.
Ta, Connie!
Here’s today’s little effort:
WET
How can I imagine
desert dwellers watching for rain,
gathering at windows and
watching the rain when it comes?
How can I picture
desert roads washed by the rain
so rarely that cars
go sliding on purpose
absurdly tailgating and speeding,
in a circus where daredevils ride
the crest of miracle,
the surge of thrill?
Grow up on an island, like I did,
there’s always water.
Grow up on a mountainous island
with steep, hilly towns,
and I promise
you won’t try and slide in the wet,
not if it’s a cold island
where the winter rain might be ice.
Everywhere, fast rivers.
Everywhere, deep lakes.
In every direction, ocean.
This is a continent
withering under drought.
The long, slow mainland rivers
that used to attract
adjectives like “vast” and “mighty”
are gradually shrinking
to puddles and dust.
Fear encroaches quietly too,
solidifying, as the irreplaceable water
evaporates and further evaporates.
Yet where I live
now, on the tropical coast,
we can still forget this,
edging though we do –
on the other side of the mountains –
a desert so harsh that it kills
travellers who venture upon it,
where the lakes are expanses
of dry salt, gleaming whitely
like bones.
Every summer
I swim in the creek.
It’s tidal, and often runs high.
In winter we walk the beach
where an endless sea reflects
the never-ending sky.
These days we start to look sideways.
Is the water slowly rising?
Does it feel warmer now?
How much time would we have
to escape a tsunami?
And where would we go
with no higher ground close enough?
The people in the cities
cannot water their gardens.
The farmers are shooting their sheep.
The crops are failing.
My nightmares are made
of water in over-abundance
closing over my head,
entering with my breath
and filling up my lungs.
Meanwhile, it’s hot today.
I hose my thirsty plants.
I walk three minutes to the creek.
It’s flowing full on the incoming tide.
I wade in, immerse myself,
then lie back under fluffy clouds
and cruising pelicans, floating
on a sweet, soft bed
of cool, supportive water.
© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2007
Rainwater
Once summer in St. Louis
I was sixteen, and almost walked
The heels off my shoes, in the rain
For I had never known afternoon showers
As dependable as my parents, having grown
Up in the airy desert of the plains
And never having been away from home before
Every day, after lunch, it would begin
And I would stop on my way to class and talk to the old man
Who gave me a copy of Quo Vidas and talked about
The masters in Paris, of Debussy and Ravel
On a balcony outside his home
The old man died some years later and I learned
His name, Gogodwsky, and that he and his
Wife Violet had escaped from a Russian prison camp
And that his twisted hands had sacrificed his gloves
For her greater talent on the keyboard, saved her
Fingers from the frozen solid water
That would have bent the delicate
Digits and twisted her apassionato into stone
At home I played with horned toads, avoided rattlesnakes
Chased my mother through the house with
Long green lizards trapped in the trenches being
Built for new pipelines that would carry water
To our new homes, and our sewage to the open dumps
South of town, ewww ! ! ! what a smell
We were famous for the stink of waste water
Wafting over the billowing West Texas skies of our town
The seasons have changed now, for two years running
The rain has flooded our plains, the trees are towering
Like the Elms on the street ways of St. Louis and
My yard has grown jungle-like as I have no need to
Manicure my life or yard
I drive the streets or sit on the porch and see
Deer, bluebirds, foxes, wild hogs . . . foxes running the streets Wildlife never here before flourishing from the sudden gusts
Of rain, every day for months, and wonder if it will remain
As steady as the day it came, or disappear like loved ones
At the end of life
Connie, Rosemary,
Just amazing!!!! Love them!!!!!!
Hi… For me, water means the sea. So that’s what I wrote about.
Ocean Moments
Water, cold but comforting
Swirls around my ankles
Strands of seaweed tangle in its flowing hands
As it sweeps everything out
A clean slate
Fresh dark sand
Cool and inviting
Lies in layers and lines upon the shore
So inviting to the touch
A golden sheen spreads as the sun meets
Where the sea trailed its fingers
The water curls and breaks
Renews and destroys
Fills and drains
And I stand
In the infectious calm
Utterly insignificant
Just a bystander
To the comforting rhythm
But rooted in the accepting sand
Drenched from the misty breath of the sea
A soaring gull up in the deep, infinite sky
Lost in things beyond me
In magnificence and eternity
Set free by the crashing waves
The churning sea
John, we’re neighbors! I’m from La Quinta, Ca and live in a desert environment too, albeit, we have not experienced droughts the way you in AZ have.
Here’s my poem:
I Walked Along
I walked the magic kingdom
as others ran, seeking cover in a faux New Orleans Square
I stood atop a bridge and saw such beauty it caught my breath
Glassy streets of black
Sleek with rain
Millions of drops created ripples
Giving the entire scene the sense of being caught in the middle of someone’s watercolor
Lights reflected in the black…. Such colors!
The streets were empty
Except for me
Who walked alone
As others ran and took cover under the Pirate’s bridge
I looked up
Into the pink, gray sky
And let the drops fall into me
My denim jacket grew damp
My nightmare scarf allowed tiny drops to creep past and trickle down my neck
A beautiful chill ran through me
The chill of being very much alive
Simultaneously in some muted dream
Too beautiful to be real
But it was
I walked along
As others ran
Rosemary, I loved your WET poem! Made me laugh.
Sandra: It did??? Hey this drought here is very serious, you know.
I could almost feel those drops falling on you in your poem!
Connie: I just loved this piece – the story of the Russian couple, all those insights into your youth, and the picture of your place now. Such a rich poem!
Leah: Yours built slowly to a magnificent climax – just like the waves gathering and crashing.
All: Evolving my poem – it now has lines of asterisks separating off the first two verses and also the last two. Makes all that hopping about between different landscapes a bit clearer, I hope.
Rosemary,
Yes, Yes it does
Thirst
The sun beats down upon the brow
its pulsing, pounding causes pain
as cotton, trapped by rough parched lips
pushes agaisnt the swollen tongue.
Then visions dance upon the sand
of sweet refreshing water pools
as weakness starts to ebb from limb
to back and then from back to soul.
The pounding head beings to throb
as vision blurs and all strength fails.
Lying on the hard dry ground
One thought remains upon the mind:
Water.
It seems that the simpler the topic/subject, the harder it is to nail it down in poetry.
Ever try to write a poem on salt?
But our assignment was not to write a poem about water but a poem that referenced water, which is quite different. Hence the earlier poem on Thirst (that which happens when water is withheld)
As it turned out, it was an “early draft” In looking it over, I discovered that 1. it needed more refinement, and 2. I had quite a lot more to say about Thirst that what I initially wrote. I think I will mul over it a few days and then post a final version.
Dehydration
Living with nothing
bringing in nothing
confusion and disoriented
dizzy and blind
I’ve got nothing
not even my life
yet I brought in
what I needed to survive.
Not much at first
but then allot
this is what I need to survive
my H2O of live
It’s all I need
yet scared of losing it
light headed
yet full and quenched.
The only one
a star in the sky
the light in my dark
the hydrating breath
tasting you
then you tast me
body is fullfilled
yet always wanting more.
Without you
I get dehydrated
my body pruned
my tears are gone
With you
I am full
tears flow
and body energized
With love
with pain
all comes with you
but I always want more
food loses it’s taste
colors lose there brightness
but H2O is live
when your around
Children
They had brightly colored pistols;
I, a dark green plastic pitcher.
So commenced the little battle
on that afternoon in August.
Smiling, giggling, laughing, spying,
They would try to sneak around, but
I could hear their loud commotion
as they squeezed their puny shooters.
Streams of wettness on the chest and
in the face and reaching back I
swung my pitcher drenching them
while they dashed to miss my water.
Round and round we ran around the
yard, laughing, screeching, smiing,
squirting, tossing, giggling, panting.
Then at last the guns went silent.
Pitcher empty, guns now dry, we
giggled on the ground and watched as
clouds slipped by. I thought my children
truly are my greatest assets.
Leah,
You have a wonderful way of showing beauty in the most ordinary places. I felt wonderful reading your poem. Definatly continue writing.
Rosemary- Your poem made me laugh because of the visual you gave in regards to the people driving erratically in the rain. I know plenty of those here in So Cal and constantly shake my head when I see them. The rest of it was quite moving. Sorry I didn’t explain myself thoroughly. Never meant to make the drought a light-hearted subject. : )
I love that you can feel my poem though.
Rianon: Fascinated by the way you turn it into metaphor.
Sandra: OK, understood. I could see those glassy black streets, too, and all of it.
James: Now you’ve got me going! I’ll have to try something on salt some time.
Here is a different take on water:
recalling a specific memory involving water…
Water Fight
They had brightly colored pistols;
I, a dark green plastic pitcher;
So commenced the little battle
on that August afternoon.
Smiling, giggling, laughing, spying,
they would try to sneak around, but
I could hear their loud commotion
as they squeezed their puny triggers.
Streams of wetness on the chest and
in the face and reaching back I
swung my pitcher drenching them
while they dashed to miss my arc.
Round and round we ran around the
yard, laughing, screeching, smiling,
squirting, tossing, giggling, panting.
Then at last the guns went still.
Pitcher empty, guns now dry, we
giggled on the ground and watched as
clouds slipped by. I thought my children
truly are my greatest assets.
©23 Oct 2007 James Garner
OK. I finished it.
It says a lot more about thirst that the first posting.
Thirst
The sun beats down upon the brow;
its pulsing pounding causes pain,
as cotton, trapped by rough parched lips,
keeps pushing on the swollen tongue.
Then visions dance upon the sand
of sweet refreshing crystal pools
and ordered thoughts evaporate
as weakness starts to ebb from limb.
The pounding throbbing head gives in
as vision blurs and strength gives out.
Then lying on the hard dry ground,
one thought alone is kept: “water”
When life beats down upon the soul
with heartache, cruelty and spite
and causes pain beyond belief
The soul begins to seek respite.
Then visions dance upon the mind
that life can not be this unkind.
Then weakness enters in the soul
as doubt is cast upon belief.
The aching heart begins to bleed
as faith begins to ebb and fail.
While crying then, in deep despair,
the soul begins to feel real thirst.
How sweet to press against the lips
a cup and wet the parched dry tongue!
How sweet to drink when thirst had reigned
and feel as strength returns to limb!
How sweet it’d be to have a cup
that bore a drink that gave relief
When souls have had good cause to weep
to buoy one’s faith in spite of grief!
Does such a cup exist today?
Where might one go to find this cup
to drink the drink that fills the soul
and gives relief to those who thirst?
©23 Oct 2007 James Garner
Rosemary,
Thank you!!!
James,
Wow, you gave me goose bumps!!!
OK now I’ve found my favorite poem 
This is the type of poem that I would write, but not this good. I mean, I felt it, the pain, the fulfillment. WOW!!!!
When the rain falls
steadily from the sky
and washes over the world
It is telling
that as it eases
Nature blooms plump and bright
And mans creations weather and fade
Who knew: I like the simplicity and economy of this!
Fires rage beyond the hills
Skies are thick with smoke
Air goes down like bitter pills
Making us here choke
But nothing can compare to those
Who lost so much and more
No drop of rain to help them there
Fight demons we abhor
Rosemary: Thank you for your comments here and also for Day 2’s ‘Louise’. I am starting to post just to read your comments heh he