Distant echoes, half-remembered hills

A poem I like a lot is “Song for Lost Youth” by one Neil Theasby of Sheffield, Yorkshire, England, United Kingdom, Europe, Earth, Solar System, Milky Way Galaxy, Universe. I liked the poem enough to add it a while back to my sidebar over on the right side of the screen.

If your eyeballs are simply too tired or too lazy to make the trip or you gave up scrolling for Lent and never resumed the practice, I have reproduced the poem below for your reading convenience:


Song for Lost Youth

Perhaps I should have cradled it
Like a dove
Kept it safe with tender love
But I squandered it -
Gushing-blundering-raging
Like a wild mountain stream
Desperate for an ocean
That was but a distant dream.
...I just never thought
That I could have loitered in the shallows
Reflecting the blueness of the sky
- Concealing silver fishes
- Quietly biding my time
- Stretching it out.
And so, and so it’s gone now
- My ephemeral youth
- That precious once only gift
- That honeyed sweetness,
Leaving only the trembling resonance
Of distant echoes
From half-remembered hills.

(Neil Theasby, 2013. Used by permission.)


You can have your Tennysons, your Byrons, your Whitmans, your Brownings. Today I’ll take Theasby. His poem resonates with me.

I think I have figured out why I like Neil’s poem so much. For me, it’s not just about youth. It’s about life.

I’m no spring chicken, and there are very few hills left for me. To be more accurate, probably none. On my next birthday -- still several months away -- I’ll be 75 years old. I’ve reached the coastal plain. I’m getting nearer to the sea all the time. I can feel the breezes. I can hear the sea birds. I can smell the seawater.

Some people say life is like climbing a mountain and that we struggle ever upward, surmounting obstacle after obstacle, until at last, after always ascending, we finally reach the summit. “Song for Lost Youth” turns that metaphor on its head and describes life as a descent instead, a headlong plunge that finds us cascading from the dizzying heights, ever downward, to the inevitable place where we join all who have come before us and all who will come after.

You have to hand it to poets. They can come up with some nifty metaphors.

For example, William Wordworth (1770 - 1850) wrote the following in “Ode on Intimations of Immortality From Recollections Of Early Childhood” about birth:

“Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!”

...and William Cullen Bryant (1794 - 1878) wrote in “Thanatopsis” about death:

“So shalt thou rest -- and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men--
The youth in life’s fresh spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man--
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn, shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.”


All that having been said, all those metaphors having gone under the bridge or over the dam or nighty-night to bed or down the trail with the camels (pick one), I hope to keep on breathing until I am 108 and outlive the lot of you.

Mrs. Sundberg makes a lot of sense

[Editor’s note. Blogger’s Overview page tells me that this is my 1200th post. Blogger’s Posts page, however, tells me that this is my 1199th post. Both cannot be true, and perhaps neither is true. In this uncertain world in which we live, one cannot know for sure whether to celebrate or keep plodding on. Some do both. Some do neither. It has been ever thus. --RWP]

I have been a fan of Garrison Keillor for a long, long time -- years and years and years -- and there’s not much about his Saturday evening radio program that I don’t like except hearing him try to harmonize with his guests who are singers. I can do without that. I like the “Guy Noir, Private Eye” skits and the “The Lives of the Cowboys” skits and the “News from Lake Wobegon” segment. I like the sound effects guy and some of Garrison’s occasional guests like Paula Poundstone (whom, if you don’t know, you should) and Meryl Streep (whom, if you don’t know, you must have been living on another planet for the past several decades). I could go on and on, but I won’t, unless I already did. I don’t know why Garrison Keillor came to mind because I haven’t listened to his program much lately. The only time I ever listen to the radio any more is when I’m in the car and I haven’t happened to have been in the car on Saturdays from 6pm until 8pm Eastern Daylight time in quite a while. I do have a clock-radio on the table beside my bed, but the only time I use it is to set the alarm on Saturday night for Sunday morning so I won’t be late for church. And I sure wouldn’t go sit in our bedroom just to listen to a radio program. That would be silly.

Anyway, I feed my A Prairie Home Companion addiction (that’s what the name of Garrison Keillor’s program is, A Prairie Home Companion) via the show’s website on the computer. The website includes a few things that aren’t even on the radio program, like Russ Ringsak’s columns and Mrs. Sundberg’s. Russ Ringsak is real (he’s the driver of the big 18-wheeler that carries the program’s sets and equipment from city to city) but Mrs. Sundberg, a housewife from Minnesota, is fictional, a figment of Garrison Keillor’s imagination, created out of whole cloth. Her part of the website is called “The View from Mrs. Sundberg’s Window” which is nothing at all like “The View” on TV with Barbara Walters, Joy Behar, Whoopi Goldberg, Elizabeth Hasselbeck (née Filarski), and Sherri Shepherd. Thank God for small favors.

Anyway, Mrs. Sundberg always starts out the same way: “Listened to the show Saturday and it was not bad.” which I suppose is a little self-deprecating joke of Garrison’s to try to mask his enormous pride and then she launches into whatever is on her mind and usually ends with a recipe. I thought I would share a few of her columns with you and then, if you like, you can search through her archives for more on your own.

Here’s one called “Life is Meaningful Because It Stops” that includes Tolkien, Franz Kafka, and a recipe for Rhubarbecued Ribs and Hot ’n Spicy Tortilla Dip. Here’s one called “I'm not put off by the thought of my own funeral” and another one called “A Monumental Act” that tells about the time she buried her Grandma’s ashes in Wisconsin. Here’s one more called “An Exercise in Forgiveness” that probably we all could benefit from.

Anyway, Mrs. Sundberg, a fictional character, a housewife from Minnesota who is naive and provincial and dumb and smart and sweet all at the same time, is worth a look.

And if you find that you don't care for her, you can always read
Russ Ringsak.