Are you waving or drowning?

Sometimes we give the wrong signals, not the ones we intended, or they are misinterpreted, ignored, turned inside out into something else altogether. I've had this poem in my head for a long time. Waving or drowning? Waving - or drowning? Too far out?

Not Waving but Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

-Stevie Smith

Comments

[Donna]

Along with your introduction, I love this poem. It is so deeply beautiful....how about a month's extension for the poemapalooza? May seem like the perfect month for Poemapalooza Extended :)

[Sally]

It's hard to admit, because people see me as such a good juggler, but at the moment I'm drowning. I'm sure I'll reach shore, though.

Thank you for all the thoughtful poems this month, Patti. I've particularly enjoyed how current they have been -- so many from people who are STILL ALIVE AND WRITING!

[Tana Butler]

(I started writing this on Sunday night, and didn't come back to my browser until just now.)

Well, this shouldn't make me want to cry, as I am sipping (for my birthday, which is tomorrow) some Moët & Chandon that my French-owned gym gave me as a reward for bringing in a friend...but it closes a circle.

I joined the gym last August because of anxiety attacks, the day after I learned that my friend, Bob, had died in his early fifties of a heart attack. I had seen him only two weeks before: he was the most knowledgeable and passionate cheesemonger at the River Cafe & Cheese Shop here in Santa Cruz. I could not walk into the shop without him teaching me something.

Bob had been swimming/diving up at Point Reyes with his teenaged son, who mistook his frantic waves as some kind of a joke. His daddy was a joker. We all knew that.

But it was a fatal heart attack.

I got very sick in the winter and stopped going to the gym, my confidence shattered and my motivation, undermined. But I turn 48 on April 30, and I will be going back with regularity. My anxiety has returned, and I cannot bear it. It feels as though I am thinking myself to death.

I think I should post a poem, perhaps one of my own, for my birthday, to conclude a month of poetry. Or perhaps Mr. Wendell Berry would be more appropriate, given the nature of my work.

I do love poetry. I could eat it every day.

Thank you for everything you do, Patricia.