My response to Dover Beach

One of my favorite poems is Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold. I hesitate to say this because it's such a downbeat poem. Oh my God, I swear, if Mr. Arnold had a pistol nearby when he completed it, it might have been all over.  In these latter days of an endless and endlessly downbeat election season, I can relate more than ever to the downbeat view of the human condition found in Dover Beach. "Darkling plain" indeed.

The poem is short, less than 40 lines, and very accessible. And yet it has so many layers and echoes for such a short poem. There's a good chance you read it in high school. It's called "the most anthologized poem in the English language." If you're not familiar with it, it's worth reading. Even if you've read it, it's worth re-discovering. Here it is:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/43588

I've been carrying this poem around in my head for a while now. The thing is, as beautiful as it is, and as evocative as it is, I couldn't disagree with it more. So in addition to the words of the poem, I carried THAT thought in my head for quite a while. Somehow, Mr. Arnold got it fundamentally - if beautifully - wrong.

Well, as I carried this thought around, something happened, as things do. This mulling turned into a poem - one that actually started out in response to something else - but somehow in the end became a response to Dover Beach. Here it is:

http://markbohrer.blogspot.com/2016/10/almost-whole-poem.html

Almost Whole (poem)

Almost Whole

The sea runs tonight.

The moon is almost full.

Stand with me at the narrow straits,

where the Merrimack meets the tide.

Gaze across the bay, under the gibbous night,

watch at anchor, how the island rides.

Against the dark, it plumbs the deepening sea.

Breathe in the cool night-air, and look!

Even the wind on the water moves to the lunar pull!

Keeping her date, the moon rests on our shoulders.

Starlight gleams from a distant shore.

Moon-blanched rocks stand above the flood,

the Joppa Flats are gone. Salt-marsh birds rest in the reeds.

Tonight they hide, choosing to let the tide work its force.

Keeping her promise, on her ephemeris, the moon moves,

the waters rise, and our river changes course,

bearing in the salt, a salve for the wounded.

Tonight we receive the tide’s ephemeral and ageless balm.

In this long arrival of life, I am reached

by a tide that stands full at the strand.

The water lies full at my feet, cresting

where I stand, where I am, cresting the shore.

Good comes in, comes in, to me as to each,

retreats and then, calls out, have some more.

In this run, ebbs strife.

Good flows in, arriving, and arriving.

It is enough. I take, I sample, I store.

Tonight there is no retreat,

no gliding taking in the wash of the strand,

no draw of the tide, no grating roar.

Tonight the same salten sea rises within;

the same ocean river courses the inner shore.

It runs in this temple, in these freshets and veins.

Tonight it arrives, bearing the same cure.

I am not as wounded as I thought –

no knife to withdraw.

I am speechless, struck dumb to my shallow core

by the depth of the sea that surrounds.
The breath of the sea-air touches my face,
sea and stars go still; wind and water, no sound.
From afar, tide and moon in silent tune embrace.

I see no struggle, no pain, no sadness, no sorrow –

no need. The moon is almost full.

What if I am standing at the waters of Charon,

in range of his searching eye? The ferryman, ready on his raft,

ready with his constrictors, his leathers, his binds,

gliding by, on the dark river Styx, silent, his eye all hunger –

what if he found me with no want, no hunger, no need?

What if he turned downstream?

Tonight, the ferryman turns his eye,

and misses one.

Ready with his constrictors, he turns from me,

and I unwind what was taut.

The cord of discord is loosed, prevented, undone.

I have finally gone to school. I have finally learned

how to be untaught.

What I have is enough.

The night-air is sweet. The tide is full.

The darkling plain but reveals

the glimmering light of the stars.

October 2016, North Andover Mass.

Postscript: My Response to Dover Beach

One of my favorite poems is Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold. I hesitate to say this because it's such a downbeat poem. Oh my God, I swear, if Mr. Arnold had a pistol nearby when he completed it, it might have been all over.  In these latter days of an endless and endlessly downbeat election season, I can relate more than ever to the downbeat view of the human condition found in Dover Beach. "Darkling plain" indeed.

The poem is short, less than 40 lines, and very accessible. And yet it has so many layers and echoes for such a short poem. There's a good chance you read it in high school. It's called "the most anthologized poem in the English language." If you're not familiar with it, it's worth reading. Even if you've read it, it's worth re-discovering. Here it is:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/43588

I've been carrying this poem around in my head for a while now. The thing is, as beautiful as it is, and as evocative as it is, I couldn't disagree with it more. So in addition to the words of the poem, I carried THAT thought in my head for quite a while. Somehow, Mr. Arnold got it fundamentally - if beautifully - wrong.

Well, as I carried this thought around, something happened, as things do. This mulling turned into a poem - one that actually started out in response to something else - but somehow in the end became Almost Whole, and a response to Dover Beach.

De-versification, or news of my divestment from The Vintage Book Of Contemporary American Poetry

I watch your angels

dance on the head of a pin.

I wait for music.

When I play your verse,

angels dance; my heart stands still.

The shoe never drops.

September 2016  North Andover, Mass.

The 5th of July - a poem

The 5th of July

On the day I was born,

my mom stood on the battlefield.

Not a woman for dramatic entrances,

and even though her doctor warned,

she went, she didn’t want to miss the tour.

She went to hear the old historian,

to stand amongst the crowd in the morning dew,

to stand in the blue and gray dawn,

feet hurting, waiting expectantly.

I listened as my mom retold,

in the voice of the woman guide,

words that carried us past the span of the living,

how we came to stand upon that field,

words that summoned the watch-fires

of a hundred circling camps.

In the mist, we felt the eyes of soldiers watching,

eyes that told of fateful lightning and swift sword.

Hearkening the sounds of battle to our ears,

I was there as the historian spoke.

No longer a field, but the place of a battle.

No longer a field, but the place of rest.

For some, all ended here.

No longer a field, but the place of victory

and defeat, paid the same, with lives and blood.

No longer a field, but now a place.

The historian spoke, as she pointed to the high ground,

“See the stones and granite markers on that crest.”

Resting stones and markers we saw on the hilltop,

as if in marching columns, they passed from our sight.

Unspoken, unsaid, but not unseen,

known at least by some,

these stones pave the road of freedom.

No longer a field, but a place to walk

in peace, from this day forward.

No longer a field, but a place to stand,

a place to stand and see one other,

a place to know,

to know we are brother and sister to one another,

brother and sister to those who rest on this field,

brother and sister bound by those who have gone before.

They fought on the 4^th.

On that day, some laid down their task.

Their work brought us here.

Do we know

we were summoned by their call?

We stand on their field.

It’s the 5^th of July.

They brought us this far, but could go no further.

The unfinished work is ours,

their unspoken call is heard.

Today is the 5^th of July,

the day we were born.

Mark Bohrer

June 2016, North Andover Mass.

A Door Opens (a poem for Mother's Day 2016)

A Door Opens

The bright day spills around the shades

drawn between the morning and the early afternoon.

In the darkened room,

the boy sits up on the bed,

naptime, tucked in, awake, waiting.

The door opens, a smiling face appears.

“See you later alligator.”

The face disappears, the door closes, a laugh is shared.

The game at the door is played between mother and son.

“After a while crocodile.”

Each open and close of the door

brings another laugh to share,

a smiling watch, an eager wait for more.

This is the playful game

of a mom and her five year old,

and how not to get a boy to take a nap.

There was love in your eyes

and you were looking at me.

I gazed back with the same playful joy,

knowing how much you cared about me

and how much I cared about you.

The door opens and closes.

Laughter and smiles are shared.

Playful joy and love fill the scene.

A look of joy across the room between mother and son

becomes a look across the years.

A gift you laid up for me now appears, fifty years on.

A gift you laid up for me is given today.

“See you later alligator.”

There was love in your eyes

and you were looking at me

with your gift across the years.

“After a while crocodile.”

When I was five and you were thirty-five,

with me at the start and you in the middle,

between the morning and the early afternoon,

with the bright day spilling around the shades,

a door opens between a mom and her boy.

So much love,

so much love yet to come.

Mark Bohrer

Mother’s Day 2016  North Andover, Mass.
Even though she passed away in 2006, just this spring my Mom gave me a gift. This is the poem about it. Happy Mother's Day to all moms everywhere.

Into The Mystic Pint (or My Ode to Guinness)

Into The Mystic Pint

Ah, The Guinness.

Another fine draw of the mystic pint.

Whether ‘tis nobler when poured in the glass,

or when poured down the throat,

‘tis a question to ponder indeed,

said one barrister to the other.

But ‘tis not such a conundrum

so worthy of debate at the bar

as long as there be
another bottle on the wall, of said bar.

Or even better

another keg in the cellar, of said bar.

And at said bar, what a fine judge you are!

Truly noble indeed!

Yes, thank you, dear friend,

I would take another draw.

‘Twould be a mistake to ponder further.

Ah, The Guinness!

Another fine draw of the mystic pint!

Magnificently we will flow

into the mystic indeed.

Mark Bohrer

January 2015  North Andover, Mass.

The Good Pilot (poem)

The Good Pilot

The good pilot knows his plane

What it can do, what it can’t

Others might know takeoff power, rate of climb, service ceiling

He knows how to restart an engine that’s freezing

He knows how to crab in a cross wind

Knows how to land it dead stick

The good pilot knows his way round the sky

When to fly under clouds, when to turn back

Others might know albedo, isotherm or wind shear

The clouds he can read, he knows weather by feel

He knows how to navigate storms when they darken

Knows how to fly those dark valleys of heaven

The good pilot knows his route

To the home field today

No need for a chart, no flight plan is filed

He vectors on final, he pilots by heart

The instruction is done, no more touch and go’s

All his flight hours logged, at last returns to his love

At the home field she waits, sees the wheels kiss the ground

Takes in his last taxi and turn, her vigil ends at the gate

Patient during the post flight, magnetos check, engine off

She knows her man, was willing to wait

She opens the door as he flies through

Again they are one, no longer two

The good pilot is home

July 2014 Written in the air, somewhere over America

In memory of my dad, Joe Bohrer, Jr., the good pilot, and my mom, Ann, his love.

My mom passed away in 2006, and my dad in 2014. On the flight returning from my dad's funeral, with my son Nick sitting next to me, I wanted to write a poem for my Dad. As I wrote it, it turned into a love note to both of them.

The Sign Says: No Returns (poem)

The Sign Says: No Returns

Life is a gift

that

someone else picks out for you.

And now you’re thinking –

Will this fit me?

And what if people see me wearing it?

But you sigh –

Yes I saw the sign,

so now it’s mine.

Can I regift it?

May 2015  North Andover, Mass.

The Second Fiddle Speaks Out

The Second Fiddle Speaks Out

The fiddle rests lightly,

cradled under my chin,

resting on my neck and skin.

I draw the bow

and the vibration in the bow

vibrates the string,

and the string, the wood of the fiddle,

and the wood, my neck.

We vibrate.

We’re hummin’ the same tune.

Before the concert,

the maestro looked at me.

I heard him speak,

but the words tripped

on their way through my ear.

What I heard was something

else, but

it was more wonderful

just the same.

So that’s what I played.

Everyone looked on in amazement.

Mark Bohrer
November 2015 Andover, Mass.