There were a lot of ponds in the area where I grew up, but this poem is about one particular pond ... on the property where my brothers and sisters lived at that time.
When I got to visit them (but that's another story), it was our favorite gathering place. I did my first fishing there. I went sledding down the hill and out onto the ice of that pond.
It was one of the first places I wanted to see when I came home on furlough after completing basic training.
Years later, during a visit back to Illinois, I drove out in that area to show my wife that pond. But the house was gone, the land was overgrown, and we didn't even get a glimpse of the pond.
For all I know, the pond may not even exist now, but it's very much alive in my memory. The poem was originally published in Capper's ... and I know, I know ... some of you have heard it before ... but it talks to me about a special place ... and I hope you won't mind.
The poem:
THE FROZEN POND
The pond was always home
for wayward leaves,
adding, in late summer,
the yellowed offerings
of the black walnut tree,
then the reds and golds
of maple and tulip trees,
like tiny boats lazing
among the ducks, twirling
at the tiniest stirrings
of air or water, remaining
trapped below the surface
when winter came, as though
waiting for us to come
thundering down the hill
on our sleds, out onto
the ice, that marvelous,
jeweled surface spinning
us around and around,
our laughter spilling out,
still echoing back.
© 1998
***
Today's word:
echoingAfterthoughts ... in response to your comments:
Thank you, Helen, for those kind words about "The Frozen Pond." What a shock it is, as you say, to return to that early scene and find it so changed ... so many things gone ... something alien about what's there now. I am so thankful for memories ... though I may have trouble remembering where I put something a few minutes ago, I do have those memories of long ago, polished to a high sheen from much handling ... and what great memories they are.
1 comment:
Anyone who who knows me would know that this would be an all-time favorite poem. I haven't seen it before, but have seen the scene. I love the part about the laughter. I also know the feeling of going back and having things, just been wiped off the earth. Our barn and pond were gone and it was a local dump. My grandparents house is there, but the one I lived in has long since burned down. I wonder if the black wallnut tree and the black cherry trees are still there. Yes...in my mind they are. In my mind everything is still there...oddly enough I dreamt about them last night...so I know they are still there. I was standing between the two houses and had an appointment somewhere else and knew I'd be late, so I skipped it and stayed between the two houses and people came and asked me who I was and why I was there. I told them with great pride that my parents had built the smaller house. I do remember the laughter there when I was young as in your poem. My younger brother and I sat out on a pallet on the ground and watched the cars go by on the "hardroad". We'd trade cars..."that's mine..that's yours". One, my brother gave to my grandpa. We laughed histerically over that. Not sure why today, except that he drove a model A into the nineties. Your memories you bring out in your poetry makes me know that this place still exist somewhere, tucked in my brain. Thanks, Bob.
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