A mile across the lake, the horizon bare
or nearly so: a broken sentence of birches.
No sand. No voices calling me back.
Waves small and polite as your newly washed hair
push the slime-furred pebbles like pawns,
an inch here. Or there.
You threaded five balsa blocks on a strap
and buckled them to my waist, a crazy life
vest for your lazy little daughter.
Under me, green deepened to black.
You said, “Swim out to the deep water.”
I was seven years old. I paddled forth
and the water held me. Sunday you took away
one block, the front one. I stared down
at my legs, so small, so nervous and pale,
not fit for a place without roads.
Nothing in these depths had legs or need of them
except the toeless foot of the snail.
Tuesday you took away two more blocks.
Now I could somersault and stretch.
I could scratch myself against trees like a cat.
I even made peace with the weeds that fetch
swimmers in the noose of their stems
while the cold lake puckers and preens.
Friday the fourth block broke free. “Let it go,”
you said. When I asked you to take
out the block that kept jabbing my heart,
I felt strong. This was the sixth day.
For a week I wore the only part
of the vest that bothered to stay:
a canvas strap with nothing to carry.
The day I swam away from our safe shore,
you followed from far off, your stealthy oar
raised, ready to ferry me home
if the lake tried to keep me.
Now I watch the tides of your body
pull back from the hospital sheets.
“Let it go,” you said. “Let it go.”
My heart is not afraid of deep water.
It is wearing its life vest,
that invisible garment of love
and trust, and it tells you this story.
By Nancy Willard (1936-2017)
No sand. No voices calling me back.
Waves small and polite as your newly washed hair
push the slime-furred pebbles like pawns,
an inch here. Or there.
You threaded five balsa blocks on a strap
and buckled them to my waist, a crazy life
vest for your lazy little daughter.
Under me, green deepened to black.
You said, “Swim out to the deep water.”
I was seven years old. I paddled forth
and the water held me. Sunday you took away
one block, the front one. I stared down
at my legs, so small, so nervous and pale,
not fit for a place without roads.
Nothing in these depths had legs or need of them
except the toeless foot of the snail.
Tuesday you took away two more blocks.
Now I could somersault and stretch.
I could scratch myself against trees like a cat.
I even made peace with the weeds that fetch
swimmers in the noose of their stems
while the cold lake puckers and preens.
Friday the fourth block broke free. “Let it go,”
you said. When I asked you to take
out the block that kept jabbing my heart,
I felt strong. This was the sixth day.
For a week I wore the only part
of the vest that bothered to stay:
a canvas strap with nothing to carry.
The day I swam away from our safe shore,
you followed from far off, your stealthy oar
raised, ready to ferry me home
if the lake tried to keep me.
Now I watch the tides of your body
pull back from the hospital sheets.
“Let it go,” you said. “Let it go.”
My heart is not afraid of deep water.
It is wearing its life vest,
that invisible garment of love
and trust, and it tells you this story.
By Nancy Willard (1936-2017)
How seamlessly it slides from the father teaching his daughter, so lovingly and intelligently, not only to swim but to be at home and unafraid in the water, to the daughter at her father's deathbed, able to help him let go, and to let him go, buoyed by the love and trust he gave her. I love the calm, assured tone of that realisation.
The notes which accompanied the poem in my inbox tell me that Willard was a novelist as well as a poet, and 'a beloved author of books for children, whose 1982 picture book, A Visit to William Blake's Inn, received the Newbery Medal.' As a former children's librarian, I'm impressed. The Newbery is a very big deal. Her obituary in The New York Times adds that it was the first book of poetry to receive the Newbery.
She also wrote novels for adults. The obituary goes on to call her, 'a prolific author whose 70 books of poems and fiction enchanted children and adults alike with a lyrical blend of fanciful illusion and stark reality.'
It includes some wonderful things she said about writing, e.g.
'Most of us grow up and put magic away with other childish things. But I think we can all remember a time when magic was as real to us as science, and the things we couldn’t see were as important as the things we could. I believe that all small children and some adults hold this view together with the scientific ones. I also believe that the great books for children come from those writers who hold both.'
I now want to read a lot more of Nancy Willard! And I can; there are pages and pages of her works on Amazon, many in Kindle and Audible versions as well as paperback. I've just done the 'Look inside' with a few of them, and am enchanted.
The notes which accompanied the poem in my inbox tell me that Willard was a novelist as well as a poet, and 'a beloved author of books for children, whose 1982 picture book, A Visit to William Blake's Inn, received the Newbery Medal.' As a former children's librarian, I'm impressed. The Newbery is a very big deal. Her obituary in The New York Times adds that it was the first book of poetry to receive the Newbery.
She also wrote novels for adults. The obituary goes on to call her, 'a prolific author whose 70 books of poems and fiction enchanted children and adults alike with a lyrical blend of fanciful illusion and stark reality.'
It includes some wonderful things she said about writing, e.g.
'Most of us grow up and put magic away with other childish things. But I think we can all remember a time when magic was as real to us as science, and the things we couldn’t see were as important as the things we could. I believe that all small children and some adults hold this view together with the scientific ones. I also believe that the great books for children come from those writers who hold both.'
I now want to read a lot more of Nancy Willard! And I can; there are pages and pages of her works on Amazon, many in Kindle and Audible versions as well as paperback. I've just done the 'Look inside' with a few of them, and am enchanted.
Material shared in 'I Wish I'd
Written This' is presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other
writings remain the property of the copyright owners, usually their authors. This photo of Nancy Willard is in the Public Domain.
