The Fishermen At&Nbsp;Guasti&Nbsp;Park

In the first days of summer
the three elms, those slightly
opened fans, unfold
their shadows across the river.
Two dogs arrive exhausted,
tongues dripping, and settle
down near the frogbait jars.
Aiming their poles
toward the center of water,
the Sunday fishermen watch
the light pirouette off
the opposite shore.
Their wives peel onions,
open wine, do their nails.
Most of the men think
as little about gravity
as they do about war and
the weightlessness of time.
How could they know that
it is only the single, collective
thought of their abandoned childhoods
that keeps the world afloat?

by Maurya Simon

Other poems of MAURYA SIMON (1)

Comments (2)

The ending is very powerful.
Sunday = Shabbat. The scene timeless in the sense of almost infinitely repeated, across times, cultures, classes. Like a Dutch genre painting, the onions, wine and nails, dogs and bait and prey work as religious or phiolosphical symbols. But the summer sun (or, for some reason, I saw a dusk scene) as adulthood, the absence of childhood (and of e? desire? aspiration?) : I first mistook the author as projecting absence of though. But rereading saw the closing as a question, a mystery, as projecting that men and wives, meditating, which is a reasonable and not class-based assumption, but rather pointing to the mystery of our condition, our 'keeping company' in our solitude. (And without the resolution of Marvell, et al, who spelled out what they knew or could only guess of the unity, eternity or glory beyond) . So I liked this poem a lot. MT