Vox Populi
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William Wenthe: Assembly
—November 2016
.
Easily a thousand robins in the dawn
as I sit by the window and watch them assemble
in bare November branches, the brown lawn,
the garden beds full of leaves. Riddling
the yellow air with their rolling anthem
of songs, they swirl and wave as if one: they swell,
and then surpass, my wish to understand them.
And this—aware, but not knowing—is a welcome state
of being: contented merely to be among.
So why, then, be thinking of a parking lot
outside a supermarket earlier this month?
We were both backing up, checking to the right,
the left; but failing to see each other
directly behind, until it was too late.
My plastic tail light couldn’t much damage
the bumper of his pickup, already beat up
from years of hauling stoves and fridges
to help out a friend’s business (so he explained).
And my tail light’s replacement wouldn’t amount
to the cost of a deductible. So faced with our
mistake, there was no redress but to recount
my side, and his side, of what just occurred.
We talked, and talked, as if by talking
we could somehow put these shards
of cheap, glittering plastic back into place.
We made, somehow, a kind of company—
though just the two of us, and though the problem,
we knew without saying, was more than any
busted tail light. Our conversation wandered
toward the election, deploring, when we got there,
the wreckage of language—jagged lies and slanders,
thoughts cracked and broken down to the base
idea that what constitutes an American
is the grotesque assertion of whiteness:
speeches that would make us all barbarian.
Of course, that’s not how we phrased it.
We just talked, the way talking goes—
it makes its way. Nor can I retrace
which of us, as we shook hands to leave,
first bent forward toward an embrace;
but what stays with me is how ready I was
to receive and give it, to have this stranger’s face
on my shoulder, mine on his. Cheesy,
I might think, but it was beyond
any thinking; it felt like we were species,
deeper than tribe; or tribe’s caricature,
the mob, rallied and goaded by slogans.
What moved us, perhaps, was something like
what moves the calling of these robins.
Only, human. We spoke it in silence,
and more—since one of us was white, one black—
we spoke it in the history of our skins;
a history borne in two men, confused and at a loss,
but both of us American—
and each, right then, needing to lean himself
on the other in order to carry on.
~~~~
William Wenthe’s poetry collections include The Gentle Art which retraces the life of the great artist James McNeill Whistler while simultaneously recounting the author’s own journey.
Poem copyright 2024 William Wenthe
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“We just talked, the way talking goes—
it makes its way.”❤️
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This is magnificent. It speaks so warmly of a humanity that feels like it is disappearing. It isn’t, but this poem invites us to register such moments and to appreciate them because only by doing so can we be our better selves. Thank you.
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Well-said, David. Thank you.
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This heartfelt poem epitomizes what it means to be an American, or at least what it used to mean. A lot has happened since it was written, and I am not sure what America has become.
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Thanks, Mandy. I’m not sure either. I am devastated by the election results.
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I admire the way the poet uses rhyme. The echoes are subtle, yet important. For example, he rhymes ‘barbarian’ with ‘American’.
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So often, what happens with stunning moments and special poems, is that “they swell,/ and then surpass, my wish to understand them.” Thank you making it happen again. Today. Now.
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Thanks, Louise. I admire this poem as well.
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This poem made me believe in a future for us. The humanity of it. Yessss. Please. These words moved me. “it felt like we were species, / deeper than tribe; or tribe’s caricature, / the mob, rallied and goaded by slogans.”
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Like Richard, I will keep this one in my personal anthology–such humanity, such vulnerability, such courage to say, for example: “
(…)as we shook hands to leave,
first bent forward toward an embrace;
but what stays with me is how ready I was
to receive and give it, to have this stranger’s face
on my shoulder, mine on his. Cheesy,
I might think, but it was beyond
any thinking.”
Then, that last stanza — what quiet, consoling beauty! i
This was the best poem to publish today, Michael — thank you for that. (As an editor, I’m sure you just have thought long and hard what you would publish today– and you made the perfect choice, friend!)
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Thanks, Laure-Anne. It is a beautiful poem about working through differences between people and arriving at humane solutions: a principle that has been lacking in recent political discourse.
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I approached Vox Populi with the dread I woke up with. The fragility, fear, longing to go back to sleep and awake to find it has all been a dream. Wanting warm milk and a cookie. But there was time before meditation with my community across the phone, so I gulped and read. Thank you for the warm milk and a cookie I needed to start my day. I’ll meditate, and move on.
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I awake at 6:45, sometimes a bit earlier, take care of morning needs, read Vox Populi, often respond with first thoughts ( complete with typos) and sit to meditate on line with friends around the world ( or sometimes just in the US). Today, monkey mind chastised me for perhaps writing something that could be misinterpreted. This was the best poem for today. It brought back a hug with a woman who was in the car I passed before I crashed my grandfather’s car and trailer, kid with a learner’s permit, parents divorcing, watching the windshield crack in front of me as the the trailer flipped the car onto my brother’s surfboard . I slept for the next two weeks at my grandfather’s cabin. They woke me up to feed me, but I think that woman’s hug is what allowed me to return from my depression? PTSD? Today I am again that frightened little girl. Tashi just came in to check on me. I will keep this poem close today.
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I’m going to keep and hold onto this one. And hope, this election day, that it portends the kind of decency, perspective, and willingness to embrace one another that will prevail. Thank you for it. (btw, this kind of lyric narrative/narrative lyric is hard to do! Here it’s done superbly.)
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Thanks, Richard. I agree that this is an excellent poem in its style and form, and it also argues for decency and patience we need this Election Day.
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Wonderful poem about a most human moment, Bill!
Best, George
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