This one is pretty obscure. Actually,
no, it’s very obscure. It’s so obscure that I’m at an impasse. That’s okay,
these aren’t always meant to be understood, only terrify and comfort. If I back
away from them far enough, sort of mentally squint at the poem—it’s still
obscure. There’s no way into this one without a guide as to who the “silly
fellow” is, what he did. There looks to be some reference to a woman, and it
might be his wife since “they were forever together.” But it’s all vague, and clearly,
this was meant either for insiders, or for the poet himself. It’s not ours. It’s
not our business, this one. So, why publish it? Because he can. He knew what it meant. That was all that
mattered. To the uninitiated, like me, the secret looks mysterious and
compelling, it beckons and it lures, it’s inscrutable. That’s all that matters,
the enigmatic unattainability of it. He
knows, though.
I built a canoe once, with watertight
flotation compartments front and back. I was going to put a secret talisman,
some undisclosed fetish, a hidden jewel, inside the front one, that would be
forever known only to me, and I wouldn’t ever tell anyone about it. The thought
embarrassed me, for some reason I don’t remember—fear of discovery? Did it seem
little-girlish?—and because of that I didn’t do it. No fetish. Jewelless. A
plain old canoe with no special mysteries cached inside of it. I don’t
understand why any longer, and I’m actually embarrassed that it embarrassed me.
I look back and marvel now that I was so afraid of keeping a foolish, harmless
secret about a treasure hidden in my canoe. B. would have not worried about
that, because that’s what he’s doing with this poem. Any longer, now that I’m a
bit more experienced, to not fill the secret compartments of my canoe with
secret items if that’s what my fancy wishes—I couldn’t care less if someone
found it. I’m happy now to cherish things that are only mine in hidden corners
of my brain, or my canoe. But here’s the thing. If I had said, guess what? There’s
a hidden secret about my canoe-oe,
and I’m not telling you what it i-is: Here’s a hint, but you’ll never figure it
ou-out… It would have made me feel like I was the possessor of an arcane
wonder, and you’ll never know it, without much study and obsessive sleuthing? Would
that make me feel like I possess some amazing secret of inconceivable value? Sure…
I did give the canoe a name, and never told anybody. But I knew her name. Just me! Unfortunately,
that was a few years ago, and I’ve forgotten what it was…
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