“The Past—it was a feverish dream”

on the margins of the sea remember. . .

on the margins of the sea remember. . .

[Note to those who’ve asked: the pictures are mine taken at Paradise Beach and then early morning in the cove at Port Orford, Oregon—my favorite hideaway.]

In 1986 Thanksgiving fell on Thursday (November 27); Christmas also fell on Thursday (December 25); New Year’s Eve fell on Wednesday, of course (December 31). In 1987 my birthday fell on Saturday (January 3); Presidents’ Day fell on Monday (February 16); Mardi Gras fell on Tuesday (of course), March 3—it was late that year.

A few weeks ago I came across this delicate poem. In addition to thinking it is a lovely (dare I use such a pedestrian word) I thought, “This is going to be useful sometime.”

SONG OF QUIETNESS
by Robinson Jeffers

Drink deep, drink deep of quietness,
And on the margins of the sea
Remember not thine old distress
Nor all the miseries to be.
Calmer than mists, and cold
As they, that fold on fold
Up the dim valley are rolled,
Learn thou to be.

 The Past—it was a feverish dream,
A drunken slumber full of tears.
The Future—O what wild wings gleam,
Wheeled in the van of desperate years!
Thou lovedst the evening: dawn
Glimmers; the night is gone:—
What dangers lure thee on,
What dreams more fierce?

But meanwhile, now the east is gray,
The hour is pale, the cocks yet dumb,
Be glad before the birth of day,
Take thy brief rest ere morning come:
Here in the beautiful woods
All night the sea-mist floods,—
Thy last of solitudes,
Thy yearlong home.

When I read the poem, I remembered reading Robinson Jeffers’ work in high school. I can’t for the life of me remember what poems of his we read. I know he was one of the “modern” poets we read. He died while I was in high school, 1962. I know virtually nothing about him except what I have looked up online just now. So this is not some long-lost poetic love of mine. The only reason I read this poem was that I knew I had heard of Robinson Jeffers before. My, that’s a long way ‘round to some point!

Drink deep, drink deep of quietness. . .

Drink deep, drink deep of quietness. . .

So now I know why the poem haunted me.

Drink deep, drink deep of quietness,
And on the margins of the sea
Remember not thine old distress
Nor all the miseries to be.

On Sunday, November 9 (I’m pretty sure that’s the date although I can state very little about my life at that time with any certainty—I used to say I know the ‘70s happened because I’ve read about them, but the same is true for much of the ‘80s) I went to play for Sunday morning services at Grace Church (Episcopal) as usual.

The evening before, my partner and I had thrown a birthday bash for a good friend (bash? – the three of us). I started drinking wine that day in the middle of the afternoon as I was cooking and continued with vodka, more wine, and then some Drambuie after dinner.  When I arrived at the church, I thought I had a really bad hangover. Then I realized I was still drunk.

The following Saturday (November 15) I did not have any alcohol to drink, and I have had none since. I made it through Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Eve, my birthday, Presidents’ Day, and Fat Tuesday without drinking. I knew by that time that I really did not need to get drunk again. And I never have.

Remember not thine old distress.

That is, in some ways, bad advice for someone like me. I need to remember the old distress, or I might not be able to drink deep of quietness. . . on the margins of the sea.

This seems (as I’m thinking about putting it down here in writing) to be too sentimental to express the deepness of my gratitude that, with other demons that I have to fight on an almost daily basis (depression, seizure disorder, old age?) I do not have the demon rum hanging around my neck.

Be glad before the birth of day,
Take thy brief rest ere morning come:
Here in the beautiful woods
All night the sea-mist floods,—
Thy last of solitudes,
Thy yearlong home.

Jeffers is, I suppose high school English teachers would tell their students, using the sea as a metaphor for death –thy last of solitudes. I take it differently. It is a song of quietness, of knowing that today, even though this was not true yesterday or the day before, I can take brief rest ere the morning come. Simply be quiet. And be grateful for twenty-seven years of sobriety.

Be glad before the birth of day, Take thy brief rest ere morning come

Be glad before the birth of day,
Take thy brief rest ere morning come

6 Responses to “The Past—it was a feverish dream”

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