I Won’t Be Able to Write from the Grave by Fanny Howe

I Won’t Be Able to Write from the Grave

by Fanny Howe

I won’t be able to write from the grave

so let me tell you what I love:

oil, vinegar, salt, lettuce, brown bread, butter,

cheese and wine, a windy day, a fireplace,

the children nearby, poems and songs,

a friend sleeping in my bed—

and the short northern nights.

Howe died on July 9 of this year. Please click here for a lovely piece on her and her death by poet Nick Ripatrazone.

Howe was born in Buffalo and brought up in Cambridge, MA. She published plenty of books and received many prizes and awards for her poetry. She was a lecturer at a number of colleges and universities in the United States.

From her poem, Footsteps, published in the December 2011 issue of poetry comes this stanza:

Possibility

is one of the elements.

It keeps things going.

This sums up so much of Howe's poetry. It is clear in its intent and meaning, without hitting the reader over the head. There is a sense of mystery (the elements? like oxygen and carbon? huh?) but then when you read the next line, you get it. Yes, possibility does keep things going, as much as the air we breathe.

The poem above (and why I chose it out of the many poems of hers that I love) is both devastating and hopeful, and both of those strong emotions come from its simplicity.

The first line is clever and bound to pull any reader in. The second line is just as powerful. This is not a will, a bequeathment, a list of demands or directions; it is quite different. The speaker is not saying what she is giving to people (the dresser goes to Mary, that old watch in the kitchen drawer is for Juan, etc.), but she is giving something--more information about herself.

The list sounds like what she just experienced in the later part of a day--a simple meal in front of a fire, cozy on a cold, blustery evening. Children--almost always a sign of hope. Poems and songs shared are such a profound activity of a community. The comfort of knowing she will be getting into bed with a friend.

A space and then the last line. "Short northern nights" trips us up, because before this we were picturing winter, or at least late autumn or early spring. Surprise! I love this little twist.

I also take this line to assert the joy of possibility--short nights meanless time sleeping and more time to share food and poetry and play with children and just be comfortable and content. And that is a beautiful and fulfilling life.

Yes, this poem is straightforward. It has simplicity. But its message is not simplistic; in fact, it is deeply moving. It's kind of the meaning of life and you can't get much more powerful that that. Not bad for half a sonnet!

I struggled as to which Fanny Howe poem I should post here today. This one seemed the most appropriate, but here are 2 links to 2 others (the first one is brilliant and funny and one of my all-time favorite poems ever).

But I, Too, Want to Be a Poet

Everything's a Fake