The Source(s) of Inspiration for ‘Marietta Morning’
As I have commented before on numerous occasions, a writer (if I may be so bold as to describe myself thusly) finds inspiration in the (seemingly) most unlikely of places or is brought about by occurrences of the most unlikely of events. This is not to mean that the occurrences are unlikely events in and of themselves, but rather refers to the fact they can provide inspiration where one might not expect to find it. With some of my works, such as the poem entitled To Ride the Blue Ridge, the source of inspiration is quite self-evident. With others, such as the one below, it is not nearly so obvious, but rather it comes about through a rather disjoined or random series of events or might perhaps consist of a set of connections that if left unrevealed to the reader, would no doubt remain a mystery to all save myself. And even then, while I might know something of how I arrived at the work and of how those impressions intertwined, I might still remain clueless as to how they came dancing up from the deep recesses of my mind and were presented to my consciousness, or more to the point, why?
The poem below, entitled Marietta Morning, is one such example, which like many of my works evolved through a series of versions prior to being committed in print yet solidified quickly once the process of that commitment to the printed word took place. Furthermore, it is one of those that evolved seemingly of its own accord, I merely managed to capture the words as they floated by, arranging them in what seemed the most appealing and appropriate order, then continued arranging and rearranging them till they coalesced into the word images that comprise the following poem. As such, it reflects more than one source of inspiration, which perhaps only further serves to bury those sources ever deeper. Yet I feel that is all well and good, it is as it should be considering how it came about.
An analysis of this particular piece could be best broken down into three discussions, the first two being somewhat more obvious in their inter-connection, while the third, at least on its surface, appears to have no connection what so ever to the first two, yet is irrevocably tied together with them. It is that third factor that would remain ever hidden if I did not mention it, but that would do a disservice to the person who provided the final impetus to its formation and writing. This analysis may or may not interest the reader, yet I feel it is worth the time to explain for those that care to better understand what lies beneath the surface of this piece. With that in mind, I will leave it to the reader to decide its value after reading the work itself.
One:
I recently took a wonderful, very relaxing motorcycle vacation through various parts of the mid-eastern section of the country, a part of which took me along the length of the river that forms the southern boarder of Ohio, from whence it get its name. Of the numerous towns I passed through, the one that especially captured my attention was the town of Marietta located at the confluence of the Muskingum and Ohio Rivers, so much so that although I had originally planned on staying there for but a single day, I wound up extending my stay for several more.
Two:
Located on the edge of town, right across the street from the hotel I stayed at, called the Lafayette, an establishment worthy of its own separate write up, was a lovely little public park sitting right on the banks of the river with a wonderful view stretching a good mile in either direction along the river before it bent out of sight. I spent both my mornings and evenings there during my stay, enjoying the view and watching the river traffic. As that particular section of the river ran in a mostly east-west orientation, I was able to enjoy the early morning and late evening colors dance upon the waters of the river as the sun first rose to my left then set each evening to my right. It was that spot that provided the main backdrop for the poem, with the river stretching out in both directions and the main thoroughfare of that pleasant town directly behind me, running at a nearly 90 degree angle to the river right at the edge of said park.
Three:
The third and final source is the one least obvious, indeed not obvious at all really and the one seemly most unrelated to the first two. This is, or I should say was, a recent event that began several days just prior to the writing of this poem and caused me some concern. On the Tuesday prior, I received a call from my sister informing me that my mother had been admitted to the hospital with several blood clots, one in her leg and one in each lung. Being 91years of age as she is this was cause for some concern on both mine and my sister’s part (and that’s putting it mildly, believe me!). As it turns out she is recouperating nicely and the prognosis is good, though I am all too aware that at her age it will take some time, and I suspect she will not ever be quite as active as before, yet there is an excellent chance she will be with us a few more years at the very least. It is that particular aspect of this incident that forms the third source, as both during and after my visit to Marietta I had discussed my desire to return to this town for a family vacation since I was quite sure that my mother would enjoy it as much as I. There is a great deal of history located in the area and the hotel I stayed was a wonderful old structure dating back nearly 100 years, a place where the moment you step into the lobby you are transported back to a bygone era and you can sense the presence of those who, two hundred and more years ago, set out to settle the area known as the Northwest Territory. As a result of her recent illness, I found myself wondering if we would indeed be able to travel to visit this wonderful town or whether the turn of events might prevent it should she fail to recover.
Thus it was that I spent a rather restless night, and awoke especially early, even for me, and sat downstairs in the early morning hours contemplating such an outcome. Perhaps too, it was partly due to my desire to capture some of what I felt sitting on that park bench each day should we not be able to make such a trip together. At least she would know something of what I felt as I enjoyed each visit to the tiny town park.
So putting the three events together and as my mind filtered through these thoughts and impressions, the words below collected and presented themselves to me in the wee hours of dawn and snatching them from the air before they floated out of reach I have trapped them within this electronic marvel of the modern age. After a few hours playing with their arrangement and finding the perfect photographic accompaniment, I now present the resulting composition below.
Marietta Morning
An inverted image painted with nature's colors
On a still, liquid canvas.
A composition of sky-blues and cloud-white pigments,
Bordered with tree-tones of green and grey-stone structures
That lay semi-hidden amidst the shoreline foliage.
An inverted image reflecting the quiet time
Of early morning in a silent park
On the edge of a sleeping community;
And viewed from a worn, brown bench.
An inverted image, reflected through a lens,
To be cast upon a tiny oblong square,
And trapped and retained in a multi-colored array
Of a million pixel-points
Thus sensitized in that instant of time.
An inverted image on a liquid canvas,
Becoming alive and ever more active
As tiny ripples form, bringing motion to the image
That lay so still through the early morning hours.
Now stirred by the brightening of the day-wind song.
An inverted image in metamorphosis,
Painted here with word-colors and thought-bristled brushes.
Captured and locked within the soul of viewer;
In that shoreline space between Water and Earth.
An inverted image presented for those who care to pause,
And revel in the sun-softened moment.
Morning gives way the fullness of day
While the canvas is stirred by broad bands of wind-fingers
Drawing lines of motion that blur the bright reflection.
An inverted image twice captured
Reflecting the duality of man and machine.
One merely mechanical
The other filled with emotion and memory
Providing inspiration for the soul of the fortunate participant.
An inverted image beginning to blur
As it becomes ever more indistinct,
While memory-moments of a distant shore
Bordered by an expanse of inverted blue
Are yet retained within.
An inverted image once revealed
Lying hidden now beneath the surface.
Faded from view yet never quite gone.
Merely painted over till it can rise once more.
Rising from my seat, I turn
To join the procession of towns-folk
And walk the cobblestone patchwork streets.
An inverted image once revealed in liquidity,
Now merely retained within;
One upon the water, one within my heart.
Leaving me to wonder,
Which is more real?
