We all are born as secrets to each other.
A city's million windows act as vaults,
And keep our stories safe from one another:
Imaginings, and beating hearts, and faults.
And death would close each book in sudden season,
And season cease: from lake, and sparkling sun,
Revealing truth submerged, or sought-for reason,
Then all to ice, that cannot be undone,
Though I read but a page. And stand on shore,
In ignorance, bereft of neighbor, friend,
And loved one gone, now hidden evermore;
Our secrets live, as secrets in the end.
Yet living we remain, though side by side,
Inscrutable as those we loved, who died.
I've been reflecting lately on the foreignness of each person, and today I remembered that Dickens had, too. The sonnet is a rendering of his first paragraph of Chapter 3, of A Tale of Two Cities.
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Comments
I can't even find words to describe what you are doing to me with each successive read.
It all fits together, background and foreground in harmony. As beautifully as a painting in its completion. Before we hang it on the wall, let me savor it yet a while.....
Stunning.
R
Officially smitten.
so wonderful....
This was wonderful, DB
Some poems lift you in the moment and then let you move on. Some catch you up, pull you in, reconnect you with truths you have known. For me this poem is one of those. "We all are born as secrets to each other." You have captured me straightaway. I have known this since I was a child. "Our secrets live, as secrets in the end." As you write your lines, you often pick up pebbles that most of us would rather leave alone. Yet by picking them up and offering them here, you give us another chance to look again and see what is there.
Funny that you should recall lines from Dickens as you write this. I have read these lines as I have read the novel, but I don't remember hanging on them then. I do remember that when I read words by Dickens and about him - even by his close friend, I wondered about who he really was and knew I would likely never really know. Michael Slater has, I think, written the latest biography. He himself is a sparkling man and has worked with Dickens since long before I met him how many years ago. After so many years and so much thinking and reading, I wonder what truths, if any, he found. I think I must have a look and see what he lets me see.
Even if Dickens came back to meet with me or you or Michael for tea and agreed to answer any questions and to hold nothing back, we would know only so much. Layers of truth, our own truths - let alone anyone else's. What layer do we allow or acknowledge today?
"Our secrets live, as secrets in the end." Good Lord, Bard, you words do make us think.
Poor Woman, thank you for your comment, and for your PM too. As I said in my reply, Dickens really did the heavy lifting here. Honestly, I just went picking through the paragraph, and when something didn't fit, I just went on to the next sentence. There is so much there to work with.
anna1, well it looks like I have touched a nerve! Thank you so much for your thoughtful comments here. "We all are born as secrets to each other" -- again, Dickens did the work. All I did was cherry-pick, I swear. It's just a distillation of his opening sentence, and I hope I did him justice. The same for "our secrets live, as secrets in the end" I didn't say anything new here. Dickens did it all, and he said it so beautifully that I almost feel ashamed to write this sonnet -- except I had such marvelous fun doing it.
c&v, of course you know I do this just to smite you. Now I have to go lurking around for some new material. I may run out -- I didn't begin to read seriously until after my first marriage broke apart, so anyone who read in college can read me under the table.
rita, thank you for picking that line. I just wanted it to be no secret that I didn't come up with the idea in a vacuum.
trilogy, thank you. Dickens nailed that notion (as he did many others).
I'm not sure how I thought to take the book off the shelf yesterday afternoon -- I had started to write some of the usual stuff, about being separated from the world because the kids were with their mom, and then that paragraph crossed my mind. I've been wanting to do something with it -- I didn't know what -- for quite a few years, and I was thrilled while unpacking my boxes of books some months ago to find my several Dickens. I stopped everything, to look for the paragraph. It has stuck with me both because of the notion of foreignness, one to the other, and because he described it with such care, and so lyrically -- like giving a long tour of a garden.
I gotta go. I haven't started tonight's post. Thank you all, especially anna1. I can't pretend to know Dickens upside-down and inside-out. I don't even know a whole lot about his life. But I do love his work. And of course I read Christmas Carol to my kids for the first time, this past year. What a joy to introduce a child to that.
All for now. Back to work. Thank you all.