Boston-based actor Paula Plum read this poem at a memorial service recently for Talbot Waterman—Yale professor, biologist extraordinaire, music lover, traveler and friend. This was her tribute to Talbot’s 60+ year relationship with his partner Joe Gifford. “I usually read this poem at weddings,” Paula prefaced her reading, “but it can be a way of looking backwards as well.”
Her reading was a moving paen to Talbot, but it also spoke to me. Deep into my own ivy crown journey of 30 years, I am still being surprised by what cotraveling with another brings and means. Commitment. Joy. Will. Pain. Surprise. Tears. Struggle. Change. Wonder. It’s the full ride.
William Carlos Williams wrote this in 1950.
The Ivy Crown
The whole process is a lie,
unless,
crowned by excess,
It break forcefully,
one way or another,
from its confinement—
or find a deeper well.
Antony and Cleopatra
were right;
they have shown
the way. I love you
or I do not live
at all.
Daffodil time
is past. This is
summer, summer!
the heart says,
and not even the full of it.
No doubts
are permitted—
though they will come
and may
before our time
overwhelm us.
We are only mortal
but being mortal
can defy our fate.
We may
by an outside chance
even win! We do not
look to see
jonquils and violets
come again
but there are,
still,
the roses!
Romance has no part in it.
The business of love is
cruelty which,
by our wills,
we transform
to live together.
It has its seasons,
for and against,
whatever the heart
fumbles in the dark
to assert
toward the end of May.
Just as the nature of briars
is to tear flesh,
I have proceeded
through them.
Keep
the briars out,
they say.
You cannot live
and keep free of
briars.
Children pick flowers.
Let them.
Though having them
in hand
they have no further use for them
but leave them crumpled
at the curb’s edge.
At our age the imagination
across the sorry facts
lifts us
to make roses
stand before thorns.
Sure
love is cruel
and selfish
and totally obtuse—
at least, blinded by the light,
young love is.
But we are older,
I to love
and you to be loved,
we have,
no matter how,
by our wills survived
to keep
the jeweled prize
always
at our finger tips.
We will it so
and so it is
past all accident.
Fabulous poem.
O, so much of truth here, Deborah. Abeautiful read this rosy morning. Thank you. G
G, How wonderful to hear from you again! I have thought about you so many times. You made my day!