Thursday, January 19, 2012

41 Write about North or South

Here I am standing at the gateway to the Arctic in Barrow, Alaska, True North. It is just about the farthest north you can go in the United States of America. Those are whale bone ribs framing the Arctic ocean. I was told that in Norway and Scandinavia this place is as well known as the Washington monument. How far north have you been? What does North mean to you? Who is north in your life? Let's Write about North.


if you are not in the mood for North, try writing about South or East of West.


Its cold today.
I know the sun is up there,
somewhere behind
the gray sniffling clouds.
If I were a bear
I would sleep in.

But I am not a bear,
so I leave my den
to make the first cup
of coffee.

bl (first draft)

90 North

At home, in my flannel gown, like a bear to its floe,
I clambered to bed; up the globe's impossible sides
I sailed all night—till at last, with my black beard,
My furs and my dogs, I stood at the northern pole.

There in the childish night my companions lay frozen,
The stiff fur knocked at my starveling throat,
And I gave my great sigh: the flakes came huddling,
Were they really my end? In the darkness I turned to my rest.

—Here, the flag snaps in the glare and silence
Of the unbroken ice. I stand here,
The dogs bark, my beard is black, and I stare
At the North Pole . . .
And now what? Why, go back.

Turn as I please, my step is to the south.
The world—my world spins on this final point
Of cold and wretchedness: all lines, all winds
End in this whirlpool I at last discover.

And it is meaningless. In the child's bed
After the night's voyage, in that warm world
Where people work and suffer for the end
That crowns the pain—in that Cloud-Cuckoo-Land

I reached my North and it had meaning.
Here at the actual pole of my existence,
Where all that I have done is meaningless,
Where I die or live by accident alone—

Where, living or dying, I am still alone;
Here where North, the night, the berg of death
Crowd me out of the ignorant darkness,
I see at last that all the knowledge

I wrung from the darkness—that the darkness flung me—
Is worthless as ignorance: nothing comes from nothing,
The darkness from the darkness. Pain comes from the darkness
And we call it wisdom. It is pain.

Randall Jarrell

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