Although I love literature, I do not write fiction or poetry and can only gaze in wonder at those who do. Therefore I have been fascinated to watch my friend Rachel Kranz, over the past ten years, writing what I believe will be a brilliant novel. She has talked a lot about the ups and downs of composition, which include long dormant periods—some of them lasting for months—punctuated by periods of manic writing.
Now that she appears to be coming down the homestretch, she went in search of a poem that would capture what she has gone through. She found a marvelous lyric by science fiction author John Scalzi, written when he was 23. Although Scalzi says he wrote the poem because he was missing someone, for Rachel the poem captures the long and laborious process of writing a novel.
The narrative in the poem is Penelope weaving her father-in-law’s funeral shroud by day and then secretly unweaving it at night, a strategy (Homer tells us) designed to hold off the suitors, who expect her to make a choice when she is finished. It reminds me of William Butler Yeats’ image of stitching and unstitching a poem and, as such, captures the frustrating aspects of creating art. Here’s the Yeats passage from “Adam’s Curse”:
We sat together at one summer’s end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, ‘A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.’
Applying Scalzi’s “Penelope” in this way, the vision of the novel that Rachel carries in her head is Odysseus. All the writing and the revising, the doing and the undoing, have been in anticipation of the moment when he shows up. The author has not settled for something less—for one of the suitors—and though she might talk about her work to others, what they think she means is never what she means.
If you are a writer, you can draw on the poem for reassurance that your work will finally come home. If you want to read the poem through another lens—well, it lends itself to multiple interpretations.
Penelope
By John Scalzi
I.
There is no difference between far and near.
Perspective is all
A mountain and a rock that falls from its incline
Are shaped by the same forces
Separated only by scale
And the attentions of the observer.
I keep this in mind as I unravel my work
And tear it down to its component thread.
Today’s design was a masterpiece
Hours of planning and execution
Done in by a casual pull at the end of the day.
It is no matter.
The action is lost in the larger picture of things
Today’s destruction a building block
For a greater work.
Down the hall voices call to me
Insistent suitors demand my presence.
Soon enough I will join them
Some honest enough, others something less
They will ask about the progress of my work
And I will tell them that it remains unfinished.
We will not be talking of the same work
But it is no matter.
There is no difference between far and near.
Perspective is all.
II.
I don’t know whether to blame you or your stupid war.
It is easiest to blame the war
The insistent beating drum
The pretense of noble purpose
Masking a banality so insipid
As to stagger the observer.
But you were always one of the best
Not the strongest, but the smartest
Not forceful, but with a craft
That became its own definition.
You, who upstaged ten years of anguish
With one night and a gift.
You are magnificent
A prize for poets.
It’s hard to understand how one of your talents
Has managed to stay from me for so long.
I imagined your return so soon after your victory
A homecoming which would shine to the heavens
Pure in emotion and joy.
Yet now you are as far away as when you began
Your arrival a distant dream
Your homecoming unfulfilled.
Your war is over
But you are not home
If there is blame
It is yours.
But it is no matter.
It makes no sense to talk of blame
When circumstances rule the day
No sense for anger
When chance plots your course
Whatever mysteries you hide from me
I know your heart.
Your homecoming lives there
Waiting to come true.
It lives in my heart too
Two views of the same moment
Two dreams with the same end.
III.
My suitors engage me in idle banter.
I am sometimes painted as a noble sufferer
enduring unwanted attentions
But in truth, I enjoy the diversions
My suitors entertain me, amuse me
And no few arouse me
Their endless chatter every now and then
Showing promise of something greater
Of depths that dare to be plumbed.
They appear worthy suitors
And indeed some of them are
But there is not one
Who shines so bright as to dim your memory.
The curves of their arms and legs
Call to mind your own sweet body
Their lips and eyes
Bring your own gentle face
Your voice
Calls distantly from their throats.
Every one that comes to me
To cajole, whisper or impress
Becomes a window
Through which I see you.
I smile frequently when I am with my suitors
And they smile back, convinced that the pleasure in my eyes
Is brought by their form.
But it is not them I see.
Perspective is all.
IV.
My work is now unraveled
And my intentions secure for another day.
Tomorrow I will create another
And unravel it, each tomorrow
Until you return to my shore.
It is a difficult task
Building a creation from which
All that is seen is its daily destruction.
It is a work that only I can see
Its completion something only I desire.
It is no matter.
There is no difference between far and near
Perspective is all.
Perhaps from the distance where you are
You can see my larger work.
Use it as your beacon
And have your homecoming at last.
No doubt you imagined that your work would be completed long ago. Tell yourself that perspective is all and, as you weave and unweave your writing, use your vision as your beacon. If you do, you may well have your homecoming at last.