This morning, while reading poetry and drinking coffee as a sunless white-gray light fills my apartment, I learn that the poet John Berryman committed suicide by jumping off of the Washington Avenue Bridge in Minneapolis. Though now we say died from suicide, because as one psychologist put it, we wouldn’t say committed cancer. I’ve heard of Berryman, but I don’t think I’ve read any of his poems. According to Wikipedia, he struggled with alcohol, and during one of his hospitalizations he had a religious conversion of sorts. In 1965, he won the Pultizer Prize for Poetry. He died at age 57 in 1972 – two years before I was born. So it goes.
I only read one poem this morning, the poem that mentions Berryman. That poem, “The Minneapolis Poem” begins with the image of plane flying overhead in which the speaker imagines there are poets traveling from New York to San Francisco. Only towards the middle/end of the poem does he get to Berryman’s death. When I finish the poem, I read about Berryman’s life (and death). I get a little lost in thought. I’m struck by how immense the world is. I’m struck by how vast the history of human life is. An acclaimed poet. Struggled with alcohol and depression. Married three times. Had poet friends and probably other friends who weren’t poets – most of whom are probably also dead. They lived their lives. Maybe they had dinner parties where they drank wine and talked about smart or crass or witty things – because this is what we imagine award-winning poets do with their erudite circle of friends.
A religious conversion of sorts. Change. A switch flips and we can become different people. Or sometimes, we work hard and spend years trying to become different versions of ourselves. Or sometimes, we fight to hold on to those last scraps of who we are. For a few years now, I’ve been working on different versions of the same poem. It is, in some respects, a letter to everyone who has come and gone from my life. Or maybe it’s a letter to myself. Most versions of the poem begin with the line, “I drink my coffee black now.” That seems like a tangible way to measure change. Not unlike looking in the mirror and seeing someone mostly recognizable but also different, a little grayer a little more loose in the joints.
The gray light brightens as the sun begins to poke through the thinning clouds. To the east, there’s a patch of blue sky that I’m tempted to chase. I haven’t showered yet, and I’m not sure how I want to spend the day. My guilty conscience tells me I should exercise. My gluttonous side wants cook a long and slow big meal. I hear that the tulips are blooming in Golden Gate Park and I have a friend who is dealing with depression. Aside from yesterday, he says he’s barely left his apartment in a week. I think I should ask him if he wants to go to the park. When he says no, I’ll be back to trying to figure out how to spend my day.
The sky has thickened. There are no more patches of blue. The friend has said he can’t today – but he might be around later. I’m going to pack some coffee, a book and a notebook, buy a sandwich, and see the tulips – probably find a bench, maybe go to the beach, walk some of the way or most of it. I deal with later (dinner and groceries) when it’s later.