To Be of Use
My heartfelt thanks to all of you who listened to my radio interview and emailed or called. David Gilmour has to get at least half the credit, and Steve Nebel, sound engineer. I love it that you loved it.
And my apologies for being so absent this past month. I had good intentions — definitely meant to review a poetry book once a week in August — and instead let myself be swept up in a number of deadlines to be met (or slightly overshot…), one of which is still hovering.
Tuesday mornings for the past five years — or many Tuesday mornings, Fall, Spring, and Summer — I have been volunteering at my church, pulling weeds and pruning or whatever my “boss,” Fran, tells me to do. I’ve learned a lot about gardening from Fran, and though we didn’t often stand around talking, I got to know her through her work. Her plaid workshirt, her short gray cap of curls, her ready smile on seeing me. “Ah! You’re finally here!” Her incredible assortment of power tools.
Then, a couple weeks ago, Fran died.
In addition to being in charge of the church landscaping, Fran worked behind the scenes in almost every aspect of church life. I set aside the work for any excuse, and never put in more than my 90 minutes or 2 hours weekly (and felt virtuous about it), but for her the work was a calling, and a joy.
Marge Piercy
Ever since hearing the news of Fran’s death, I have been thinking of this poem, which someone gave me in my first year of teaching — it was on various office walls almost my entire career. I’m pleased to say that, after I sent the poem to him, my pastor read it at Fran’s memorial.
It’s my privilege this morning to share this poem with you. (See the poem at Poetry Foundation for the correct formatting.)
To Be of Use— by Marge PiercyThe people I love best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and muck to pull things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire put out.
The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry,
and a person for work that is real.
From Circles in the Water (1982, Knopf)
Thanks Bethany. I understand your shock. I am 82in a month, sending sympathies once or twice a month. The loss of Angela James was the hardest to absorb. I’m sorry for your loss.
Thank you for this comment, and for sharing the name of your friend. Remembering matters.
I’m sorry for the loss of someone important to you, someone who was a fixture in your life. Your words, and Piercy’s, make me think of my mom. We celebrated her 80th birthday this week, and she has always been of use. I think of her as you thought of Fran, as “one of those” who will be here for a good time longer. I suspect your Fran was like my mom: still very much alive and here. I suppose I would like to end as Fran did–suddenly, and still mostly intact. Although I don’t really believe in such ideas, I’d like to think such an ending was some kind of reward for the way in which she lived.
PS–I forgot to add, that your post also made me think of one of my favorite poems, especially for teachers: Naomi Shihab Nye’s “Famous” https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47993/famous
Oh, Rita — thank you for sharing the Shihab Nye poem. I have all of her books, but I needed to reread this poem today.
A truly memorable poem, and a lovely tribute.