A Cairn by the Cabin
Waldon Pond
. . . the asphalt parking
lot, our summer high
thick heat, and children
with towels, flip-flops,
popsicle Rockets,
red white and blue ice . . .
. . . how deep the hole
our country did fall
into while we slept
and how the dream
brought us locusts,
their whine the sound
of a someone strapped
to the table, cut open,
for the hoses and salt . . .
. . . impossible to say
where we stand now
on a path that circles
what HDT said was
the eye of God but
now feels like a corner
where a sparrow has
fallen from its nest
and looks up at us,
as bewildered as we are. . .
. . . while in the mud,
leafy pools, shallows,
deep within alluvial
history, our truths
unfolding beneath us,
so he wanted to find
out if there was after
all some granite there,
something we believed in,
that held us together . . .
. . . He must have known
it was always tentative
ready to fall apart,
that we each would
have to believe enough
to build it over again
and that this is what
these stones are here for. . .
It’s an elemental gesture, the cairn – placing a stone atop a stone. In a Jewish cemetery, stones balanced upon grave markers signify a mourner’s visit, remembrance. On a mountain climb, rocky piles mark paths, offer direction for travelers. I often see little precarious towers of beach stones along the shore, and watch other passersby taking pleasure in bolstering them: I too was here. But in introducing his poem “A Cairn by the Cabin” for an upcoming RED LETTER LIVE video-reading, Fred Marchant focused on the massive cairn being perpetually erected beside the site where Henry David Thoreau’s cabin once stood at Walden – and he takes it as both a sign of gratitude and a commitment toward maintaining the psychic edifice that is our grand democratic experiment – something Thoreau spent so much of his energy fortifying.
The late Congressman John Lewis wrote, in what would become his final message to America: “Democracy is not a state. It is an act, and each generation must do its part to help build what we called the Beloved Community, a nation and world society at peace with itself.” Are we capable now of acting in just such a manner – choosing our words, our gestures carefully as if laying a stone upon the existing stones – to establish a marker, to stand before the doorway of Thoreau’s invisible home, believing we can find shelter there, and offer shelter to others? In light of our contentious election, the Black Lives Matter movement, the rampant fear fanned by the pandemic and economic uncertainty – is such a presumption still viable? I have no doubt most of the poets who have been featured in these virtual Red Letter pages would answer: yes. And you reading these words: yes. Acting for the sake of our children and grandchildren; and our neighbors’ children and grandchildren: indeed yes. And again tomorrow morning, responding to that face staring back at us from the mirror: we build yes upon yes upon yes. By this cairn we’ll know we were here, mark our path forward, and offer guidance to those travelers who follow after us.
I’m delighted to feature Fred Marchant’s poetry once again. Author of five collections including the recent Said Not Said, he is the Emeritus Professor of English at Suffolk University where he founded their Poetry Center. Fred continues to work tirelessly to develop younger talents and to keep the rootstock of American poetry refreshed.