Boston 2, or A Letter Long Overdue

Readers of more recent times will recall that I received the most rich and warm rejection letter I'd ever seen. And, being the horribly immature poet and correspondent that I am, it has taken me until now to really re-visit it and address its concerns. Of course, once having done so, I had to completely revise one of the poems in question - a poem I had never completely thought "done", and was confirmed right. I could never perform this poem to my (or anyone else's) satisfaction, and this has been a completely refreshing experience. I offer you, readers, a copy of my reply letter, followed by the latest draft of the aforementioned poem.

Dear Debby,

It was awfully rude of me to not thank you right away for your incredible letter. I was so flattered that you, Marianne and the other editors spent so much time discussing my work! Really, thank you for putting that kind of time in for me.

I confess: your criticism, though constructive, did go unappreciated for some time. I had just finished my 7th major draft of "Creator" and wasn't ready to pick it up again. But as I sat down to write this, I thought about taking another look at your letter, and at the piece. Surely some of the tightening-up suggestions were right.

Twenty minutes later, I had a complete breakthrough about the piece. Marianne asked in the last letter: Why would G-d separate two continents that G-d had supposedly created to be fused? The question troubled me as much as it did Marianne, and also this: what was G-d really feeling guilty about, that G-d felt the need to apologize to Adam?

I'll spare you the labor pains of the story, and get right to the good part: G-d is feeling guilty because G-d is now being forced to admit that there is a GREATER creative force than G-dself: love. Think about it - throughout the piece's most powerful stanza, G-d interferes with the love of oceans, moons, sky, and land masses, a love that existed before G-d did. It's understandable that a young, arrogant creator to thinks they know best, and has that right to interfere.

But this is G-d's breakthrough, G-d's realization that G-d is not perfect. G-d is not all-knowing. G-d has acted in arroagance and ignorance - literally IGNORING the perfect love that surrounded G-d, much in the way Adam ignored the perfect surroundings G-d created for him! And that deserves an apology: I am not perfect. You didn't deserve to get as punished as you did simply by not being perfectly obedient. And I have no right to your forgiveness, one imperfect being to another, but I'm asking for it. I'm conceding that I was wrong.

Thank you, Debby. Thank Marianne, and all the other editors. It takes a talented group to push so perfectly. I hope you like the new draft. I think I'll do at least one more before I ask for it to be considered for publication, but I'd love to know what you think at this point.

Gratefully,
~Dane

Creator

Adam, do you remember our last
lesson in the garden?
I was teaching you how to distinguish
the weeds from the flowers, kneeling
over you in the dirt, watching your
face as you tugged
each stray plant from the ground. You
looked horrified, as if I was asking you
to tear babies from their mothers’ arms.
When I told you this, your voice cracked
as you asked, “But aren’t you?”

I know the pain of separation.
When I ask myself which part was the hardest,
I remember the day I drew the line
between ocean and sky,
how I couldn’t keep my hands
from shaking when I lifted
South America out of Africa’s arms
and carried her across the water,
while she sobbed into my shoulder.
I still can’t watch the tide
as she rises towards the beckoning moon,
wishing only to hold her one more time.

When I was finished, my unconvinced eyes
took in the strange, unfamiliar world before me.
I told myself:

it was good, it was good, it was…good?
My first real creation was that lie.

This world was one of fault lines
and gouged bodies
of water,
the scars of things torn and ripped
like your weeds.

I couldn’t tell you this here.
This was the one place I thought
I’d done it perfectly. Every flower,
every tree, every stone was for you,
even before I knew you.

You were an accident.
An unintended result
of an unexpected pleasure.

After five miserable days,
I was ready to quit, but some angel
dropped clay in my hands, like
an invitation to play. So I did.

While my hands worked
and collected thick coats of cracking clay,
I began to think the way potters do,
asking, “What can you hold?”

I kneaded poetry into your veins.
It was as vital as the beat I pounded into your heart,
and the tongue I molded into your mouth.
The only separations were your fingers.

I tried to teach you: you too, are a creator.
I wedged the burden of responsibility between your shoulders. ,
taught you to make distinctions, to pull weeds from flowers,
but you learned to cry for the weeds on your own.

You learned first not to interfere
with the primordial love of mountains.

It’s taken me so long to realize
how much I missed our lessons in the garden,
and I have no right to your forgiveness, but

I offer you this: you were right about the weeds.