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| South to White Baldy |
I wrote this poem years ago, in the fall of 2018. At the time, I was in my second year of graduate school studying climatology, with a research focus on Antarctica. So it's no great leap to infer some of the inspiration for a poem that, when its proverbial needle is spun, points south. I have also always found myself drawn to polar exploration and the incredible voyagers who were on that frontier in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.
More recently, though, I re-read this poem and different thoughts came to mind. In these uncertain political times, I thought more about the connotations that come up when we hear the word "south."
For Americans, we might think of the South, along with all the attendant assumptions and feelings about its people, food, humidity, and way of life. From a global perspective, "south" may conjure up images of the so-called "global south," referring to the generally less well developed, less populated, and often neglected parts of the world, generally found near to or below the equator. Oftentimes, however, these are regions where identity is shaped by delicious foods, wonderful community, and a more (perceived, at least) laid back lifestyle. Further, for us northerners, "south" may conjure up images of sunshine warmth during cold and dark winters.
Whatever thoughts this imagery may bring to mind for you, I wanted to capture the feeling of a place or a direction that is so often overlooked and taken for granted. In my mind, this represented the famous fork in the road from Robert Frost's (often misinterpreted) poem "The Road Not Taken." To me, this was my own version of taking "the one less traveled by," which felt apropos for a graduate student adrift on the breeze, who now works a corporate job once again. Perhaps one day I'll double back to that path kept for another day.
→This is the Way
What do you do when you don't know what to do? Where do you go?
Some would say
venture West, that the road has always led West.
West is where dreams
become reality, where the banalities of existence are left behind for high adventure.
But West so often
disappoints; she makes promises that she can't deliver.
So, others would say
look North, to the land where lights of green, blue, and pink dance across the
sky.
The Great White
North, presided over by that ever-beckoning star, Polaris, and haunted by the
call of the loon.
North offers not only
enchanting beauty, but she beckons your eyes upward, heavenward.
Come hither, strike
out in my direction, and all will be well. But will it?
Still others would
invite you to remain in the East, or rather, to return East.
It is the land of the
known, yet mysterious, full of wonder; the land of civilization, cultured and
curated.
Where you can call
upon your fellow man and he will answer; where you needn't be lonely, or so
we're told.
Until we find
loneliness, even among the crowds, yet are left wanting for solitude.
So, perhaps, we turn
our gaze South. South is a land that makes no promises.
She only promises
that you might not get what you set out to achieve; or you just might.
South beckons
tantalizingly, not with a single star, but with a constellation - the Southern
Cross.
South sounds the
siren call to any who listen carefully, attentively.
Many have heard it:
Shackleton, Amundsen, Scott, Byrd. It is the call not of adventure, but of
challenge.
The call to challenge
your mind, your body, and your spirit. Which seems to be all that we really
yearn for.
If Mother Earth were flat, I would surely fall off that side of her. And so, I look South, and begin on my path.
