Ironing William’s Shirts
(setting—in memory, an upstairs apartment in ”Haebongchong”
Seoul, Korea) 1996
Winter wind whipped down from
Siberia
While she stood ironing 100% cotton
Shirts for her friend William
To wear to his job as a “field rep”
In an office with too many
Uptights who made him feel
Uncomfortable.
They didn’t like his style. He was a
poet,
An artist who could not always fill
out
The necessary papers and forms to
suit their
Sneering looks. They’d wait for him
to mess up
So they could get on the phone to
“the Boss” --
A lesser man who believed, in spite
of his education,
That poets were dead white men
printed
On the whites of thin-leafed
anthologies—
Not living breathing walking people
Ironing his clean shirts one winter cold
evening
She could smell the washed out old
sweat, feel
The longings rise up with each pop
of steam
Escaping the iron’s pointed grid
See his warm body inside the empty
cloth—
Know how he yearned to escape that
clean
Cotton made brighter under the office
fluorescents
That pinned him
Always wriggling to get loose of
that
Clean pressed cotton shirt kind of
life
To go into a poet’s daylight and
air--
To just run—
Run face first into the cold
Siberian wind
Look for snow flurries
Sniff the heavy thick of kerosene
Fuming out from houses with warm
floors—
To end up at the Dunkin Donuts in
Itaewon
To read Yeats, drink coffee,
write—just to think
Years later, ironing for a Grandma
In a Missouri November,
That recollection arose out of the
steam,
Every crease heated straight out
Until the memory of William’s shirts hung
Until the memory of William’s shirts hung
Pressed against her mind’s eyes
This time light and crisp
As the decision she’d heard he made
To leave his office job,
Catapulting him free into
Into wind and daylight
So he could finally breathe—again
Oh Williams of this worn out woe
filled world,
Oh how much longer will you all
wait?
You who long to tear into the woods,
Feed off of words—
When you set yourselves free
We all of us, all of us,
Are shown your truths—
Your Freedom sown into us.
There's very little "poetry" in the conventional sense here, no rhymes or regular rhythm, mostly just simple, straightforward American English. And yet the poetry pervades the entire piece, from its subject matter to its careful exposition and sharp verbal imagery that rises up "with each pop of steam"! But notice how she contrasts the steam with the cold Siberian wind and how she weaves a memory from Korea with another from Missouri to reach an epiphany of universal yearning.
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ReplyDeleteEvery time I found a favorite line, I soon found another: "Winter wind whipped down from Siberia," followed by "So they could get on the phone to “the Boss” --
A lesser man who believed, in spite of his education." Much truth in these words.
Like you, SeoulDave, I think this one keeps giving with each rereading. At first sight it seems rather insubstantial, doesn't it? "I could write this." But it unfolds gracefully, with lots of nice touches along the way.
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