Donald Justice(1925–2004)
Nostalgia of the Lakefronts
C i t i e s b u r n b e h i n d us; t h e lake glitters.
A tall l o u d s p e a k e r is a n n o u n c i n g prizes;
A n o t h e r , b y t h e lake, t h e t i m e s o f c r u i s e s .
C h i l d h o o d , o n c e vast w i t h terrors a n d surprises,
Is f a d i n g to a l a n d s c a p e d e e p w i t h d i s t a n c e —
A n d always t h e sad p i a n o i n t h e d i s t a n c e ,
Faintly in t h e d i s t a n c e , a ghostly tinkling
( O i n d e c i p h e r a b l e blurred h a r m o n i e s )
O r s o m e far h o r n r e p e a t i n g over w a t e r
Its h i g h lost n o t e , c u t l o o s e f r o m all h a r m o n i e s .
At such times, wakeful, a child will dream the world,
And this is the world we run to from the world.
Or the two worlds come together and are one
On dark, sweet afternoons of storm and of rain,
And stereopticons 0 brought out and dusted,slide projectors
Stacks of old Geographies,2 or, through the rain,
A mad wet dash to the local movie palace
A n d t h e shriek, p e r h a p s , o f Kane's3 w h i t e c o c k a t o o .
( W o u l d this h a v e b e e n s u m m e r , 1 9 4 2 ? )
By J u n e t h e city always s e e m s n e u r o t i c .
B u t lakes are g o o d all s u m m e r for r e f l e c t i o n ,
A n d o u r s i s f a m e d a m o n g painters for its b l u e s ,
Yet n o t e n t i r e l y sad, u p o n reflection.
W h y sad a t all I s their w i s h s o u n i q u e —
To a n t h r o p o m o r p h i z e t h e i n a n i m a t e
W i t h a love t h a t m a s q u e r a d e s as pure t e c h n i q u e ?
O art a n d t h e c h i l d w e r e i n n o c e n t together!
B u t l a n d s c a p e s g r o w abstract, like a g i n g parents.
Soon now the war will shutter the grand hotels,
And we, when we come back, will come as parents.
T h e r e are n o l a n t e r n s n o w s t r u n g b e t w e e n pines-—
O n l y , like history, t h e stark bare n o r t h e r n p i n e s .
A n d after a t i m e t h e l a k e f r o n t disappears
I n t o t h e s t u b b o r n v e r s e s of its exiles
Or a f e w g i f t e d s k e t c h e s of old piers.
It rains p e r h a p s on t h e o t h e r side of t h e heart;
T h e n w e r e m e m b e r , w h e t h e r w e w o u l d o r n o .
— N o s t a l g i a c o m e s w i t h t h e s m e l l o f rain, y o u k n o w .