Poet’s Corner: Bill Vartnow
The Petaluma River holds a great deal of Sonoma County’s history in its sooty depths, especially for those who grew up in Petaluma. It flows 13 miles down to the marshy, brackish mouth of San Pablo Bay, and has often been in flux or in a state of change.
Once, it was the hub between San Francisco and everything north. Ferries filled with passengers steamed up its banks, and barges packed with the butter, eggs and local produce like Sebastopol’s bittersweet Gravenstein apples steamed back. hese days, the river’s surface is only written on by the soft caress of sea winds and a few small craft.
Bill Vartnow, a Sonoma County Poet Laureate Emeritus and a resident of Petaluma, uses the Petaluma River as the central metaphor in his striking and unusual poem, “Rivers.” Because Vartnow forgoes a few grammatical rules (such a capital letters) and because he uses space instead of end stop punctuation, the words of the poem flow down the page as fast as the river itself.
“Rivers” tells us the story of Vartnow’s heritage as it is sewn into the river: where he was born, where he and his cousin played. Into this he weaves the natural history of the river: the frogs croaking, the crickets chirping and the tide rising and falling beyond time’s banks.
In the end, when he is faced with the unthinkable change of losing his mother, Vartnow turns to the Greek philosopher Heraclitus’ Flux Principle: “You could not step twice into the same river.” Reading Vartnow’s poem helps us see how life, like the river, is a place of great beauty as well as a place of constant flux where we must love what we can’t hold onto.
HHHHH
“Rivers”
by Bill Vartnow
both my mother & I
were born at 6th & I Sts.
this river ebbs
& flows
ebbs & flows
gets dredged for silt
so boats can come up from the bay
I remember
being young, under 10
crossing the highway
(now boulevard)
with my cousin (now dead)
walking down to the bend
where the freeway overpass
now crosses the river
we were sneaking away
in search of hoboes
- an exotic breed of adult
we found an old campfire
with cans opened, charred
by the river
this abandoned campsite
- proof
I sat on a log there
my blood flowing faster
it was the first time
I saw the river
(it was called “the river” then)
wild
this river runs salty
reflects this town
clearly
it can’t help it
something about the sun’s magic
as salt crystals pick up mooncasts
we hear croaking frogs
chirping crickets
birds, boats, barges
trucks with their hay bales piled high
honk as they turn onto the boulevard
at the top of the bay
the tide rises
the tide falls
& though this river has no inland source
old Heraclitus’ principle
still applies here
- the constant motion
equally at home in the town at its margins
I remember
the whale who visited Petaluma
in my mother’s last week
people were trying to turn it back to sea
no, the whale wanted to see
to make this connection
before it died
& it did
& it disappeared the day she died
I always suspected my mother’s complicity
having been her Jonah
Iris Jamahl Dunkle is Sonoma County’s 2016 Poet Laureate. Contact her at iris.dunkle@gmail.com.
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