If I Could Tell You
Time will say nothing but I told you so,Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.
If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.
There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.
The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.
Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.
Suppose all the lions get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.
When I was a senior in high school (1994) I went on a trip to London with my school. I was in awe pretty much the whole time. Not that I hadn’t traveled, I was just so in love with London I could hardly believe I was really there. If I had had a digital camera I would have run out of space on my memory card the first day. I especially loved riding the Underground. After all I grew up in a town with a handful of elevators, a crappy bus system, and no escalators.
On the Underground I started to notice poetry in some of the ad spaces. I didn’t know until way later (enter the advent of the internet) that this was a culture thing.
Poems on the Underground was launched in 1986. The programme was the brainchild of American writer Judith Chernaik, whose aim was to bring poetry to the wide ranging audience of passengers on the Underground.
All I knew was, I was seeing poems I hadn’t read before. There was one that caught my eye and I wrote it in my journal. I don’t know what it was that spoke to me in Auden’s words. Maybe it was the repetition, maybe the odd rhyme scheme, maybe the message, but whatever it was I came home wanting to know more poetry by W.H. Auden. It was a librarian friend who explained villanelle style poetry to me. I tried to write poems in the same style, but I am a hopeless writer. I got a book of his poetry and devoured it. Four Weddings and a Funeral came out that same summer and featured another Auden poem that just about broke my heart.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
The connections just keep coming. The college I went to, Sweet Briar College, actually has an Auden collection in the library. I don’t actually know what that means, because I was never brave enough to ask about it.
Looking back I wish my senior quote in my high school yearbook had been from another Auden poem, Leap Before You Look.
A solitude ten thousand fathoms deep Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear; Although I love you, you will have to leap; Our dream of safety has to disappear.
I would have just quoted the last line, but I put the whole final stanza here to give context. I was so afraid to leave the safety of my hometown, my friends, the only house I ever really remembered (there had been an apartment until I was 3), my parents and my sister. Virginia is a long way from Vermont in so many different ways. And I really had to leap before I looked, or I might not have gone. I am so glad I did.
I had no idea what I was going to experience in college or how it would shape my life. I wanted all the answers up front, but they weren’t there for me. To be trite, I had to let time be the one to tell me so.
