What is Light - a series of 6 poems

- Rebecca Rehfeld, Thanksgiving Day, November 22, 2007

Even now

I cannot speak his name,

that boy,

so sweet with intention,

he could not bear it when I removed

my coif to free my hair,

and placed his soft hand against my breast.

I cannot speak of my boldness

because I fear one day we may be in the

annals of this new world -

for surely they will write of this barren, empty land we call

Plymouth Rock.

Aptly named,

so thoroughly has she rejected us

she would spit us back into the Atlantic

if she could.

Will they romanticize

and use words like "courageous?"

Or, will they recognize it for what it was

A people who,

forced to set aside their beliefs,

chose uncertainty and death -

and found both.

Even now

when I close my eyes

I am 15 again,

in high winds riding the waves,

my body balances easily with the pitch and toss of the ship,

intoxicated by the way she toys with us -

She could take us at any time.

And my Father,

so weak he can hardly stand straight,

wonders if it was folly,

and worries so about Mother -

I am invisible.

The boy,

unable to tolerate sea life

hides in the bilge

and lays his head in my lap

face down after being sick

consumed by shame.

I stroke his hair and allow my fingers to trace

his profile,

the softness of his wide lips,

feel the drag of his young beard

and the wilted lace at his collar,

then slip my hand under his doublet.

But he groans and turns away.

"it's alright.  Only one of us needs to be strong," I whisper.

Sometimes, even I am afraid of my strength.

We have been on the Mayflower for nearly two months,

and what began as low whispers in the early days

has grown to strident disagreement,

even accusation.

Some want to turn back.

Others are certain we're lost.

And still others hold fast.

I have to watch the dogs

They will steal my mother's food

if I turn away for even a moment.

And last night, a handful of men met with my father

in secret

asking him to take over.

I was fiercely proud,

But surprised when my father declined

and instead spoke of prayer, community and purpose.

The men became angry and for days after

sent dark looks our way.

Even now

I can see the way the land looked in those snowy

November moments before the morning light;

purple, gray, brown -

colors I hadn't seen on the horizon for months.

I called for my father, my mother,

I wanted to call for the boy

but instead called for the Ship's Master.

Suddenly everyone was on deck;

even the sick,

straining to believe what they saw.

                             ------   ------   ------

Father died within the year,

didn't live long enough to plant even one crop.

Mother followed him a month later.

They shuffled me to the Carvers,

who died trying to plant their first field,

and I was left to wonder about a God

who would crush good people.

I had just turned 16

when John found me in the high heat of day,

alone on that rocky sliver of land,

working the plow against an unrelenting earth

that now held so many of us,

my Father, my Mother,

the Carvers,

perhaps even the boy -

I couldn't know.

Even now

I remember the way he rode up fast,

the way he reined his horse up short,

the way his eyes widened as he took in

my unrestrained hair

naked arms

and open bodice,

the flex of my muscles

I remember the way he slid easily from the beast's back

and knelt to take the earth in his fingers.

I turned away to smooth my hair,

to pull my clothing,

and my senses,

together -

and when I turned back

for the first time, I understood

how a burden

can become light.

What is Light - The Boy

- Rebecca Rehfeld, November 23, 2007

I dare not speak the name

of that red-haired aristocrat -

the girl, whose father seeks peace, still.

Day after day on this wretched boat

we watch our dignity unravel

The men seem smaller

The women harder

and the children always hungry

One was nearly swept overboard today

and I was unable to do more than call out.

I dare not speak her name

because one day when this is over

and we are there,

or dead,

someone, somewhere will write about it

And I could not bear for people to know

how much I admired her strength,

the way she cared for her mother, believed in her father,

danced wild with the wind,

and ran barefoot across the flat planks until it grew too cold,

often showing me more than her toes.

No, I could not bear for anyone to know

That, at 17, I could not match her strength

or return her love. 

It was forbidden to be on deck in a storm

yet one mid-October gale several weeks into

the voyage, we stole above.

Rain had just begun to fall

and the ragged wind tore at everything.

I begged her to let us return below

but she laughed and pulled at one of the ties of her coif

letting the wind do the rest

It was a brazen move.

Her red hair splayed against her shoulders

and down her back

She turned to me, then

and began to loosen her bodice

until the wind blew her naked

She laughed and caressed herself

then swept her arms wide, and invited me closer.

When I didn't move

she took my hands

and placed them against her bare breasts

I wanted to feel something, to be excited,

but the roll of the waves was too much,

and I turned away, sick

I fled to the darkest corner of the bilge

where it stank so badly

no one could tolerate it

Perhaps it was shock  -

What man expects a girl

a good girl

to strip in a storm,

on an over-crowded ship

where anyone might see?

I reached down and groped my length,

thinking to punish myself for not wanting her

and was surprised when the hardness came

She found me in this state

and drew me to her lap

where I hid my face for long moments

This woman-child

whose name I dare not say

began to trace the length of my face

down my throat,

under my doublet and trousers

and because I was still hard, I let her

But her touch was distracting and in a moment

I was no longer a man

I pushed her hand aside and turned to the wall

"It's alright," she whispered

"Only one of us needs to be strong."

What is Light - The Father

- Rebecca Rehfeld, November 24, 2007

I am a man of peace!

What do they want from me?

We are all of us

hungry

and cold!

So many are sick,

the relentless rocking curdles our stomachs

and the wind never ceases.

At night, it sounds like the wail of a lost soul

denied heaven

and unwilling to enter hell.

A handful of men -

good men

hardened by fear,

came in secret a fortnight ago to tell me

the firewood has grown dangerously low.

Soon, we'll have to spend what little strength we have 

to tear apart the ship.

Already we have begun to tear at each other.

And that fool for a ship's master,

they think he may not even know where we are.

But I am a man of peace!

Why do they turn to me?

They spoke of overthrowing the council -

How could I sanction premeditated betrayal?

For the first time, I realized how easy it is

to hold moral ground

to be just

to follow God's commandments

when the bellies of men are full

and their women, contented.

When I think of the choices I have already made

just to survive -

And my daughter,

this is no place for her.

There is not even a small corner

to preserve a modicum of privacy

she has seen too much.

After the men left

she looked at me with eyes that held no light

She does not yet know,

that the true measure of a man is defined as much

by his choices

as by his actions -

and that "no" can be as courageous as "yes"

I hope, at least, to teach her this.

What is Light - The Mother

- Rebecca Rehfeld, November 24, 2007

I am dying

My husband knows this

but will not accept it,

and my daughter cannot know

She is so fierce -

the youngest and most brave

of all our children.

The light of curiosity burns within,

and we have taught her to believe she can

accomplish anything.

She will be the only one of us who survives this.

I know,

because

although he tries to hide it

my husband is failing, too.

I see the way he can no longer stand straight

The way he gives us most of his daily rations.

How will he build our farm in the new land?

My sister and her husband

have come on this wretched voyage, too.

They are wild-eyed with fear

A few weeks ago, their little boy was almost swept overboard

It was that lusty young man, John

who saved the child.

We don't see much of him

I can't imagine where he keeps himself

on this ship where there is no such thing

as privacy.

They tell me he is a hired man, the youngest son

born to a gentleman farmer, and thus, no inheritance.

He will be free when we reach the new land.

I can't help but wish my daughter had been on deck

to see him rescue the boy

Even in my old age and poor health

the sight of him

as the light played against his muscular frame

made me catch my breath.

But she was below deck, sorting rations

and keeping the dogs at bay.

If I had even a moment's doubt about

the likelihood of my recovery

it was dashed today when we saw the new world

on the horizon.

Even the knowledge that we had

ridden the relentless Atlantic, and won      

could not release me from the grip of melancholy

or tamp the incessant cough,

or clot the blood.

What is Light - The Ship's Master

- Rebecca Rehfeld, November 24, 2007

August 1, 1620:

The Mayflower and the Speedwell

have been commissioned at last!

100 people,

Separatists who suffer religious persecution,

And Strangers, who hold no particular religious loyalty

have elected to cross the Atlantic -

to settle in Jamestown on the Hudson -

to begin again in a new land.

I, Christopher Jones, am the Ship's Master.

September 6, 1620

The Speedwell has sprung a leak;

It is patched,

but we may have to turn back.

September 10, 1620

The Speedwell has sprung another leak

and is unseaworthy

I saw the disappointment on their faces

but they did not hesitate. 

We are all to cross on the Mayflower.

September 12, 1620

The Mayflower is a sweet ship

Year-over-year, leakage from the wine casks,

has neutralized the garbage and other filth

thrown into the hold by sailors too lazy

to hoist it overboard

Disease should not be a problem on this voyage.

September 16, 1620:

After some delay, we have weighed anchor

We are now, all 100 of us on the Mayflower

It is difficult

These people are not used to such a lack of privacy

Uneasy on my mind is that sabotage of the Speedwell

is suspected

September 21, 1620:

This is the last time I will agree

To make this voyage

The Atlantic, always treacherous

Is wretched this time of year

Five days out and already I see signs of dissension

among the ranks, and the passengers

September 27, 1620:

I have heard quiet grumblings among the men

They think we are lost

I have shown them time and again

the light in the night sky

and explained which stars are used

to navigate

October 2, 1620:

It grows worse

I had to give one of the men,

loud with baseless accusation,

a thorough drubbing

Morale is dangerously low.

October 16, 1620:

These foolish, foolish people!

Today we almost lost a child

A child!

because of carelessness

If it hadn't been for my hired man, John,

the child would surely have drowned

October 23, 1620:

I know they are plotting

One of the council leaders came to warn me

of a possible mutiny.

Worse, today, I was able to confirm what I have

suspected for some time -

The inclement weather has forced us off course

How far, I cannot say.

November 1, 1620:

Time grows long

Almost everyone is either sick

Or weary

Or both

And I am nearly undone

The skies are unyielding

unreadable

and the ship's compass has been destroyed

by the constant damp

November 9, 1620

Today, after 65 days at sea, we heard a joyful cry

It was the girl,

the spirited one with the red hair who saw it first - land!

There, in the morning light,

land became visible on the horizon

As if waking from the dead,

men and women crawled from below,

to see what the light had brought.

November 11, 1620

At last, we have reached land

We were blown off course so often,

it will take some time to determine where we are

This is not the rich land of the Hudson

All the same, thanks be to God Almighty

who has led us to the shores

of a new land.

What is Light - John

- Rebecca Rehfeld, November 24, 2007

The first time I saw her she was fending off the dogs,

who were docile enough during the day

but at night, formed a pack to catch rats

and anything else they could find.

Food left for her sick mother

was an easy target.

She was magnificent

and sent the dogs howling as they scattered.

I made her out to be about 16,

a girl, really, not yet quite a woman.

I learned her name much later - Elizabeth;

I don't think she saw me at all.

The next time I saw her

she and that boy were sneaking

up to the deck in the early moments

of a storm.

I followed, intending to warn them

but became transfixed

as the wind sent her white coif flying overboard.

I watched her laugh and tease the boy

more playful than lusty.

She reached up and loosened her hair.

It rained red down her back, past her hips

and whipped sideways into the wind.

I tried again to warn them

but my warning stopped short in my throat

when she began to loosen the ties of her bodice

until the wind blew her naked to the waist.

She raised her head

and danced across the deck letting the rain bathe

her bare

It was all I could do to keep my balance.

When lightening flashed, the boy turned

and ran away

retching as he went

Poor kid just couldn't get his sea legs.

She never knew that I saw them that day

She left soon after the boy, taking the back way

down to the bilge.

Afterward,

I could not get her out of my head

- forget what I'd seen in that dark devil of a storm

A few days later, land was spotted on the horizon

and the real work began.

We were thankful to be done with the sea

but it was a desolate land,

No homes, or fires, or food awaited us.

Only an unrelenting wind,

and winter, colder than we'd ever known.

When the common buildings had been

thatched together,

acreage agreed upon,

and a few homes fashioned,

only 49 of us remained

to begin our first season of planting.

Scurvy and pneumonia had claimed 51 lives

But spring had come

And the promise of light-filled days

was upon us.

By now,

Elizabeth was orphaned

and living with the Carvers

until one day in late May

we learned there had been a farm accident

and only Elizabeth survived

When the news came that she was

working the land alone

I could stay away no longer

she was only 16,

I hoped it was old enough

I'd never been to the Carvers' land

Came upon it faster than intended

and had to rein my horse up short

She was in the field working

sweat trickled down the open bodice

between her breasts

her tanned arms were bare and flexed against the plow

Her eyes widened as I slid out of the saddle

And when I bent to touch the earth

it was because I was surprised to find

that she had already plowed most of the field

She turned away from me

and I watched as she smoothed her hair

the way a woman will.

When she turned back

there was warmth in her eyes

And in that light-filled moment she said,

"It's you."

Author's note:  these poems were inspired by the life of Elizabeth Tilley Howland (1607-1680) a Mayflower traveler, pilgrim and survivor.  All events portrayed in these poems are purely fictional.

Artwork:  Stormy Sea, Brighton, 20 July 1828
Artist:  John Constable (1776-1837)  Constable has been hailed as one of the greatest British landscape painters, renowned for his 'pure and unaffected representation of nature.'

Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection

image source:  http://images.artnet.com/images_US/magazine/features/karlins/karlins5-17-07-4s.jpg