My experience with Love by Hy Boltz

My experience with Love

I shrank into myself somewhere, sometime, became keenly aware of my self, my own

critic, eying every move and clumsy attempt. I settled into the roll of “observer.”

Watching myself experience life rather than simply experiencing life. The observer of all

things at arms length, I watched with a skeptical, William Blake, eye: “to believe a lie/

When you see with, see with, not through, the eye.” I would not be fooled.

So it was with Love. Grade school crushes, sure: always aware of myself—a grade

school boy, shy, perhaps a bit dusty and better suited to cleaning out the stalls or

alphabetizing my books. I did not see myself as the kind of person I knew of, thought of,

pictured really being deeply in Love!

I fell in love with poetry, and with the “Love Poem.” I recognized my self in the intensity

behind those pages, a hidden secret intensity that didn’t know how to get out. I could

see myself, or the bits of self I wished were me, in Yeats:

“We sat grown quiet at the name of love;

We saw the last embers of daylight die,

And in the trembling blue-green of the sky

Washed as by time’s waters as they rose and fell

About the stars and broke in days and years.

I had a thought for no one’s but your ears:

That you were beautiful, and that I strove

To love you in the old high way of love;

That it had all seemed happy, and yet we’d grown

As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.”

Oh, that sweet agony! That intensity! I became a slave to that intensity. I found it in

poetry, but only as the observer. In workshop, there were students who really tapped

into it, like Abe Moore: “water isn’t blue when you are this close, but please just dive in

with me because this is life, Babe, and we can’t stay long...” I longed to dive in, felt

painfully aware of myself and the quiet Lack of that intensity in my polite, well-mannered

interactions with the world.

Secretly I knew that somewhere there was a woman who would open that part of me—

to whom I would speak those lines of poetry, “a thought for no one’s but your ears...” but

leaving out the wearisome part where everything becomes faded. Perhaps there sliding

into another proven line. Neruda maybe: “Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs...

you stretch out like the world.” And I waited to meet her, the patient observer, watching.

Not willing to try anything that hadn’t been proven in the canon, nothing that would fall

short of my life in verse as I imagined it. So I waited and kept that safe arms length from

what could have been just an experience.

I don’t know how many experiences passed by while I waited, but it didn’t happen. Like

Pygmalion, I became inextricably attached to the artistic representation of something I

didn’t truly know. I was waiting to say, “Oh hi! I recognize you from the pictures...” The

pictures of flowing water, shooting stars, summer rain, fireflies, sunrises, city

crosswalks, full moons, alabaster, bells tolling—ringing and ringing and ringing.

I saw an ocean of poetic intensity and me sitting on the shore holding a broken paddle,

listening to the mermaids from T.S. Eliot:

“I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.”

I was Prufrock growing old, measuring out my life with the mundane while watching for

the mythical! I had to give up on the “Love Poem.”

Possibly the drowning of a close friend was the nudge I needed (Think Eliot again, “fear

death by drowning”) a young guy, like me, but a guy full of life and heart, truly living

each day until he wasn’t. I decided the “Love Poem” was the artistic representation only

of an ideal, the ultimate portrayal of only a dreamed reality. Not real life. Not, at least,

the whole picture. The rest of that picture, as far as I could tell, involved getting a job,

paying bills, raising a family, getting a home and a sensible car with good safety ratings.

Keeping up on your insurance coverage, protecting your assets.

So I resigned myself to fulfilling the part of That story that I could reach. I slipped

comfortably into a marriage, despite early signs of caution, with the promise, eventually

realized, of two kids, two cars, a mortgage, and plenty insurance. I made my life into the

“raising kids” story, and there I would have remained, but didn’t. She had more

language for what we had sacrificed than I had. Not knowing what, exactly, she was

going to find, she left to search.

My identity, father & husband, self-sacrificer, became un-moored, set adrift in a new

sargasso crossing. In my small craft the Old Breton Prayer: “O God, thy sea is so great /

And my boat is so small.” Waves thumped soft and hollow against my hull. Slowly I

drifted closer to my self, the one I had left lost in poem and song. The vast ocean of

experience lay out before me waiting for me to dive. Here was life waiting for me as I

had once waited for life. I had forgotten so much of that huge potential.

I had forgotten just enough of the “Love Poem” that when I met the true love of my life, I

was a blank page ready for whatever colors flowed. I was an empty cup ready to fill and

to drink. I just knew that she and I had a story to share between us. I eased into the

waters. I got to know her as an old friend, familiar and open. We cried together and

didn’t know quite why it felt so...important and right! She brought me back to that

awkward school boy fidgeting in his clothes as if I had known her all along. The poems

were mine, and now, as a man, as a full being, again so aware, I could open to her and

say, “Hi! I see you. I’ve been waiting for you for so long. I’m so grateful you are here!”

I Want to Tell You Everything by Hy Boltz

I want to tell you


little things like

the countertop where we sat together

is made from chalk boards out of the original Whitefish school built in 1910,

or that the mint that grows along the creek, with rose hips, makes the best tea,

and how the smell of that tea staying warm on the wood stove

is a treasure from my childhood.

I want to tell you about the red gelding named Champ, I had when I was five

that my parents traded for the mandolin I still play.

As if by telling you,

you will have been there for more of my life, !

like I could bring you with me to when I walked barefoot

through the meadow in Nutrioso if I could just tell you

exactly how the grass felt on my feet.

And I want you to take me with you

on weekend trips to the farm, to climb the ladder to the mezzanine

passing through to your grandparents room,

landing on their bed, for a moment

you could fly!

Raindrops on the skylight while stories were being told.

Or even to the time your step-father

painted your room black because he knew how much you loved

bright, happy colors, then sent you to your room for a year.

And I could bring you steam rising from loaves of bread

up turned on the counter, freshly out of their pans.

You could show me the slow fall of snow

through the branches of ancient spruce.

The rhythmic sway of tall grass in September wind.