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WORDSMITHS

 

SUSAN EDWARDS RICHMOND

 

 

 

John LeKay: According to legend, Hobomoko (the Native American devil) carried a woman to Purgatory Chasm after she had murdered a "white man". When the woman began to fight, Hobomoko hit her head against a boulder and attacked her with a tomahawk. The bowl-like depressions show where her head hit the boulder, the ax-marks where the tomahawk struck, and the footprints in the vein of stone where he carried his victim's body to the edge of the fissure.

Do you know of this spot, (bowel-like depressions) where her head hit the boulder and when and how did you first discover Purgatory chasm?

Susan Edwards Richmond: This story is actually not associated with the Purgatory Chasm in Sutton, Massachusetts, near Worcester. We learned about this second Purgatory Chasm when we traveled to Newport, Rhode Island, last February.  There is another rock formation there, this one abutting the ocean, also called Purgatory Chasm. The legend you relate is exactly the one we read about on our visit! This PC is also very interesting but much smaller than the one that is the subject of my poems. I wonder how many other PC's there are!

There is also a lot of chasm lore associated with the Sutton PC and that is the material I mined for my poem. The chasm literature relates several tragic accidents that occurred there--the most famous of these being the deaths of Thordis Tapper (a high school-age girl), Mrs. George Prentice (wife of a Wesleyan University professor), and Simon Such, the voice in "Corn Crib."

I first encountered the Massachusetts PC on the invitation of a friend. Neither one of us had ever been there, but he had heard of it and was curious to see it in person. We brought our families there one day, and our girls were entranced. Wonderful rock climbing and caves! I found the place hauntingly beautiful and was most intrigued by a series of markers erected along the trail which named a number of the rock formations--"Lover's Leap," "Devil's Pulpit," "Fat Man's Misery," "Corn Crib," etc. These became the inspiration for the series. I later returned many times to see the chasm in all seasons and was given permission to research its history at the Reservation offices.

JL: Do you know if these marked rock formations have any folklore or stories attached to them?

SR:  This is where I sort of morphed the mythology. I took the stories of the accident victims, Thordis Tapper, Mrs. Prentice, and Simon Such, and related them to the named rock formations, even though they were not necessarily related in real life. I wove some of their historical circumstances, along with geological theories about the chasm and some other anecdotes, into a text that cast the three as ghosts wandering the chasm, accosting the occasional traveler.
JL: Which poem did you morph the story of Thordis Tapper into. Great name by the way. How did she die?
SR: The first poem in which Thordis Tapper speaks is called "Lover's Leap" (not among the ones I sent). The literature at the visitor center says she fell to her death from the cliffs of Lover's Leap. I embroidered on the character from there.

Thordis speaks to the Hiker (same character as in "Corn Crib") in another poem titled, "Devil's Pulpit." It is also Thordis' voice in the poem, "Attachment." In the manuscript, "Attachment" is part of a longer three-part poem, in which each of the three ghosts has its final say.
JL: What happened to Mrs. George Prentice (wife of a Wesleyan University professor) Do you know how she died. How do they know it was an accident?
SR: Mrs. Prentice fell from a chasm ridge where she and her husband had been picnicking. She was not killed immediately, but died of her injuries two weeks later.

I guess there is no certainty it was an accident, but that is what the "history" claims. A similar ambiguity applies to the death of Simon Such--according to newspaper accounts at the time, investigators were not sure if he set out to commit suicide or whether he got stuck in the cave and shot himself in desperation when he realized he could not free himself.

Even with the tragedy of these peoples' lives, the focus of the poems is on healing. To me there is nothing morbid about the presence of these ghosts in the chasm, instead they felt to me like lonely spirits, longing to communicate with the living as much as the living longed to feel something touch them from a larger world beyond.
JL: How much time did you spend around purgatory chasm and how would you describe the feelings you experienced, of being around these lonely and longing spirits?

SR: After my initial trip, I went back 6 or 7 times, at least twice more with my family (my girls love it there!), and the rest by myself. One trip, I just sat in the State Reservation Office, and went through old files of newspaper clippings and historic documents.

On my solo treks, I would spend a lot of time sitting near the different rock formations or in other locations along the Chasm Loop trail, watching and listening. I guess I was looking for something myself, wanting to learn something about the continuum of life. It was important to me to feel, in a tangible sense, that everything that once was, still is. And thinking about the spirits of these people lingering in the chasm helped me to do that.

 I have also been blessed with the presence of many generous people in my life,  including my editor, Gary Metras, who guided me patiently through many revisions of this book. I believe in the generosity I have received as an almost supernatural power. The spirits in Purgatory Chasm are lonely but they are also, for the most part, empathetic and kind.

The natural world has always been a great solace to me, and part of that comfort and connection, I think, comes from the stories with which a place is imbued. I'm sure I have never been anywhere where another human being hasn't been before me--there are probably few places like that left--so every natural area has a human dimension as well. In the process of visiting the chasm, I created my own stories about Thordis Tapper, Mrs. Prentice, and Simon Such, which had relevance to me in various stages of my life.

JL: Did this experience affect your creative process in any other ways?

SR: The poems of Purgatory Chasm were the first I wrote about the mythology of a specific place. My first chapbook, Boto, was inspired by stories about an animal, the Amazon freshwater dolphin, but the place the animal lived--the Amazon river basin--was remote. I never went there. Those poems were more about, "what if," what if there was an equivalent dolphin story for my time and my place?

Now I continue to be interested in looking at the relationship between mythology and place, particularly natural places in my own environment and the native animals that live there. Recently I have been writing a lot of poems about birds, some related to myths and stories and some more directly about personal encounters.

JL: What kind of birds are you writing about and can you please tell me about your interest in the environment and where this came from?
 
SR: At the moment, phoebes and kingfishers. Recently, snowy owls. I have a chapbook called Birding in Winter, which has poems about many other species. I have been interested in the environment since childhood, bird watching, hiking, and canoeing with my family. For many years, I worked for an environmental communications company and did a lot of projects for EPA, learning on the job.

JL: Do you have any environmental problems with wildlife, water, pollution in the area you live in?
 

SR: We have the same problems any suburb has, I guess. There has been groundwater contamination from a W.R. Grace property, but so far the plume hasn't gotten into any active wells. Or so we're told.  Too much unplanned development so the town is very lopsided. No real town center, lots of neighborhoods with very expensive homes, and a busy business district lined with strip malls. We do have lots of conservation land, however, and a pretty strong environmental ethic represented on the town boards.

JL: What are your thoughts on nuclear power plants as a source of energy?
 
SR: I don't believe in using any source of energy that produces a deadly waste product that doesn't degrade within thousands of years. No matter how many safeguards one uses, or how careful one is about containment, the risks far outweigh the benefits, in my view. We can do better than nuclear and we should.

I think that as long as people believe nuclear power is a viable energy solution, or that nuclear weapons are a viable defense tool, for that matter, we will live in an extremely precarious world.

JL: Are you working on any other books of poetry?
 

SR: My recent work continues to focus on birding, and the mythology behind birds and bird names. A growing interest is also in local ecology, food chains, and our food supply. These poems may be heading toward a full-length manuscript in the future.

 

The Chasm Spring



Sun doesn't melt the stone,

but oh how it tries, when spring

beats down on the snow-clad crags,

where all winter ice remained



impregnable. Yielding now,

the frozen coat unbuckles, slips

from shoulders of rock.

Each slick skin



drips from a clear wound

to start the flow again. Icicles

loose layer after

layer. Bared at last,



there is no such consolation

for stone, no diminishment

in the heat. No wonder

it weeps. It longs to crack,



to open

cold

hard veins.

 

Attachment




I've been following a man all day.

His broad back. Strong calves.

He's a stranger

but I didn't always think so.



Everything is a precipice.

I refuse to look

over the edge, to inhale

the height and breadth of the chasm,



its craggy, dangerous beauty.

What used to thrill me

is now only the faintest tick

in my chest. I pick my way,



sure-footed, weightless,

straight ahead,

toward the back that keeps

receding, the body moving



forward, away.


 

 

 


 

 

What I Take With Me




The see-saw of chickadee notes rising and falling,

the scramble of chipmunk tucking acorn in root drawer,

squirrels cascading over bridges of trees;



deadfall, the wreckage of oak

released from the tightrope ledge

to tumbledown between;



trunk growing straight to the light,

dodging like a crooked pipe

around an outcrop, then straight again,



bearing its cargo of green;



footprints in the snow that disappear

where I can't follow,

caves deeper than my body



reaching into darkness;



steady drip of the spring,

trails that begin and end in rock,

lifting to heights



soaring, the places I find myself;



ghosts whistling to each other across the chasm

the knowledge we inhabit the same spaces,

a chorus of voices lodged in the rocks.


 

 

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Corn Crib




(On Thanksgiving Day, 1930, Simon Such was discovered in a cave at Purgatory Chasm dead
from a bullet wound, his pistol beside him.)





1.         Regret



Simon's Ghost:



When the days grow short again

and cold, you can find me

up by the Corn Crib. Children

squeeze by in a game without



knowing I fill the gap. It closes in

all around like the end of summer

on the farm where our corn crib held

harvest for a barnful of livestock.



Once I too let my children play

barefoot here, their muddy soles

printing the ground.





2.            Reprieve



Hiker:



Just minutes ago, they complained of the ascent

but now they laugh, shedding backpacks,

jackets, any bulk on their bodies, wriggling

back and forth through the narrow passage, their voices

lacing the crevice with life.



The sun touches us here above the shadows.

Light is full on their faces. These rocks

are a bounty, a playground. When they look down

they don't see the things I do, thank God.

But someday they will.







3.            Intercession



Simon's Ghost:



A breeze shakes colors down to the rock, a last dance

before the black and white freeze descends.



I watch your children shrug off their jackets, unclasp

their packs, slip through like shades,



as you, at great cost, return

to the present to be with them.



I lean forward, whisper in your ear,

don't give in, stay there. In life

despair passes. In death, it never does.


 

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