Not Waving but Drowning

Here is the text of the Stevie Smith poem of this title. And, below that, your second Stevie Smith-inspired story of the day. It is a little sad, so should I preface it with a thought that we might always ask someone how they are and pause before and after their response? I expect Stevie Smith might tell me I was taking this too seriously.

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning;
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.


Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.


Oh, no, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving, but drowning.

Stephen lived a simple kind of life; pleasant place to live, nice wife - nothing spectacular, but homely and something to be thankful for: both the home and the wife. Went to work, did well: again, nothing spectacular, but reliable. Good old Stephen, they said - and always thanked him heartily at the staff Christmas party. He never quite got promoted, though. Kids came along; usual ups and downs; things went, he thought, tolerably well and he loved his girls, though sometimes he might have wished for boys. Holidays in a nice spot; savings and annuities; mortgage paid up well in advance of retirement because of his diligence.

And all the time, he smiled. At the neighbours; at the tetchy mother in law; waved his daughters off to new homes and college and husbands; he wanted to please and had been brought up so to do. And exhaustively so. But inside? Well, you've guessed, I expect, that there was more to it than this for nobody is so uncomplicated. Every now and then he would have an unsettling feeling; a catching in the throat; sort of strange cascading feeling inside. Then a tightness in the throat. He wanted to call to someone that it was an emergency - but of what kind? No-one was hurt, all was well and, as I said, he was grateful. If he were the man swimming way out at sea, you might look at him from your place on the beach and think he was larking about, waving at you, inviting you to come out, too. The water's lovely. But the truth was, he was drowning. And always had been. And nobody knew it.

Text of poem. Copyright Stevie Smith 1903-1971.