Poetry of Rocking

My meditations on hammocking make no pretense of identifying precisely why and how swaying in a hammock is medicine. More than medicine. It’s poetry. But why? And how? I’m not 100% certain. I do know, however, that rocking chairs offer a similar dose of restorative tranquility and wellbeing. Let’s consider then, a poetry of rocking.

Sounds silly, perhaps. But I suspect there’s something to it. Something primordial even, if not definable in science-y certitude, then perhaps at least recognizable and familiar enough to many of us.

In August 2023 I shared an update and micropoem about a pair of rocking chairs on the east side of the icehouse. In rereading that update almost two years later I realize it’s a little too self pitying for my comfort, but alas, it’s the record. Neither the post nor the haiku were intended to be self pitying. Instead I conceived of both as exploratory forays into the way I feel about rocking chairs (and hammocks, for that matter) even when they’re merely observed, not directly enjoyed.

Let’s take a look at a condensed excerpt from the post first.

The pair of come-and-relax rocking chairs on the new icehouse deck are ready. Inviting. Lonely… Dozens of times each day I catch site of those rocking chairs beckoning, reminding me that soon it will be time to rock… [But] no time to spare. For rocking. Until my punch list is shorter. Soon. (Source: Rocking Chairs)

I’ve taken some liberties with the excerpt to better convey what slipped through my fingers the first time. It’s the visual impact of rocking chairs that I was hoping to capture. Somehow seeing rocking chairs triggers some of the same soothing, relaxing, and recalibrating effect of actually sitting in a rocking chair. A psychological cue for contentment. For unplugging. And this visual/psychological experience creates a yearning, a palpable preview of the anticipated experience itself.

Here’s the haiku from that post.

Rocking chairs ready
but steady, not rock-rockin’
‘til chores are complete.
(Source: Rocking Chairs)

The animating force, my body in that chair, energizing it, rocking it back and forth, is absent in the vision. And that potential hinges upon me completing the punchlist. An achievable goal. Enticing. Ready.

I’m struck by the times when a gust of wind gentles an outdoor rocking chair into motion. The spirit of the chair, or the memory, inviting, enticing.

Time for another attempt at capturing something of the poetry of rocking.

Cradled in a rocking chair —
sun bleached, weather worn, 
and slightly squeaky —
I rock to return,
back and forth and back,
rock to return to
the rhythm of rest,
of infancy and
boyhood boating and
healing hammock hours.
I rock to return
to gentling streams
where security
flows around wisdom
like pebbles and rocks,
where back-and-forth sooths
body, brain, and soul.
I rock to return
to an ancient dance
that calms and dissolves,
softens and unwinds,
a swaying motion,
a slowing motion,
perhaps primal peace,
or perhaps just wind
rocking empty chairs.