The story Behind Vi's Wrought Iron Gate Poem

Vi's poem, the Wrought Iron Gate, had been niggling at the back of mind for almost a month. I wanted so much to find that field and walk through the gate. I'm not taking metaphors here, I didn't want to write about it--I love writing, but it's hard work and it wasn't work I was looking for--I wanted(needed?) the experience of touching cold wrought iron swirls warming in the sun but casting no shadow--a gate that came from nowhere and lead--somewhere else.

The poem stayed with me and I went back to read it again. I pasted it into my computer's note program. I made a copy and kept it in my pocket. I found myself wondering if there might be a gate just like it somewhere in this world; it's a big world after all. Foolish thought. I pushed it away but it simmered on the back burner of my mind, edged into my dreams, nagged me at work.

I read the poem to a friend thinking, quite selfishly, that if I shared it with someone else it might cease to haunt me. She loved it but I got no relief. Strange. It's a short poem and simple, no fancy, multisyllable words, no deep, life altering epiphanies, just a sweet, slightly mysterious combination of phrases set into a few simple stanzas that leave room for the reader to wonder and wander about. A poem that Billy Collins would admire.

I suppose it began as a dream. I had finished dinner, and was in that drowsy state I sometimes find myself in after a busy, noise-filled day, when I've finally settled down and given-in to the quiet and peace of an evening spent alone. I wasn't thinking about the poem, I was reading a not-too engrossing novel and, I admit it, I dozed off.

Suddenly, I was standing alone in an empty field, knee-deep in nondescript grasses and weeds that were unknown to me. I had no words available until I turned and saw the gate. I went and touched the wrought iron, let my fingers travel along its cool curves, as Vi did, while my eyes searched for the shadow I knew they wouldn't find.

There was nothing to do but go inside the poem. The gate swung open at my touch and, holding my breath, I walked through to the other side.

I've never been so disappointed in my life.

To be continued.