I don't know why I find myself attracted to old, abandoned houses, but I do. Perhaps it's my admiration for the wabi-sabi aesthetic of finding beauty in what architect Leonard Koren has described as things imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete. There may also be something else at work here — a sense of profound sadness that these myriad decaying structures once sheltered people with hope, unnoticed dreamers who struggled valiantly but finally succumbed to the harsh realities of life. Whatever the case, I look upon these old places much as William Carlos Williams does in his nostalgic poem Pastoral (When I Was Younger). I continue to find beauty in whatever life remains, whether it be the "properly weathered" colors of old wood or the changing angles of a leaking roof that will surely collapse in time, but which is holding its own today. As Williams concludes in his poem, these things may not be "of vast import to the nation," but they always deserve our attention, for they remind us that most things — even our own lives — continue to yield beauty, even as they surrender to the ravages of time.
Pastoral (When I was younger)
by William Carlos Williams
When I was younger
it was plain to me
I must make something of myself.
Older now
I walk back streets
admiring the houses
of the very poor:
roof out of line with sides
the yards cluttered
with old chicken wire, ashes,
furniture gone wrong:
the fences and the outhouses
built of barrel staves
and parts of boxes, all,
if I am fortunate,
smeared a bluish green
that properly weathered
pleases me best of all colors.
No one
will believe this
of vast import to the nation.
From The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams: 1909-1939
