A Soothing Winter Bath

With a Denise Levertov Poem, “Living Alone."

(Clawfoot bathtub detail)

I remember a man, we’ll call him an old friend, who once scoffed at the habit of bathing in a tub. The idea of sitting in a stagnant pool of water in one’s dead skin repelled him. I hardly remember the conversation now, perhaps I tried to convince him otherwise by recommending rinsing? I don’t know.

I do know that this unimaginative man’s skepticism around baths ultimately did nothing to dash my love of bathing — especially in the winter time when it’s cold and the landscape is grey, or, if you’re lucky, white from snow.

I don’t aim to clean/scrub myself when I take a bath, though growing up this was part of the routine given our 19th century home didn’t have a shower. These days, my goal is simply to soak — to let the hot water melt away the day’s tension. Upon occasion, I add salts to the water. And for a special treat, I light candles and dissolve bath bombs — the ones that release flower petals are my favorite.

Along with a good soak, floating is another benefit of bathing. Of course one does not fully float, unless you’re lucky enough to own a deep bathtub. Still, even in a small, clawfoot (how did this design originate?!) tub like mine, the sensation of weightlessness (at least for sections of the body) is achievable. And if you are anything like me and have a chronic case of hypochondria (what disease do I have today?), temporary release from the gravity of the body is a welcome relief.

While soaking and floating are reason enough to partake of a bath, a true bath is incomplete without a book. While I endorse all kinds of reading genres (currently, I’m reading an Agatha Christi Poirot mystery), in my mind poetry especially lends itself to worthy bath reading. Perhaps this is the case because poetry requires one to slow down and read meditatively, a posture that bathing certainly encourages. There is also the fact that poems are shorter than say, the chapter of a novel or a windy essay, so there is less fear of the water turning cold.

Thinking back over various bath reading seasons, a favorite that comes to mind is a collection of poems by Denise Levertov, which I read in the cozy ambiance of a cottage-like home where I lived at the time. Let me just say, the experience was beyond delicious — especially as these bath readings followed long, weary days spent teaching unruly middle-schoolers.

Revisiting these Denise Levertov poems the other day, I found this one, which I wanted to share as it’s an excellent example of a “bath-able poem.” Hah, not exactly sure what constitutes a “bath-able poem,” other than it’s relaxing, reflective, and comforting in some way. Perhaps you have a different definition?

This excerpt is taken from “Living Alone,” which has three parts to it. These lines are from Part II.

In this silvery now of living alone,

doesn’t it seem, I ponder,

anything can happen?

On the flat roof of a factory

at eye level from my window.,

starling naiads dip in tremulous rainpools

where the sky floats, and is no smaller

than long ago.

Any strange staircase, as if I were twenty-one —

any hand drawing me up it,

could lead me to my life.

Some days.

Do let me know if you have any thoughts on winter baths these days and poems that may pair well. Would love to hear!