5 Feb 2018 . . . "And Now . . ."

As promised one week ago, and for the foreseeable future, Mondays will be devoted to poetry, its riddles, and potential solutions to those riddles. This approach is unusual, if not unique, because almost all poets distain revealing the meanings of their poems, which are guarded like some top secret war strategy. The Monday strategy aims to invite readers to discover these “secret” meanings, and the good news is that a poem is not only a riddle, but has as many solutions/answers as there are readers. That is one of the beauties of the poetic form. This approach is meant to fire the imagination and stoke creativity. The sort of bad news is that once a reader interprets a poem, he/she may still wonder if the meaning ferreted out is correct. Fear not, intrepid poetry stalkers; the meaning of a poem is yours and yours alone. There is no right answer.

A little background: I’ve been writing poetry since I learned to write. You might say I feel in love with words very young, first enabled by a Notre Dame nun, when I was in first grade. On the first day of that school year, that nun held up a piece of construction paper with the capital letters G -O- D written large with some sort of black magic marker. Yellow rays of sun radiated from the letters. She explained that these mysterious lines and curves spelled God, that the letters were only a few of many, and that they stood for all we know of heaven and the world. Wow! I thought. That’s really amazing! Every single thing has its own letters, and if I learn their meanings, I can capture anything I want – forever. I felt like Helen Keller when she discovered the link between water and its sign.

And I was off and running, eager to learn as many of these words as possible, so I could put them together myself and make meaning. I bugged my father to read me the funny papers and show me the words carefully so I could discover their secrets. I frustrated my mother with my simple spelling lessons, wanting to be certain I understood everything. And, as they say, the rest is history. Since those early days, I’ve written dozens, if not hundreds of poems, some not bad; some just awful – in my opinion. Quite a few have been published, and a few have won prizes. As we speak, I am waiting to hear from The New Yorker about poems I sent to them. Although I have no illusions, I’ll keep you posted on that.

I’ve rattled on long enough. Here you go, the first poem I offer, and following it, the real fun: keys to the poem’s secrets, its origins, its meanings. This poem is titled, “And Now?” Have fun and enjoy!

                        Nine years and now a baby?

                                    an interloper in Lorna’s straight, thin body.

                        John already happy carving cradles and chests

                        Suddenly his eyes and hands are elsewhere

                                    as if Lorna had become a fabrication machine

                                    off in a corner gestating his latest creation

                        No matter how poised she looked, hands on hips

                                    and chin haughty with former dreams of modeling

                        No matter how tight her thin sweaters hold her breasts

                                    growing full and glorious yet untouched, unworshipped –

                        John wore intensity like a high school quarterback

                                    intent on the game but not the girl

                        Now flowers from him – but not him –

                                    sitting silent on the hospital bureau beside her bed

                        Cards and letters of congratulation – so many, so nice

                        In the basinet, the stranger – point of pain and toll

                                    on her body – always wanting – always needing –

                                    rarely quiet, not even for the bottle and of course

                                                never the breast, still hopeful

                        At two weeks, John still distracted, reads and studies

                                    all things infantile but rarely holds it

                                                and never her – never Lorna

                        “Just like her mother.” “Not much like John.”

                        Eyes dart from tiny face to parents and back again

                        “Maybe like her grandpa?” “Maybe just a little.”    

                        “All this time – nine years – and now a baby?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Clue # 1: Where did this poem come from? I was participating in a poets’ retreat near Brainerd, Minnesota. Each of us had crafted a writing exercise to engage the group. One of us handed each person a sizable album of photographs. We were to glance through the pictures, and when one caught our interest, we were to write about it. The photo that captured my attention featured a young couple, probably in their late twenties, standing side by side; she cradling a baby in her arms. She was quite attractive; his looks were more of the rugged, but not handsome, type. He looked directly into the camera while her focus was downward, regarding the infant.

Exploration #1: Why is the word “now” italicized twice?

Exploration #2: Who is the “him” referred to in the second stanza?

Exploration #3: How does Lorna feel about the baby? How does John regard it?

Exploration #4: Why, in the final stanza, do eyes “dart from tiny face to parents and back again?”

If anyone cares to comment on this piece and its clues, I will be pleased to supply a response.

JackPine Poet/Savage