Yearly Archives: 2024

111 posts

Three “Hit the Open Road” Poems

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I’m in the habit, when I read a poetry anthology, of marking my favorites in the table of contents. When I pull the book off the shelf in need of a little protein boost of good poems, this helps in a big way. Instead of thumbing through an anthology randomly, I simply seek the starred entry and reference the page.

One such anthology I own is Garrison Keillor’s Good Poems: American Places. Keillor divides the poems into 15 sections, but these three are taken from the first, “On the Road.” Jack Kerouac would be proud. How about you?

 

Small Towns Are Passing
by Wesley McNair

Small towns are passing
into the rearview
mirrors of our cars.
The white houses
are moving away,
wrapping trees
around themselves,
and stores are taking
their gas pumps
down the street
backwards. Just like that
whole families picnicking
on their lawns tilt
over the hill,
and kids on bikes
ride toward us
off the horizon,
leaving no trace
of where they have gone.
Signs turn back and start
after them. Packs of mailboxes,
like dogs, chase them
around corner after corner.

 

The Sacred
by Stephen Dunn

After the teacher asked if anyone had
a sacred place
and the students fidgeted and shrank

in their chairs, the most serious of them all
said it was his car,
being in it alone, his tape deck playing

things he’d chosen, and others knew the truth
had been spoken
and began speaking about their rooms,

their hiding places, but the car kept coming up,
the car in motion,
music filling it, and sometimes one other person

who understood the bright altar of the dashboard
and how far away
a car could take him from the need

to speak, or to answer, the key
in having a key
and putting it in, and going.

 

Driving at Night
by Sheila Packa

Up north, the dashboard lights of the family car
gleam in memory, the radio
plays to itself as I drive
my father plied the highways
while my mother talked, she tried to hide
that low lilt, that Finnish brogue,
in the back seat, my sisters and I
our eyes always tied to the Big Dipper
I watch it still
on summer evenings, as the fireflies stream
above the ditches and moths smack
into the windshield and the wildlife’s
red eyes bore out from the dark forests
we flew by, then scattered like the last bit of star
light years before.
It’s like a different country, the past
we made wishes on unnamed falling stars
that I’ve forgotten, that maybe were granted
because I wished for love.

 

Good stuff, no? In McNair’s poem, I love the concept of white houses wrapping trees around themselves as you speed past them in the car. In Dunn’s it’s that stop-the-show line: “the bright altar of the dashboard.” And in Packa’s poem, I like “It’s like a different country, the past.”

Amen to that, and to the fact that we all own our own Fodor’s guide.

A Few Words from St. Billy of Collins

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The book Light the Dark: Writers on Creativity, Inspiration, and the Artistic Process offers some poetic illumination in a Billy Collins essay included in that collection. In it Collins references an earlier essay he wrote called “Poetry, Pleasure, and the Hedonist Reader.”

First, Collins speaks to why he finds W.B. Yeats’ poem “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” so inspiring. He teaches it, for one, and after many years of doing so, decided to commit it to memory (one of the “pleasures” of poetry).

Next he shares an anecdote I could relate to–one involving an MRI (I had my first a few years back and yes, got a poem out of it). Collins said it was “like being buried alive in a very high-tech coffin.” With the help of Yeats, Collins survived his half hour of hell by reciting “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” over and over and over again.

Ah, the medicinal uses of poetry!

From here, Collins gives a little history of poetry before the written word, how its rhyme and meter helped the shamans commit to memory, kind of like how people commit songs to memory today with little effort and through the help of repetition (thank you, radio stations and/or mp3s or whatever people are constantly streaming out of Pandora’s box these days).

Collins claims he seeks the same rhythms in his own free verse, making it a bit less free, maybe. He explains:

It’s hard to describe, though you know it when you feel it. For me, it’s often about gracefulness. I want graceful lines and graceful sentences. I try to write very simply. The vocabulary is simple, the sentences tend to be quite conventional—subject, verb, object. I try to be very unchallenging in syntax. I want the trip to be one of imagination and not completely of the language. But I’m also thinking about the reader, whom I’m trying to guide through an imaginative experience. I want the excitement of the poem—if I can generate some—not to lie in a fancy use of language, or an eccentric use of language. I want the poem to be an imaginative thrill. To take the reader to an odd place, or a challenging place, or a disorienting place, but to do that with fairly simple language. I don’t want the language itself to be the trip. I want the imaginative spaces that we’re moving through to be the trip.

One thing I think we all can agree upon is that some modern-day poetry has lost its way. It is reassuring, therefore, to hear Collins agree. Go get ’em, Billy!:

Poetry’s kind of a mixture of the clear and the mysterious. It’s very important to know when to be which: what to be clear about and what to leave mysterious. A lot of poetry I find unreadable is trying to be mysterious all the time. It’s not so much a mixture of clarity and mystery, instead of a balance between the two. If the reader doesn’t feel oriented in the beginning of the poem, he or she can’t be disoriented later. Often, the first lines of a poem—many times, I find them completely disorienting. But I’d like to go to that place, but I like to be taken there rather than than being shoved into it. It’s like being pushed off the title into the path of an approaching train.

I know from past sermons that Collins believes you should start your books with your strongest poems. It’s advice I’ve tried to take in my own books, only I sometimes worry when my readers point out anything BUT my lead-off batter as their favorites.

That’s how subjective poetry can be. It’s scary, yes, but reassuring, too. Think of it: MANY of your poems, no matter what their seeding in the brackets of your book, can serve as the best and the brightest up front. At least if your readers are to be believed (and who else would you believe more, I ask rhetorically?).

My favorite passage in Collins’ essay speaks to poetry’s “diminished public stature.” Here’s the relevant Collins:

And yet I think poetry is as important today as it’s ever been, despite its diminished public stature. Its uses become obvious when you read it. Poetry privileges subjectivity. It foregrounds the interior life of the writer, who is trying to draw in a reader. And it gets readers into contact with their own subjective life. This is valuable, especially now. If you look around at the society we live in, we’re being pulled constantly into public life. It’s not just Facebook, which is sort of the willing forfeiture of one’s own privacy. The sanctuaries of privacy are so scarce these days. Every banality, from “I’m going out for pizza,” to “JoAnn is passed out on the sofa,” is broadcast to the wide world. I think I read recently that we’re not suffering from an overflow of information—we’re suffering from an overflow of insignificance. Well, poetry becomes an oasis or sanctuary from the forces constantly drawing us into social and public life.

I like that. The gratuitous dis of on-line behavior, especially. “We’re not suffering from an overflow of information–we’re suffering from an overflow of insignificance.”

So why would so many “readers” become addicted to THAT while turning up their noses to poetry? Perhaps we should assign them “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” as a cure? Perhaps they need a “bee-loud glade” or two to realign their perspectives?

I think so. Turning off social networks will slow things down, and that’s the first thing “readers” need to do to appreciate poetry. Slow down. Reread. Luxuriate in language and swim in its sounds to reacquaint yourself with peace, “for peace comes dropping slow….”

 

 

One of My Poems Wins a Pushcart Prize

Ken Craft my poems publishing Pushcart Prize Reincarnation & Other Stimulants

I’m pleased to announce that my poem “The Pause Between” was selected for a Pushcart Prize and will appear in Pushcart Prize XLIX: Best of the Small Presses (2025 edition), Pushcart’s annual anthology scheduled for publication on Dec. 3, 2024. In my advance copy, the poem appears on p. 119. It’s very cool to share company with the likes of poets Diane Seuss, Danusha Laméris, Charles Simic, Donika Kelly, and Gregory Pardlo.

The poem, from a 2023 issue of Deep Wild: Writing From the Backcountry, (my thanks to Heidi Blankenship, the poetry editor there) can be found in my third collection, Reincarnation & Other Stimulants, available on the BOOKS page of this web site or wherever bibliophiles roam when they need more books.

 

Poets Who Mine the Past

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mary karr

If there’s one endless source of material for poetry—a treasure chest available to every poet—it’s the past. Granted, some pasts are more dramatic than others; and granted, some poets over-indulge in their treasure chests to the point where readers want to enter a reading monastery on a program of self-imposed poverty, BUT it can be done with aplomb and class, too.

One “memoir-ish” poem that appeals to writers especially is Mary Karr’s (herself famous for writing book-length memoirs) “Revelations in the Key of K.” To understand the poem, a little background knowledge helps–namely, that this poet has made a career out of writing (as opposed to used it as a sideline avocation to dabble in).

Let’s look at the poem and how she puts the letter “K” to good use, making it earn its living by working overtime:

“Revelation in the Key of K”
by Mary Karr

I came awake in kindergarten,   
under the letter K chalked neat   
on a field-green placard leaned   
on the blackboard’s top edge. They’d caged me   
in a metal desk—the dull word writ   
to show K’s sound. But K meant kick and kill
when a boy I’d kissed drew me   
as a whiskered troll in art. On my sheet,   
the puffy clouds I made to keep rain in   
let torrents dagger loose. “Screw those   
who color in the lines,” my mom had preached,   
words I shared that landed me on a short chair   
facing the corner’s empty, sheetrock page. Craning up,   
I found my K high above.   
You’ll have to grow to here, its silence said.   
And in the surrounding alphabet, my whole life hid—  
names of my beloveds, sacred vows I’d break.   
With my pencil stub applied to wall,   
I moved around the loops and vectors,   
Z to A, learning how to mean, how   
in the mean world to be.   
But while I worked the room around me   
began to smudge—like a charcoal sketch my mom   
was rubbing with her thumb. Then   
the instant went, the month, and every season   
smeared, till with a wrenching arm tug   
I was here, grown, but still bent   
to set down words before the black eraser   
swipes our moment into cloud, dispersing all   
to zip. And when I blunder in the valley   
of the shadow of blank about to break   
in half, my being leans against my spinal K,   
which props me up, broomstick straight,   
a strong bone in the crypt of meat I am.

Me, I like the poem’s playfulness up top with the kindergarten class, the alphabet on the placard, how she uses the letter for vengeful purposes (“kick and kill“) when a boy uses his artistic talents to make a troll of her.  I also like the cameo by her irreverent mom.

Two of my favorite lines are “And in the surrounding alphabet, my whole life hid– / names of my beloveds, sacred vows I’d break.” This is what good poetry does–thinks of the ordinary in a different way. Thus, to have a child look at an A to Z placard running along the top of a blackboard and consider that these letters have the power to mix in different ways, creating words, which in turn will create sentences, which in turn will create paragraphs and paragraphs chronicling the child’s secret futures. Nice, that. The power of the written word, yes, but from a new angle!

The poem turns when the artwork smudges and the daydream dissipates as the poet comes out of her reverie as an adult, doing the same thing, working to make meaning with language and letters. We get a Biblical allusion (“And when I blunder in the valley / of the shadow of blank about to break / in half”), referring to the struggle of every writer before Karr puts her special letter to work one last time (“my being leans against my spinal K, / which props me up, broomstick straight, / a strong bone in the crypt of meat I am.”).

The poem finishes with a flourish, with that powerful image of strength hidden within the vulnerable and mortal bodies we cart around for a lifetime. Her strength, her lifeline, her sanity all come from the same source–letters, her ability to write and make sense of her existence in this crazy world.

To me, “Revelations in the Key of K” is a perfect example of memory mined to good effect. Bravo in B Major, as Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms might say!

A Sure Sign That Your Poems Might Suck

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Kim Addonizio’s book Ordinary Genius came out 15 years ago, so the statistics I’m about to cite about poetry readership are dated. The greater point remains valid, however. Let’s dive in ipso fasto and meet around the excerpt, shall we?

 

“Books of poetry will teach you more than your mentor or professor or the well-known poet you have traveled to a conference to work with. Reading is like food to a writer; without it, the writer part of you will die—or become spindly and stunted. If you’re afraid that reading will make you less original, don’t be. Falling under the spell of—or reacting against—other writers is part of what will lead you to your own work. Reading in the long tradition of poetry shows you what has lasted, and those poems are there to learn from. Reading your contemporaries shows you what everyone else is up to in your own time, so you can map the different directions of the art. There’s never one route to poetry, one style. Reading widely will help you see this.

“Here is a sobering statistic: Poetry, which has been for many years one of the premier poetry journals in America, has about ten thousand subscribers. Every year, it receives ten times that many submissions from writers hoping to land a poem on its pages.

“That’s a hundred thousand people, writing.

“Are they reading? Possibly. Maybe they’re not subscribing to Poetry because they’re spending their money on books by Neruda and Baudelaire and Muriel Rukeyser and Derek Walcott. But in fact, a large number of people who want to write poetry don’t seem to like to read it. Many journals have a circulation of a few hundred copies, and poetry books sell dismally compared to fiction or memoir: the first print run is usually one or two thousand copies.

“Maybe you’re one of those people who writes poems, but rarely reads them. Let me put this as delicately as I can: If you don’t read, your writing is going to suck.”

 

I love it when people get delicate, don’t you? Kind of like Mom and Dad when you were a kid growing up. Or certainly your siblings. Direct and to the point.

What’s worth gleaning here is this: Although she runs workshops herself, Addonizio is convinced that immersing yourself in the reading of poetry is the best training a wannabe poet can get, period. And yet the statistics seem to show that something else is afoot. Lots of writing, but nowhere near as much reading.

Certainly there’s a marked reluctance to plunking one’s money down for a poetry book or journal. This is surprising, considering the number of poetry practitioners is legion. Why do you think you wait six, nine, twelve months for a response from poetry editors? The transom looks like L.A.’s highway system, that’s why, while the poetry-reading traffic resembles rush hour in Walnut Grove, Minnesota.

What’s wrong with this picture? Addonizio would say, “Where to begin….” She finishes her chapter on reading with this flourish:

 

“I can’t stress this point enough: You need to soak up as many books as you can. Even the ones you don’t like can teach you something. If you were a painter, you’d spend time looking at works of art from every period in history. A chef I know, whenever he travels, eats enough for three people—he wants to sample all the dishes. Boxers study the great fights of the past, like the Ali-Forman “Thrilla in Manila.” Marketers look at the successes of past products to try to duplicate those successes. Poetry isn’t a product in that way, but you see what I mean. Read. Imitate shamelessly. Steal when you can get away with it. T. S. Eliot said, ‘Good poets imitate. Great poets steal.’

“So read. Let other writers teach and inspire you.

“Unless you really want your writing to suck.”

 

Time to look in the mirror, poets. What’s your writing/reading ratio? How much time do you spend reading, rereading, copying out, and memorizing poems (all practices Addonizio professes to practice as a successful poet)?

And what about your sense of history? Are you all about contemporary poets only (or even mostly)? Do the words “John Keats” send ripples of fear through your very being?

There’s no time like now to start changing all that. You can start at the library where poetry books come cheap (and don’t get checked out much, if you can believe…).

Let It Go

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Too often resolutions grow from regret. And really, is it that bad, or are you so down on yourself out of habit that you make Everests out of every Bunker Hill, which, having seen it, is hard to distinguish from a mole hill?

This is why I appreciate poet Dorianne Laux’s “Bible.” The one that has a Book of Antilamentations as opposed to a Book of Lamentations. Isn’t the newspaper enough, after all? Question comma rhetorical!

Watch what happens when Laux takes a deep breath and accepts life, regrets and all:

 

Antilamentation
by Dorianne Laux

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don’t regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don’t bother remembering
any of it. Let’s stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

 

You might want to hire Laux as your therapist after reading this. You’ll go from getting down on yourself to forgiving your own foibles to people watching. Then, once you get your fill of their foibles, you’ll forgive them, too.

Finally, without knowing it or declaring it, you’ll have achieved a resolution without even trying: namely, I will cut people more slack than I did last year. Myself included.

For inspiration, try a litany of your own antilamentations: What are some things you no longer regret. Because life is too short, people!

Trust me. Writing it will feel good. A Regret-Free Day might feel good. Just don’t read the newspapers!

The Poets of Nonchalance

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There are some modern poets, Billy Collins in the vanguard, who write what I call the poetry of nonchalance. Extremely modern, often humorous, prone to the quotidian, they make poetry writing look easy.

I put George Bilgere’s work in the same church and pew as St. Billy of Collins’. I’m not sure he rates knighthood yet (when it happens: St. George of Bilgere), but soon, I suppose, if he keeps working the blue-collar mill.

The thing about these School of Nonchalance poets is, they write like it’s no big deal. Like the poem came out in a burst. Like it’s not “poetic” at all, yet likable by all, because it was just written off the cuff, as a whim, in a few minutes with coffee (hot, black, and no-nonsense).

You read Collins, Bilgere, et al., and promptly say to yourself, “Hey. Look how ordinary his topics are. Look how informal his writing is. Look how inviting this all seems. Who knew poetry could be so easy?”

Then you try to write like that and you realize it’s not you. It’s you channeling Collins & Bilgere, Esquires, a law firm that can lay down the law and warns you’ll get in trouble if you approach the bench by your lonesome.

Suddenly, you go all “Dante,” from lighthearted to “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”

Sheesh. Can’t light and humorous poems have a sense of humor about poets trying to be light and humorous?

Here’s a typical Bilgere outing, seemingly routine but not. See if it goes down like a mid-afternoon snack. Not tea and crumpets but Pabst and Cheez-Its, maybe:

 

“Going to Bed”
by George Bilgere

I check the locks on the front door

and the side door,

make sure the windows are closed

and the heat dialed down.

I switch off the computer,

turn off the living room lights.

 

I let in the cats.

 

Reverently, I unplug the Christmas tree,

leaving Christ and the little animals

in the dark.

 

The last thing I do

is step out to the back yard

for a quick look at the Milky Way.

 

The stars are halogen-blue.

The constellations, whose names

I have long since forgotten,

look down anonymously,

and the whole galaxy

is cartwheeling in silence through the night.

 

Everything seems to be ok.

When “I” Becomes “Us,” the Poet Wins

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Only Walt Whitman could get away with a poem called “Song of Myself.” Thing is, it wasn’t really about himself. It was about yourselves, too (the “you” in “yourselves” being anyone who reads and enjoys the poem).

In that sense, the pronoun “I” is Romulus to the pronoun “you’s” Remus. They suckle from the same breast.

Gregory Orr, in his book Poetry as Survival, is all in on the pronoun I, a topic I have written about before, though not as well as he does. He quotes William Carlos Williams who, in the preface of his book, Spring and All, writes, “In the imagination, we are from henceforth (so long as you read) locked in a fraternal embrace, the classic caress of author and reader. We are one. Whenever I say ‘I’ I mean also ‘you.’ And so, together, as one, we shall begin.”

Of course, sidetracked from WCW’s train of thought is the niggling details of connection and identification. If your “I” does not compel and fascinate in some way, then your “I” is not “me” after all. It’s just “you” looking foolish in front of a mirror.

Not that Williams had to worry on that count. He was busy eating cold plums, just as his readers were: “So sweet and so cold.”

Back to Orr’s defense of the pronoun “I”: “I’m talking now not about the ‘great’ poems; that is, poems we are told to admire by teachers and authorities. Instead, I mean poems that we personally love deeply. The poems that matter enormously to us and that help us live. Through these poems, we recognize ourselves in an ‘other.’ Through these poems, we are brought to thresholds inside us we might never approach without their help.”

Thinking like so, we can be assured that our solipsistic obsessions with self (I, I, and more I) can work to our artistic advantage, but only if we make room for others. Only then will the pronoun of self be coopted by readers who become the new “I’s” in an author’s poem, a transaction every artist should be more than willing to make. Writing for a reader called yourself and yourself alone, after all, is for the birds. And Emily Dickinson. Who, it turns out, was writing for all of us despite herself.

Paradoxically put, then, the successful “I” is one that is “everybody,” or at least an awful lot of bodies—squatters ready to move in and settle down for good. Once that happens, your first-person point of view poem can safely be called a success. Maybe even “art” if you’re lucky.

Why Poetry? Better Still: Why Not?

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While the sale of poetry books continues to languish and the number of readers who love reading (asterisk: only not poetry books) continues to skyrocket, there’s still a healthy cottage industry in writing not poetry but ABOUT poetry. Specifically its death. Or long-term prognosis. Or philosophical place in the world (hint: look low).

Among that burgeoning genre, we can add Daniel Halpern’s New York Times column, “A Few Questions for Poetry,” wherein he puts poor poetry in the defendant’s box and grills it much like sourdough bread and cheese (mmm, can we add a slice of pickle?).

The column includes poets attempting to answer “Why poetry?” also known as the mystery of life. “Now pinch hitting for poetry, which ironically cannot speak for itself, number 12, Louise Glück!” Cheer from the crowd. All nineteen of it.

Louise finds consolation in this philosophy: No one buys poetry books much, but at least, when they do, they tend to keep them much longer than, say, a Scott Turow best seller. Feeling better, everyone?

Richard Ford, who is not a poet but somehow crashes the gates here, probably because he responded to Halpern’s query, which 32 otherwise occupied poets did not, overthinks things and claims “Why poetry?” is a bad question. To prove it, he comes up with a much better (just ask him) one: “What is the nature of experience, and especially the experience of using language, that calls poetic utterance into existence? What is there about experience that’s unutterable?”

Huh? Think I’ll write a poem rather than figure that one out.

In a rather lazy gesture, Halpern then gives us an Emily Dickinson response (and I’m almost sure this isn’t cut and paste from an e-mail). You know. The famous one about knowing it’s poetry when you feel like the top of your head has been taken off. To which I would ask the Amherst eccentric: How does anyone know what THAT feels like? And wouldn’t it make you feel more like Frankenstein’s monster than a reader in a state of poetic euphoria (and I don’t mean New Jersey)?

The most prosaic response comes from our Hartford insurance salesman by day, poet by night (uniform in the actuarial tables file cabinet), Wallace Stevens: “…to help people live their lives.”

Only I ask you: Have you ever read a Wallace Stevens poem and felt like it helped you to live your life? I mean, now that I’ve read “The Emperor of Ice Cream,” I can get on with my day, knowing exactly what to do if I find the night help or a co-worker has stolen Christmas candy from my desk drawer again?

Which brings us to this question: “Why columns about why poetry?”

Oh, yeah. Because they sell and some people even read them. Unlike poetry.

Donald Hall’s Unusual Memento Mori

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In the summer of 2018, we lost another writer of note in Donald Hall, a New England poet and essayist whose roots ran deep into the hills of New Hampshire. Hall and Jane Kenyon, as husband and wife, made for one of the most prolifically poetic marriages you could imagine. Sadly, Kenyon’s production was cut short by leukemia. Hall, on the other hand, lived to 89–long enough to have his say in poetry and even to jump genre ships by experimenting a bit with essays.

I recently purchased his book, The Selected Poems of Donald Hall, which features “My Son My Executioner” as its lead-off batter:

 

My Son My Executioner
by Donald Hall

My son, my executioner,

I take you in my arms,

Quiet and small and just astir

And whom my body warms.

 

Sweet death, small son, our instrument

Of immortality.

Your cries and hungers document

Our bodily decay.

 

We twenty-five and twenty-two,

Who seemed to live forever.

Observe enduring life in you

And start to die together.

 

It’s a rather succinct and unexpected look at one of literature’s universal themes: death. Here it is embodied in the unusual swaddling of life. Not only life, but life at its earliest incarnation, when it seems most beautiful, most sweet, most immortal.

Hall uses this little package of wonder as a startling memento mori, which is an old Latin term for reflecting on your mortality. In the medieval Christian church, it might take the form of a human skull. Consider, for instance, the many artistic renditions of St. Jerome, almost always at his scholarly work with a skull on his desk. As Exhibit B, I give you  Act V, Scene 1, in Shakespeare’s Hamlet, where the protagonist holds a skull aloft and proclaims, “Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.”

Hall pulls the rug from under his readers by exchanging the narrator’s son for tradition’s skull. If, as husband and wife, you just gave birth to a beautiful boy, it’s yet another milestone marking the shortening wick of your life. Another tick on the clock of mortality.

In stanza two, we get the unusual word pairing of “Sweet death, small son” followed by “our instrument of immortality.” Children, then, as reminders of where we came from and where we will go. If they embody immortality, how can we claim to be the same when we are so different?

The last stanza hoists the narrator and his wife’s delusions on their petards: “We twenty-five and twenty-two, / Who seemed to live forever….” Mid-twenties, it would seem, is as far from death as two-hours old. But holding a newborn is proof that one generation cometh so another can passeth (I’m getting all Ecclesiastes on you now). We fool ourselves by acknowledging death (of course) while supposing it is something that happens to others, not ourselves.

What I like about Hall’s poem is its simplicity. Its theme is directly stated. The power comes from its crying, burbling surprise looking up at his daddy: not so much, “It’s a boy!” but “It’s a reminder!”

The generations grind on, and with them, our days….