Stopover
The neon lights their imperfections. Awkwardly, they call
For cigarettes as dim loudspeakers broadcast dull commands.
Before, they took the world to task for being small;
Now, grounded, they can barely focus on their hands.
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So what's the deal with this poem? It's all perspective, a point of view with no clear referent. The title suggests its placelessness and the use of the third person pronoun reinforces the poem's impersonality. Could be anyone viewing any group anywhere. You get the impression of a lone subject observing events from a place (a world?) apart. From the first line, though, you must note that this subject, the speaker-observer, is actually quite engaged and is commenting, not merely describing--unless you take the reference to imperfections to be totally without judgement. In the third line, the observer could simply be recounting an opinion. But the fourth line grounds "them" in some kind of limitation, a failure, maybe.
This kind of poem is awfully hard to think about because its emotional content feels stunted (what does the observer of the situation actually feel?) and its referents are vague. What imperfections are we talking about--physical (that is, something that can be seen in the light)? Spiritual? Psychological? Cultural? Is the reference supposed to be ambiguous? I have held onto many a lame line of poetry in the name of modernist ambiguity! How can a loudspeaker be "dim" (a mixed metaphor)? And why are there loudspeakers through which commands are being issued, and whose commands are they? Why did "they" once take the world to task for being small? And what does it mean that these characters are "grounded" and barely able to focus on their hands?
So, the question to ask is, what's the quality of this as a poem? In fact, is it a poem? That's harsh. It's a poem, I suppose, because it falls into lines and cadence, because it is direct and lyrical (musical) and rhymes. Rhyme, of course, draws attention to the language of the poem and poetry is just that, a shaping of language, an acknowledgement of the materiality of words. Another observation: there are four lines comprising three, effectively four, sentences (a properly used semi-colon separates two independent clauses--two statements that can also be sentences!). All four structures are loose (that is, subject-verb-object order), a common technique in post-Modernist style whereby poets can reduce poems to series of simple statements and position the voice as "merely" observational. It's a means of evading responsibility, a little like watching a mugging from across the street. This, too, is common in post-Modernist poetry, and in poetry borne of inexperience. But this poet has trouble fully disengaging from the situation he describes. And I admire him for his effort to comment on what he sees, even if he can't quite say what it is he feels about what he sees. You can see that struggle in the transitional adverbs (all editorial and value-laden) leading off each of the last three sentence structures of the poem.
Finally, it's a poem of nearly complete privation, on all sides, isn't it? I mean, where's the life? I guess that's what stopovers are all about: they have nothing to offer in the way of comfort, reassurance, community, sense of place, hope. For some people at least.
-----------------------
So what's the deal with this poem? It's all perspective, a point of view with no clear referent. The title suggests its placelessness and the use of the third person pronoun reinforces the poem's impersonality. Could be anyone viewing any group anywhere. You get the impression of a lone subject observing events from a place (a world?) apart. From the first line, though, you must note that this subject, the speaker-observer, is actually quite engaged and is commenting, not merely describing--unless you take the reference to imperfections to be totally without judgement. In the third line, the observer could simply be recounting an opinion. But the fourth line grounds "them" in some kind of limitation, a failure, maybe.
This kind of poem is awfully hard to think about because its emotional content feels stunted (what does the observer of the situation actually feel?) and its referents are vague. What imperfections are we talking about--physical (that is, something that can be seen in the light)? Spiritual? Psychological? Cultural? Is the reference supposed to be ambiguous? I have held onto many a lame line of poetry in the name of modernist ambiguity! How can a loudspeaker be "dim" (a mixed metaphor)? And why are there loudspeakers through which commands are being issued, and whose commands are they? Why did "they" once take the world to task for being small? And what does it mean that these characters are "grounded" and barely able to focus on their hands?
So, the question to ask is, what's the quality of this as a poem? In fact, is it a poem? That's harsh. It's a poem, I suppose, because it falls into lines and cadence, because it is direct and lyrical (musical) and rhymes. Rhyme, of course, draws attention to the language of the poem and poetry is just that, a shaping of language, an acknowledgement of the materiality of words. Another observation: there are four lines comprising three, effectively four, sentences (a properly used semi-colon separates two independent clauses--two statements that can also be sentences!). All four structures are loose (that is, subject-verb-object order), a common technique in post-Modernist style whereby poets can reduce poems to series of simple statements and position the voice as "merely" observational. It's a means of evading responsibility, a little like watching a mugging from across the street. This, too, is common in post-Modernist poetry, and in poetry borne of inexperience. But this poet has trouble fully disengaging from the situation he describes. And I admire him for his effort to comment on what he sees, even if he can't quite say what it is he feels about what he sees. You can see that struggle in the transitional adverbs (all editorial and value-laden) leading off each of the last three sentence structures of the poem.
Finally, it's a poem of nearly complete privation, on all sides, isn't it? I mean, where's the life? I guess that's what stopovers are all about: they have nothing to offer in the way of comfort, reassurance, community, sense of place, hope. For some people at least.
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