Napo 11

 

Today I’m reading “Threnody: December 2020” by David Mojahn, published by Plume Poetry. Plume is one of my favorite literary journals—they always publish such exquisite work. This one poem is no exception to that.

 

It’s actually a pretty simple poem. It’s about a speaker having a dream of a deceased loved one, and the speaker doesn’t want that dream to end. But what makes the poem poignant is the specifics, so it’s just any ghost they’re mourning but this specific one, Jean. But in grieving Jean with the speaker, I’m grieving too for the unthinkable loss of my own love, my partner in life. I’d be just as lost as this speaker.

 

So, what’s going on in this poem?

 

It’s addressed to Jean. We’re on a train.

 

“The train coach, Jean—empty except for you, / the lighting dim”

 

Immediately we’re drawn into this scene, and with the dim lighting, we’re already getting a hint that this is a surreal experience, not a real one.

 

“This is the special / privilege of dream, // that we still may talk”

 

☹

 

This is the moment where the poem turns a little darker and we realize that the speaker is addressing someone who is no longer there physically.

 

But what does the speaker and his beloved talk about? Jean remarks about her pencil and asks him to keep it for her. They speak of the mundane, as if everything is just normal and she never died.

 

One of the most powerful moments in the poem is where the speaker calls himself “A ghost mall” with an abandoned shoe store, “a cairn of heavy orthopedic shoes / all for the right foot”

 

Like he’s worn out, heavy, and incomplete.

 

 

The poem ends with the speaker pleading not to wake, to instead, remain in the train dream:

 

 

Let me walk these hallways, / corridors & wings // that I may find you. This is / a good pencil. / Will you keep it for me?

 

So it ends with the beloved’s words.

 

There’s also some really subtle rhyme in this poem that elevates it into the poetic.

 

Privilege of dream / that your eyes / still gleam ☹

 

Liminal / where both of us still live

 

 

None for the left. // I stand bereft. & who now will divine

 

 

 

So some prompt ideas:

 

Write a poem that sits in the liminal space between awake and dream

Write a poem that uses rhyme, sporadically

Who among the dead would I talk to?

 

 

 

My beloved pastime is browsing Zillow, but yesterday, I didn’t enjoy it very much. It had a tinge of sadness to it for me. I love looking at the houses and imagining how my life might unfold within those walls. But yesterday, each room that could have been a nursery looks bare. And each dining room without a high chair looks bare. The pile of children’s toys. The names of random kids on walls. The bright pink paint. It was a little much. So I think I’m going to write about that.

 

Browsing Zillow

 

This house, beloved—empty of everything

Except, I imagine, of you, could have been

The one. My finger trembles

 

As I scroll the photographs, each one

I see you in: Outside, a big wheel

Parked in the driveway, the entry way

 

Filled with sunlight, cluttered

With Legos and stuffed giraffes,

The living room awash in toys

 

and blanket forts, the kitchen

a mess of smoke and cheerios and joy,

the bedroom’s blue—we’ll paint it pink,

 

I think, or maybe purple. This is the special privilege

of fantasy, of getting lost in this wish

where your eyes gleam, brown and full

 

back at me, and together we enter

this house, this instant, this future

where the warm weight of you

 

nestles in these good bones,

for sale now, and empty and sterile

and staged by some realtor for a life

 

to unfold, that could have been ours.

Imagine, here, the place I’ll mark

your height each year.

 

Imagine this bathroom, let’s change

Those dated tiles, but imagine

I’m washing your soft hair

 

In that sink. Imagine looking into that mirror

And seeing your face, for the first time,

Not translucent, but solid and real,

 

Made of flesh and bone and smile,

Not dream, not wish, not longing.

But this evening, you are nothing

 

But the color of the sunset, sinking.

This house, an empty shell. And me,

Browsing, dreaming, hoping,

 

One day to paint the walls

of a bedroom some other color

than the hue of grief.