Napowrimo 9

 I'm giving up doing 30/30, but I'm still going to try to write as many poem drafts as I can this month. Life's a little wild lately, in a good way. B and I are on the cusp of many life changes, some of which I'm deliriously excited about, some of which I'm ridiculously nervous about. It's one of those transition times. I must keep writing, always.

Today I read "Stockholm" by Cyndie Randall.  

This poem is a little weird, though it’s a good weird.

 

From the first line, I guessed it was about a dead person, but I really wasn’t sure.

 

“Lugging your body / is my new talent” the speaker informs us.

 

The title is also interesting—“Stockholm”

 

I think of Stockholm Syndrome, of course, where the abused grows to love and need the abuser over time.

 

I wonder if the abuser, in this case, is grief itself? That’s interesting.

 

Ok, so unpacking the poem:

 

The speaker takes the body around town with them to various places, like dinner where the they order ice for the body (hah), the zoo where they prop the body up, church.

 

On the first read, it’s a little confusing but the “reveal” that the “you” is dead in stanza five.

 

Finally, the subject keeps their hands to themselves (so maybe the abuser is an actual abuser and not grief as a metaphor for an abuser? Looks like it here).

 

The last stanza:

 

If God is too busy

To decide where you belong

He’s welcome

To consult with me

 

 

Harharhar, so the speaker would then think that the abuser/the dead belongs, of course, in Hell. I get it.

 

So on the surface, this poem is dark and interesting. It’s creative. The idea of taking an actual body around town is macabre, but I can see how this poem illustrates a feeling of being “freed” from an abuser but not quite. Even in death, their presence haunts them, weighs them down.

 

There aren’t any overly poetic moments in the poem—it kind of just rolls along like normal speech, but the idea beneath it is poetic, so I suppose that’s where it gets its poetry. There are also some strong line breaks, which is something I can learn from here, especially this line:

 

You       keeping your hands / to yourself

That’s a turn with a lot of tension in it. I also like the line break in the last two lines.

 

Both of these line breaks show an abrupt shift in connotation, which is interesting. If I take something from the poem, that’s it.

 

So some prompt ideas:

 

What, in my own life, holds me with Stockholm syndrome? Oof, what a question. For a long time, I was strangely in love with my own pain. It was something on which I could blame all of my problems. I can’t do X because of my back. I won’t do Y because of my back. Now I can’t do that, and when I’m still sad/depressed, I can’t imagine a time with my physical pain gone plus my emotional pain. I can’t dream of a time of all life’s problems being magically whisked away, if only I had a good back!

 

I’ve since gotten over this—I have found other things to blame my problems on 😊 I kid, but I think there’s something to be said about being attached to your pain. Something poetic. I’ve let my pain go, and I'm so very glad it's in the past, but it, and by it I mean my liberation, wasn’t immediate. For a time, in a twisted way, I missed it. It was a part of me, my personality, my being. This chronic pain and been mine and mine alone for eight long years. A long term relationship of sorts. A bad relationship to be sure, but a relationship nonetheless. It would never leave me. And by never, I do mean never. 

 

What if I were to take my pain around town, like the speaker carries her abuser in "Stockholm"? Weird.

 

Or what about an elegy for the pain?

 

A poem of farewell to it? That’s interesting.

 

Grieving it?

 

A love poem to it?

 

Dark.

 

 

The emptiness of ache your leaving left

 

That’s a good line!

 

Ok, let’s freewrite about this weird idea, if nothing else

 

 

The surgeon whisked you from my bones

Like a hawk takes a rabbit from the moist earth.

I didn’t know how much I’d miss the weight of you,

The ache of you, the way you kept me grounded.

 

I’d become so used to lugging you

Everywhere—in the restaurant booth

You’d sit between me and my love,

 

Accompany us to the park, on our strolls,

And tug my arm to slow me down

Like a child fascinated by a bed of daffodils.

 

At church, you’d keep me in the pew

Like a sinner, sitting when the congregation

Stands to sing, kept me apart

From the world, an outsider, a spectator

On the sidelines of joy.

 

They say you don’t know what you have

Until it’s gone, and you’re gone,

Thank God,

Evaporated like a puddle

After a rainstorm, the sun

Parched and thirsty, the pavement

Dry as my bones. I knew my life would change,

 

When you, my pain, left this flesh,

But I wasn’t ready for the emptiness 

of ache your sudden leaving left.