The fourth part of Metro Lace is where things take a turn toward the more immediate and more personal. The immediacy comes, in part, from the fact that the Part consists of five different Days, so that each has its particular occasion. Each—until the fifth Day—is very contained, a short poem, in essence. And that means there is much less opportunity to roam. The effort begins to write every other day or so, which is broken up by a trip taken to PA, and a return. It’s the time of year when the semester is breaking up and there are gatherings. The trip is signaled by 5.7, written on an Amtrak to Philadelphia. The decision to register what the days themselves contain makes the poem morph in a new way, at first, but that was not apparent at all on 5.3, when Part IV commences.
That segment—5.3—shows a playfulness with form but, I think,
a deepening of content. Or at least a “return”
to Part I, in the sense of describing how I feel without making the particulars
too clear. There’s a spirit animating 5.3 that makes the tone of it hard for me to register. It’s rueful about something that hasn’t
happened. It’s not the regret over what
one has done, but the regret over what one has not done, and probably never
will. I don’t think it’s despairing
though. This is a poem, after all—does
anyone actually write a poem of despair?
So, then, though it’s regrettable that something has not occurred, there’s
yet the chance that something will occur.
There’s a very definite sense, in IV, that at least some of
the regret has to do with “her.” There
are any number of uses of the female pronoun in the entire poem, and it would be
foolish to think that they all apply to someone in particular, or to anyone in
particular each time (see discussion of eros here). And yet at times “she” is a
definite figure. This gets explored
somewhat in 5.13, III, where a long list of impressions of different “hers” flows past
like a litany of glimpses. It could be
said that some such denouement is already implied in the opening of Part
IV. If we want to give a name to the
main “her” of Part IV, we could call her Lucy, the name used to
address a particular “her” at the close of 5.3.
My recollection of writing 5.3 is that I felt the poem might
be becoming very elliptical. That there
would be no more distracting its mood with the fun stuff I’ve been mostly doing
since Part II. I was taking my cue from
Side A and Side B, both of which indicated that something had passed—call it
the semester, if you like. I would have
to be somewhere else, mentally, shortly.
And where would I be if not the past, perhaps settling old scores or
something.
But I swerved from that task, as one says, and let 5.5 be a
very careful discourse on my mood walking around town. My impending departure, in a day or two, for a visit to my wife
gives the day the clarity of leave-taking and that’s all I’m registering, but
with the imagined possibility of a more open-ended escape—without giving too
much away, I can say that I’m still thinking of a pursuit. Imagining as well, it seems, a last minute
visit to offset my own departure. When
next we see me—5.7—I’m the one on the train and I’ve become the rather
demonstrative voice one overhears while traveling in Business Coach. This segment is all business and a glance out
the window at words printed on the side of a building gains me my eventual
title: Metro Lace.
Then comes a gap, as I write nothing while away. On 5.12 I’m back and simply taking stock of
my mood as I resume. I think the overall
burden here is looking for “the charm” that finally gets mentioned in the last
line. That will have to do for a finish,
though I have the nagging sense that this Day wanted to go much further
afield. Which does in fact happen on
5.13 where all bets are off. We’re going
to have-at this thing till we get somewhere and get this Part over with. It’s as if I’m letting go to make up for the
poems that didn’t get written while I was out of town.
5.13 begins with a guiding formal principle: find a rhyme
for every line ending. I believe this is
still the case, though I haven’t checked. There may have been subsequent revisions that spoiled the effect, but,
initially, at least, there was an off-rhyme for each. The tone of the poem is now taking the long
view, something like what surfaced way back in Part II. Perhaps that’s the default tone of the poem:
trying to tell you, dear Reader, what it was like…in those days. Yet now we’re somewhere closer to the speaker
than we were, and in 2. it becomes a bit of a cat-and-mouse game as the “situation”
has been lifted from another one of those gatherings that are, it seems, the
only charm of these days.
Finally, as 3. begins, we take up “pursuit” through memory:
all those glimpses of “her”—where some are deliberately generic and some very
specific. What the exact mix is and how many nameable “hers” contribute to the
composite, I would never say. Is
glimpsing and telling much different from kissing and telling? You tell me.
In any case, the saving grace of this unabashed scopophilia, I hope (it’s
May in a college town, after all), is the riposte of at least some of the
collective “hers” speaking of “him” and his need to make “something” of seeing
them like that. The response is a little
hard to follow because the banality of all those glimpses—it can be admitted
that “she” does nothing remarkable in any of the glimpses—provokes a sense of
having to account for simply being an object of attention. And how is one to do that, ultimately? Graciously? Grudgingly? And everything in between?
From that we segue into much playfulness, as if to offset the
embarrassment of the above with something that either charms or grates. If you’ve ever amused a child until he or she
becomes irritated with the amusement, then you have probably experienced what I’m
going for here. And from that cue—the disappearing
listeners—we go somewhere that I still find quite impressive, if I say so
myself.
I have to say that to end this Part, I’m going to have to
get right up against it. It’s not so much
an exposure or a dropping of pretense. It’s
not my heart on my sleeve, I don’t think, but it’s as near to that as this poem
gets. Each verse paragraph contains a “charm,”
so to speak, and what impresses me is that I’m able to say what I mean and not
say it, at the same time. I think that
such is the case throughout the poem but here the saying has become more
emphatic. Maybe I’m simply finally
claiming the meagerness of my own imagination, but in any case, I definitely
come home again.
From “Come take me” to “it smarts” I’m working toward the
finish and I can’t seem to get there. I
keep taking new breaths and resuming.
The pursuit now—not meaning to risk comparison with Keats—is being “felt
on one’s pulses” as he says. My heart’s
beating as we get to the end of this one, actually fluttering. I think it’s because we’re back, with a
difference, to the “airlifted” moment.
What can be the harm in that, and what can be the nature of the possible
and fruitful life to come?
Do you recall something about a “purgatorial chair”? That's where we are as this Part ends.
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