Our Father,

I was recently asked to do a variation on my "Ternstedt" poem (see January 27th post), based on Tony Hoagland's excellent essay, "Fear of Narrative and the Skittery Poem of Our Moment," in his highly recommended book of essays, Real Sofistikashun. The idea struck me as rather daunting, since I've certainly abandoned poems that weren't working before, and used them as spare parts for newer, hopefully better-functioning engines; written imitations and homages. These approaches were more familiar to me. Yet, despite my initial reticence to disassemble the impulse that gave way to the former poem, I think I'm happy with its latter-day unsaintly counterpart, and learned a bit more about the aesthetics of this nebulous form by doing by design.

Avoiding narrative wasn't the issue. I began with the basis of my previous poem, my father as a central character, but I decided to widen the perspective a bit, depersonalizing it to a certain extent by saying “our father” instead. (For the record: I haven't any siblings.) From that change, I thought of the biblical reference to the “Lord's Prayer.” This gave me a skeleton over which to stretch the skittery skin and sinew of this new gryphon. And though I did make narrative sit in the backseat this time, I don't believe I totally ignored it, as here I wanted narrative—or the conscious impotency of it—to be staggered through the repetitious use of em dashes, frustrating the reader's attempt to get into any regular rhythm. The poem, instead, loops on itself in a series of asides that are, hopefully, hermetically rhythmic and sportive. I also chose to keep the factory worker motif from the last poem, at least partially, by referring to the father's “first shift posse,” which also gave me additional wiggle room to toy with the names and associations of his “peeps.”

I like playful language. I can do something that's barer, but even in those works it's hard for me to ignore the impulse to let the words sing. Here, perhaps the words harmonize but in a language that is archaic or eccentric or unto itself: art for art's sake. As I understand it, the skittery poem is self-consciously playful, or can be on a number of levels. I didn't want to be opaque; I wanted to be oblique. A more dissociative poem, of course, can be skittery, but for myself I prefer to consider the style as a smart method for constructing a “shaggy dog” poem. Not that every one has to do that, or not, have 'meaning' or not, but if I did throw everything and the kitchen sink into it you'd have a poem with many ingredients but no defining flavor. Hopefully this one has taste, while not necessarily being tasteful.

Our Father,

who art in heaven, or
arts in heaven—because he so enjoyed
painting on the weekends (seascapes,
portraits, still lives)—still
lives—in the memories of those who then
knew him best: Moose Mulhern,
Petey Peters, Ed ((just Ed) who was any-
thing but well-adjusted, if you re-
member that one Xmas party where he
came dressed as an X-rated Saint
Nick: Saint Dick (the Gingham
sisters practically fainted
when he came down the chimney))—
guys from the factory,
his first shift posse,
the punch-me-out-pleasers,
retire-in-twenty-teasers,
a-pack-a-day-wheezers,
his what kids nowadays might say
peeps—“in heaven!” in how
he licked his Nirvanaic lips
after Thanksgiving undid his belt
and unzipped his fly—“why,
we're all family here”—
and he collapsed snoring
on the Lay-Z-Boy, reclining,
declining dessert until Aunt Francis
delivered it on tiptoe and tray
with a knowing wink and a wave
of her kindled Virginia Slim
while cousins football cheered
for the same rival teams
year after rollicking year
—in Florida.