Volume 24 77
its battered rear end thinned to scallops of rust,
pumping grim shrouds of exhaust
into the shimmering air—even the tenacious
nasturtiums clinging to a fence, stem and bloom
of the insignificant, music spooling
from their open faces, spilling upward, past
the last rim of blue and into the black pool
of another galaxy. As if all that emptiness
were a place of benevolence, a destination,
a peace we could rise to.
[Michael J. Vaughn]: Is there a strategy to the
stanzaless style (and is there an academic term for
“stanzaless”)? Driving the narrative forward? Or
perhaps just taking out one poetic element to sim-
plify, as in a prose poem? I notice Kim Addonizio
likes to do that, too. Or is it just something you do
instinctually?
[Dorianne Laux]: No, no term for the stanza-
less style, at least not one I know. Yes, stanzas do
stop the reader for a moment, allow for a rest, as
in music, or often are used to signal a transition of
some kind. But in a poem like this, the relentless-
ness of the forward movement is a way to keep the
reader in the thrall of the poem’s subject, which is
death, and which rests for no one and gives no one
rest. It was instinctive, though you can look to other
stanzaless poems to see where that instinct was
developed—Whitman comes to mind, and later,
Sharon Olds and C. K. Williams.
I notice in your stanza’d poems, you often or-
ganize your lines into twos, threes, and fours. Is
there an organizational need there?
Yes, the need to organize, to separate one
movement from another, scenes, ideas, images,
times and locations, the stanza can help with
all these things and more. But this poem takes
place on a drive from a parking lot to somewhere.
Though we don’t know the final location, we
can assume it’s home. The narrator never gets
home though, except in her imagination, which
also makes sense in terms of how we respond to
death, the pain of grief—it’s an endless ride
for the living, at least until their own death re-
leases them.
The giveaway first line. There’s got to be a
term for this, too (“confessional prelude”?), but I
did the exact same thing in a novel. Pretty much
you’re telling the reader, “This is what the poem’s
going to be about,” “Someone I love is dying...”
I love the feeling of expectation that this sets up in
the reader’s mind; it makes them read the poem (or
the novel, or the play) entirely differently, hungry
for explanations and details. Again, intentional or
just “what happened”?
No, no term for this one either. It’s just one of
those lines that, as you say, announces itself rather
boldly. I think death gives us this boldness of
speech. You see the bravery of those facing death
and you too become brave in the face of it. I re-
ceived an email recently from a woman, an ex-
student I’d met briefly a few years ago. Her sister’s
husband died in the Twin Towers on September 11.
She said when speaking of her sister: “I worry about
her and miss him so much—she of course is deep
in the beginning stages of grief; I just hope she
makes it to the stages. I feel as if I can be blunt with
you, somehow.” Death gives us permission to be
blunt, as does poetry. Our defenses are stripped from
us, which is why she could speak of the worst when
telling me about her sister, and why she could speak
to me so openly. What is there to lose when all has
been lost? And yes, it was again an intuitive move,
but in light of what we know about death, an ap-
propriate move. Something in me said: Just say it.
And when I did, the poem began to emerge. Isn’t
that how we comes to terms with the inevitable, with
reality? I have another poem in that section in which
the narrator never really accepts the death until she
says the actual words, out loud: “He’s dead. He’s
not coming back.” It’s the first time she believes it.
Language is a way to help our vision of the world
match up to its reality. It can also release us from
that other world we have to live in, with all its pro-
tective fantasies and denials, so we can survive. We
break out of that psychological world, too. And
sometimes, it’s poetry that helps us to do that. Po-
etry that can help us to go on living.
I love the stabs of simple sentences near the
end: “Death is not romantic. He is dying.” Great
rhythmic interruption there. Do you write byFor the Sake of StrangersLanguage is a way
to help our vision of the
world match up to its
reality. It can also release
us from that other world
we have to live in, with all
its protective fantasies and
denials, so we can survive.”