76 Poetry for Students
she typically considers so taxing. Her ultimate as-
sessment is that there is enough common good in
humanity to outweigh the load of individual grief.
The idea of bearing a weight plays heavily in
“For the Sake of Strangers,” as it does in the col-
lection in which the poem appears. Laux titled the
book What We Carryto imply an overall theme of
human burden, and in some of the volume’s works
the weight is too much to bear. This poem, how-
ever, is at least one exception. Surely, the weight
is heavy here, but it is mollified by a greater force—
simple human kindness. It is a kindness made all
the more special by the fact that it comes from
strangers who could just as easily have ignored the
speaker or even been rude to her, as the idea of
“crowds” often suggests.
While this is an admittedly brief poem, it is
packed with both obvious messages about dealing
with grief and more subtle notions on overcoming
sorrow. The greatest difference lies in the smoth-
ering effect of self-absorption and the relief of
opening oneself up to the bonds that tie the human
race together. The word “strangers” may connote
a detached feeling by itself, but Laux has managed
to bring it around to the same nuance as “friends.”
That alone says there is an overall spirit of hopein
the poem.
Source:Pamela Steed Hill, Critical Essay on “For the Sake
of Strangers,” in Poetry for Students, Thomson Gale, 2006.Dorianne Laux and
Michael J. Vaughn
In the following interview, Laux and Vaughn
discuss her poem “Abschied Symphony” and
Laux’s approach to structure, organization, and
theme in her poetry.Dorianne Laux is one of the best of the West
Coast poets. She was a finalist for the National
Book Critics Circle Award for her 1994 book, What
We Carry,and with long-time cohort Kim Ad-
donizio (herself a recent National Book Award fi-
nalist), she co-authored The Poet’s Companion: A
Guide to the Pleasures of Writing Poetry(1997,
W.W. Norton). Laux teaches in the Creative Writ-
ing Program at the University of Oregon in Eugene.
When Laux read recently in my adopted home-
town of Tacoma, Washington, I interviewed her for
my column in the Tacoma News-Tribune.Consid-
ering the paper’s lay audience, I thought it would
be nice to get away from the constant generalized
philosophizing of poetry articles, and instead
use the opportunity to hone in on a single poem:
“Abschied Symphony,” from Laux’s book, Smoke(2000, BOA Editions). Because of space limita-
tions, I had to use only excerpts of the poem, and
cut out large parts of the interview. Here at the TMR
website, however, we have no such limitations—
and we have the luxury of a poetry-savvy audience.
That said, let’s begin with the poem itself (which
Ms. Laux has graciously given us permission to
reprint) and then proceed to the interview.
Abschied Symphony
Someone I love is dying, which is why,
when I turn the key in the ignition
and the radio comes on, sudden and loud,
something by Haydn, a diminishing fugue,
then back the car out of the parking space
in the underground garage, maneuvering through
the dimly lit tunnels, under low ceilings,
following yellow arrows stenciled at intervals
on gray cement walls and think of him,
moving slowly through the last
hard days of his life, I won’t
turn it off, and I can’t stop crying.
When I arrive at the tollgate I have to make
myself stop thinking as I dig in my pockets
for the last of my coins, turn to the attendant,
indifferent in his blue smock, his white hair
curling like smoke around his weathered neck,
and say, Thank you, like an idiot, and drive
into the blinding midday light.
Everything is hideously symbolic:
the Chevron truck, its underbelly
spattered with road grit and the sweat
of last night’s rain, the Dumpster
behind the flower shop, sprung lid
pressed down on dead wedding bouquets—
even the smell of something simple, coffee
drifting from the open door of a cafe;
and my eyes glaze over, ache in their sockets.
For months now all I’ve wanted is the blessing
of inattention, to move carefully from room to room
in my small house, numb with forgetfulness.
To eat a bowl of cereal and not imagine him,
drawn thin and pale, unable to swallow.
How not to imagine the tumors
ripening beneath his skin, flesh
I have kissed, stroked with my fingertips,
pressed my belly and breasts against, some nights
so hard I thought I could enter him, open
his back at the spine like a door or a curtain
and slip in like a small fish between his ribs,
nudge the coral of his brains with my lips,
brushing over the blue coil of his bowels
with the fluted silk of my tail.
Death is not romantic. He is dying. The fact
is stark and one-dimensional, a black note
on an empty staff. My feet are cold,
but not as cold as his, and I hate this music
that floods the cramped insides
of my car, my head, slowing the world down
with its lurid majesty, transforming
everything I see into stained memorials
to life—even the old Ford ahead of me,For the Sake of Strangers