Bla bla bla poetry cakes

[beautifulduckweed]

I haven't posted a poem yet during Poetry month, so here's one of my favorite poems, "Rite of Passage" by Sharon Olds:

As the guests arrive at my son's party
they gather in the living room--
short men, men in first grade
with smooth jaws and chins.
Hands in pockets, they stand around
jostling, jockeying for place, small fights
breaking out and calming. One says to another
How old are you? Six. I'm seven. So?
They eye each other, seeing themselves
tiny in the other's pupils. They clear their throats
a lot, a room of small bankers,
they fold their arms and frown. I could beat you
up, a seven says to a six,
the dark cake, round and heavy as a
turret, behind them on the table. My son,
freckles like specks of nutmeg on his cheeks,
chest narrow as the balsa keel of a
model boat, long hands
cool and thin as the day they guided him
out of me, speaks up as a host
for the sake of the group.
We could easily kill a two-year-old,
he says in his clear voice. The other
men agree, they clear their throats
like Generals, they relax and get down to
playing war, celebrating my son's life.

* * * * * * *

Believe it or not, I analyzed this poem for ethics class using Hegel's Master-Slave dialectic. I think I may even have the paper kicking around somewhere with all my old college stuff. Heh.

Comments

What tale shall serve me here among Mine angry and defrauded young?

[theotherjay.livejournal.com]

That's creepy.

Re: What tale shall serve me here among Mine angry and defrauded young?

[misshepeshu.livejournal.com]

I agree--and I love it precisely because it disquiets me. It can also serve as a rather interesting jumping-off point for discussions on interpersonal dynamics and methods of ensuring group cohesiveness.

There's another famous Sharon Olds poem that's somewhat disturbing as well. Well, maybe a bit more sad than disturbing. I'll have to remember to post it tomorrow.