Sharon Olds
rites of passage
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.
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.
Tone - The tone of this poem seems to be normal of a mother attending her son's sixth birthday. Overall, she seems to be very perceptive of the interactions between the group of young boys. It is also clear that she is fairly removed from the situation, which is important in the group dynamic of the boys.
Word Choice - There is definitely a lot of wartime phrases and connotations used throughout the poem. Examples include describing the cake as a turret and the boys as Generals. The descriptions of the boys are also carefully chosen, first using men, then banker, then Generals, all convey the ironic mindset of these children who have almost no context for their ideas and actions.
Imagery - The most vivid imagery in this poem is the various descriptions of the boys, which range form hilarious to creepy. Descriptions such as "jostling, jockeying for place, small fights" are the perfect description for these kind of social situations involving young children.
Structure - The poem is all one stanza with no apparent rhyme scheme. One of the major poetic structures used is enjambment, which can be seen throughout the poem to make smaller statements about the boys out of the larger situation.
Theme - I think that the theme for this poem is that children have no context for their thoughts and actions, and, when young boys get together, all that primal alpha male crap can start to show. The problem is that kids are, by nature, extremely self centered, so they all believe that they are the strongest/toughest in the group. When the speaker's son states that they could all easily kill a two-year-old, he is reminding the group that they are all strong. With their egos (or ids or whatever) satisfied, the competition ceases, but the context does not appear, hence the final description of the boys as Generals playing war. As a former young boy and older brother to three young boys, I have witnessed these exact events (minus the suggested infanticide) unfold at social gatherings such as birthday parties. Birthday parties especially actually because there's always candy, a tangible spoil of combat. Cake, I think, has dwindled in it's savage stimulus, as its distribution is highly regulated, but candy, especially if it's in a piƱata, forget about it, just get back and watch your fingers.
No comments:
Post a Comment