Pantoum for The Afterlife, or Whatever

[matsunosuperfan]

Pantoum for The Afterlife, or Whatever
after Jordan Ranft

No one plans for tragedy. I tell myself
stories about a place you’ll never live.

Worse things must have happened on a Wednesday, so
why can’t I think of any?

Stories about a place I’ve never lived
keep following me to the hospital, where

I can’t think of any reason
I deserve more painkillers. Today an old man’s whistle

follows me through the hospital doors. He keeps
a safe distance. I still feel his eyes.

I deserve more pain, killers and old men with whistles
tell me over stacks of paper. So I spread my legs.

No distance is safe. I can still feel his eyes:
Why didn’t you ride that mechanical bull in Denver?

Tell me over stacks of paper, so I spread my legs—
you’re holding a bouquet, then your hands are gone.

Why didn’t I ride that mechanical bull in Denver,
before it was a weapon? I would edge myself to sleep with your voice,

but you're gone, and I'm holding a bouquet in my hands.
They don’t count the boys who jump.

Before it was a weapon, I would edge myself with sleep. Now your voice
just reminds me: no one plans for tragedy.

They don’t count the boys who jump
on a Wednesday. Worse things must have happened.

[opal.zzz]

I can't say I've fully digested this one. I'll have to read it a few more times or maybe sit with it for longer. I also don't know who Jordan Ranft is, so maybe that's relevant context I'm missing.

First of all, I'm a sucker for structured poetry and I'm not super familiar with Pantoum, so it was a fun read. The repeated lines gain new/different meaning with each repetition.

I understand that the speaker has lost someone. They speaker also seems to be ill (or an addict), frequenting the hospital for painkillers. Another layer is introduced where the speaker is harassed by whistling old men, possibly feeling helpless or resigned to it, hence the repeated "I spread my legs." I also felt the sense that the person the speaker is grieving may have been a relief from the dangerous world, because they envision them holding a bouquet in the midst of descriptions of discomfort and unsafety. What is the story behind the mechanical bull? I can't tell, but it communicated the feeling of missing out on an opportunity that you feel you'll never get back. The bull becomes a weapon and then sleep becomes a weapon. The lost loved one's voice was a comfort but then becomes a reminder of the loss. "They don't count the boys who jump." Memorable line, and raises even more questions in my mind. Who is they? What are they counting? Is it a reference to suicide, and why is it not counted?

I feel like I'm missing a lot, so sorry if my review is messy. I find this piece pretty opaque, but I was still able to appreciate it. It left me with a feeling of having waltzed through someone's mind for a split second, gathering fragments of their grieving memories and mental state without a concrete narrative.

[matsunosuperfan]

I can't say I've fully digested this one. I'll have to read it a few more times or maybe sit with it for longer. I also don't know who Jordan Ranft is, so maybe that's relevant context I'm missing.

First of all, I'm a sucker for structured poetry and I'm not super familiar with Pantoum, so it was a fun read. The repeated lines gain new/different meaning with each repetition.

I understand that the speaker has lost someone. They speaker also seems to be ill (or an addict), frequenting the hospital for painkillers. Another layer is introduced where the speaker is harassed by whistling old men, possibly feeling helpless or resigned to it, hence the repeated "I spread my legs." I also felt the sense that the person the speaker is grieving may have been a relief from the dangerous world, because they envision them holding a bouquet in the midst of descriptions of discomfort and unsafety. What is the story behind the mechanical bull? I can't tell, but it communicated the feeling of missing out on an opportunity that you feel you'll never get back. The bull becomes a weapon and then sleep becomes a weapon. The lost loved one's voice was a comfort but then becomes a reminder of the loss. "They don't count the boys who jump." Memorable line, and raises even more questions in my mind. Who is they? What are they counting? Is it a reference to suicide, and why is it not counted?

I feel like I'm missing a lot, so sorry if my review is messy. I find this piece pretty opaque, but I was still able to appreciate it. It left me with a feeling of having waltzed through someone's mind for a split second, gathering fragments of their grieving memories and mental state without a concrete narrative.

Thanks for reading as always <3 No need to know Jordan, I just cribbed a bunch of lines from one of his poems to construct this one (then added my own lines/made changes accordingly). 

I am not really happy with this exercise as a poem in itself, but it was a productive exercise nonetheless. I think it is ultimately just too gestural and opaque of a surface. I appreciate your efforts to make sense of it; all your observations track with the sensibility I was feeling.