In an essay I read about Sherod Santos, the reviewer said a poem of his had the emotional effect of Henry James. I think such an appraisal is relevant as well to “A Place in Maine.”

As others have pointed out, it’s not clear until the ending that the poem is about his mother, rather than, say, his wife. Nor are the verb tenses clear – which lines are about the past and which are about the present? And individual phrases are difficult, such as “It hurt for her to see me see what I couldn’t, / in my heart, quite pity.” Finally, Sherod has chosen to use as his form the distant memory of a sonnet, with 14 lines and a typical volta or turn after 8 ½ lines, but with slant rhymes rather than end rhymes and no recognizable meter.

Why all the convolutions? Are they deliberate or just showing off? And if they are deliberate, as I think they are, are they a valid reflection of what’s going on in the poem?

By its very nature, a sonnet is a crystallization of a thought process. For me, this poem reflects two times of reflection in the narrator’s life – forty years ago when his mother left the family and recently, when they met for drinks. That long-ago time is described in the first 8 ½ lines. The mother is contemplating leaving the home and is thinking out loud in front of her son. The narrator remembers (or thinks he remembers) the gesture of her urgent comment as well as the gesture of her slamming the door as she leaves.

As a boy or young man, the narrator was unsure of exactly why she was leaving, but “forged” [thanks, Bottomfish, for pointing out the multiple meanings] an inkling of a reason – “It hurt for her to see me see what I couldn’t, / in my heart, quite pity.” Those last few words acknowledge that he didn’t really see her point of view at the time. And that idea is reinforced by the poet’s use of enjambment after “couldn’t.” At the time he couldn’t see why she left.

The words “And yet” signal the turn from the past to forty years later, presumably in the present. Those forty years are a “lesser / distance” from his mother than the distance he must have felt when she first left. He appears to have gotten over her departure. His mother, however, is still looking for his pity, reminding him “how hard it must’ve been for her.” Just as forty years ago, she tried to forge an emotional tie with “You mustn’t forget I’m still your mother.”

It sounds to me like the narrator’s mother was not successful in her efforts. Forty years ago, the young narrator couldn’t quite pity her in his heart. Now, he uses a vague and chilly title, the chilly form of a near-sonnet, and the convoluted syntax of a cerebral reaction, to illustrate that he still feels little pity for her.

I feel toward this poem the way I do toward a Henry James novel – they both are intellectually stimulating and psychologically complex, but, for me at least, lacking in emotional resonance.

It sounds to me like the narrator’s mother was not successful in her efforts. Forty years ago, the young narrator couldn’t quite pity her in his heart..... he still feels little pity for her.

I'm no longer sure he feels little pity for her. Or if he does, he feels conflicted about it.

Consider the first line --

"Face it" -- this said with such urgency,

The vagueness of this line is such that it could refer to the speaker in the present as much as in the past. Regardless of how much time has passed, regardless of how much or little he has thought about this woman, still, he must deal with the truth of the admonition she gave him 40 years ago --

"You mustn't forget I'm still your mother."

Since the poet ends with this statement from the past, rather than what she said recently, I think he is suggesting that the speaker is still trying to come to terms with the nature of this mother-son relationship.

Were this poem any vaguer it would vanish into the ether. As if it never was.

(Probably better if it never was.)

CM

Yeah sure, this guy's reputation is like Henry James': Overblown, unearned, overrated, unbelievable. MaryAnn, you go to great lengths to explain a dreadful poem. Sometimes, though, when the truth is blatant enough, you don't have to go into details. All you need to say is, "This poem sucks."

Sometimes, though, when the truth is blatant enough, you don't have to go into details. All you need to say is, "This poem sucks."

Sorry, Gonzalo Lira, but I strongly disagree. I feel that a poem represents one person (the poet) having a conversation with another person (me, the reader). And so I should listen or read as carefully and respectfully as possible, trying to understand what's being said. That's my part of the bargain between the writer and the reader. Then, and only then do I feel qualified to pass judgment.

Besides, believe or not, I really enjoy trying to figure out a poem and then writing about it. Plus, it keeps me off the street and out of trouble.

MA

Henry James' reputation is well deserved. It's Hemingway who can use some closer scrutiny, as his style is something like a religion and has made many an aspiring writer produce writing that sounds like sub-literate Tarzan talk. Hemingway was great, and no one else did more to get the experience of an expatriate generation on the page, but he wrote more bad books than good ones. James tried forms other than novels, like drama and travel writing and criticism, neither of which suited him; he continued to develop as a novelist, though, and the arc of his career as a writer is one of the most remarkable in American literary history.

Merely saying that something "sucks" is unsatisfying. It's just as important to be able to articulate why something doesn't work for you as much as it is to explain why something gets your fancy. Otherwise, why read?

Plus, it keeps me off the street and out of trouble.

Off the streets? Maybe. Out of trouble? That's not what your friends are saying.

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I luv that pix, waltz. One (but not me) could write a whole short story or novel, based on that pix.

And yes, that's me "talking" to the poet in the pix.

MA