“I am working a masterpiece,” the cocky stranger said, the ball of his foot tapping the carpet,
the sound of his morel grey ponytail against the rocker back like a branch in the breeze,
chatting up the man behind the cash register. Must be friends, I noted, shivering
from downtown Seattle drizzle, having just ducked into the Globe, 218 1st Ave,
for a few minutes refuge in this book sanctuary, the smell of book, the book rows
of story on story wrapping me warmly against the blade of the day’s bane,
expected, even though I had never been there before.
“I am a pioneer,” he turned to me to say, “called to play
a piano dropped by a helicopter from 25 stories, the ruined soundboard
still with a few frail strings clinging to it, a performance booked to last
2 ½ minutes.” “How in the world?! What notes will you have to fiddle with?”
I asked, curiosity vibrating close to 440 hertz. “I wouldn’t call them notes,” he said,
“more like sounds.” I left the store with a story and a 1966 Wind in the Willows.
A stranger in shorts outside on the street caught my eye, cocked, and threw me a football.
This poem is another experiment in chiasm. Chiasm is a device where the center of the writing is placed squarely in the middle of the piece, and the lines before and afterwards correspond to one another in an inverted pattern, where the first line corresponds to the last line, the second line corresponds to the second-to-last line, the third line corresponds to the third-to-last line, and so on. By correspond I mean that the corresponding lines contain certain same or similar sounding words, rhyming words, similar sound patterns, similar or contrasting images or references. In the reading of the poem these connections go unnoticed, but when you examine any two corresponding lines, it is fun to see all the intentional relations. I have put the corresponding line pairs below so that you can more easily see the anatomy of the poem. After reading the lines below and noting all the connections, return and read the original poem above one more time, noting now how the details disappear into the story, but now enrich it in an almost unconscious way.
The point of chiastic poetry is to place the primary meaning of the poem in the center. In this case, the two middle lines form the meaning center:
expected, even though I had never been there before.
“I am a pioneer,” he turned to me to say, “called to play
Here the idea of entering a space where one has not been before is a way of embodying the idea of “pioneer.” A pioneer forges into unknown territory, but with an expectation of something. Hearkening back to the title What You Never Expect, this poem allows us to experience a wonderfully quirky moment in my life (this actually happened) as a way of reminding us all that life is meant to be lived embracing and welcoming the unexpected twists and turns that are always coming our way. To expect this is to live the lives of pioneers on the frontier of the ordinary and the familiar. To wake to a day with an attitude of expectancy is to get ready to play whatever is put before us, whether that be a ruined piano, an old classic book, or a game of football.
Pairings Observed
l.1 “I am working a masterpiece,” the cocky stranger said, the ball of his foot tapping the carpet,
l.14 A stranger in shorts outside on the street caught my eye, cocked, and threw me a football.
l.2 the sound of his morel grey ponytail against the rocker back like a branch in the breeze,
l.13 “more like sounds.” I left the store with a story and a 1966 Wind in the Willows.
l.3 chatting up the man behind the cash register. Must be friends, I noted, shivering
l.12 I asked, curiosity vibrating close to 440 hertz. “I wouldn’t call them notes,” he said,
l.4 from downtown Seattle drizzle, having just ducked into the Globe, 218 1st Ave,
l.11 2 ½ minutes.” “How in the world?! What notes will you have to fiddle with?”
l.5 for a few minutes refuge in this book sanctuary, the smell of book, the book rows
l.10 still with a few frail strings clinging to it, a performance booked to last
l.6 of story on story wrapping me warmly against the blade of the day’s bane,
l.9 a piano dropped by a helicopter from 25 stories, the ruined soundboard
l.7 expected, even though I had never been there before.
l.8 “I am a pioneer,” he turned to me to say, “called to play
Photo Credit: Michael Gaida, Pixabay.com: CCO License, no attribution required.