Sunday poetry: "December"

Last week on this blog, I wrote about the poem "Bonfire at Cape Cod with Marge Piercy's Workshop," which raises the question of which papers we burn and which we keep. One page that belongs to the second category is a piece of recycled paper tucked in a plastic container in my bedroom. This page contains the first and only draft of my poem "December," which I wrote in the Mesa Court cafeteria at UC Irvine on Oct. 16, 2001 -- I know the date because it's scrawled at the top of the paper. (Back then, I typically dated my first drafts in case that information would be of later interest to historians; you really can't fault English majors for thinking in those terms.) It's rare that I remember the actual act of writing a poem, but I know for a fact that I wrote "December" in about 45 seconds in between bites of dinner; I literally had a fork in one hand and a pen in the other. The original copy has one revision, as I initially wrote the last line as "in a strong pair of hands," then crossed that out and wrote "in your hands" instead. The other lines seemed to work, so I scribbled a title at the top ("December," even though it was the middle of October) and pocketed the pen again. That's what my right hand was doing, anyway. I can't remember what entree I was spearing with my left hand.

In the years since that buffet-fueled moment of inspiration, "December" has become probably the most popular poem I have ever written. It is not my personal favorite, as fond as I am of it. (I don't have an official favorite, but a short list of contenders would include "Segue," "Ride Home," "Alaska Airlines Nonstop to LAX," "One Word," "Blues Man," and a handful of others.) Still, writing is about communication, and "December" has communicated with a great many people. The Poetry Foundation features it on its website, and thanks to that platform over the years, I have had undergraduates email me questions about it, seen it posted on blogs, and even discovered it being used by artists in other mediums. A few years ago, someone created an animated video featuring the poem as narration, and a short story on a Marvel Comics fan-fiction site used it as the internal romantic thoughts of a superhero. (When I checked this morning for the video and fan-fiction story, both were not to be found on Google. If you are among the people behind those efforts and are reading this blog right now, please put them back up.) It was not a poem that I thought about much at the time, even while others went through months or years of gestation. But the simple truth is that the reader receives the poem, not the process. "December" may take about as long to read as it did to write, but those 67 words seem to have struck a reverberating note.

What is that note, exactly? I have stated before on this blog that, after a certain amount of time, my old poems begin to feel like the work of a different person. Sometimes that leaves me feeling critical of them, other times just intrigued. "December" intrigues me. I remember my undergraduate days well enough to say that nothing really "inspired" this poem in the traditional sense of the word. The poem is addressed to a "you," but there was no specific person for whom it was intended. It involves cars (riding, not driving in one), and I had indeed gotten a new car in August of that year, but I was filled with enthusiasm to drive it; I had no conscious urge to surrender the keys to someone else. Like all spontaneous poems, it was sparked by a feeling. Perhaps it was a feeling that I had then, or one that I remembered, or one that I imagined that I might have someday. If art is timeless, then it obviously can wait for the right occasion. So I will do my best to play poetry analyst (or psychologist) right now and determine what that occasion is.

The doctor is in, so let's start with the opening lines. I want to be a passenger / in your car again -- I think the last word must be the key one. The imaginary person here is not a new acquaintance, and the speaker clearly views him or her as a respite. ...and shut my eyes / while you sit at the wheel / awake and assured / in your own private world -- this is love, maybe, but not romantic love, at least not in the traditional sense. The speaker fantasizes about being with the other person, but in his fantasy, his own eyes are shut and the other person is immersed in a private world. The speaker loves this person not for charm or affection, but specifically for his or her driving skills. (Yes, I know the poem can be read metaphorically, but I am putting my 22-year-old self on the spot by taking it at face value.) ...down a long stretch / of empty highway / without any other / faces in sight -- this is an odd image, really, since we usually ponder road safety more when other cars are around us. Of course, single-car accidents happen as well. Perhaps there's a steep ditch by the side of the road.

All of that is one sentence. "December" consists of just two. The final four lines are partly a repeat of the opening: I want to be a passenger / in your car again / and put my life back / in your hands. The passive voice, a passive activity, and once more, there are those words "back" and "again." When I wrote "December," I was nearing the end of my undergraduate studies. I already had a graduate school in mind for the year after. Was I subconsciously pining for a time when I didn't have as many responsibilities? Perhaps I had just had a long day of study and was relaxing in the cafeteria. Perhaps the "you" was an imaginary hero, the kind of idealistic fantasy that all humans, not just poets, summon from time to time. (If you study the lyrics of the Beatles' "I Will," it appears that Paul McCartney is rhapsodizing about his love for a woman who may exist only in his mind.) In any case, there is a great deal of reality in the poem as well; I have certainly had many rides that ended without incident. I have put my life in many people's hands, and gotten lucky.

"December" appears this week in the Journal of Radical Wonder. I am proud of its longevity. In the spirit of the season, I have reserved it for the day before Christmas. A common question that I get about the poem (at least in emails from students who are writing essays about it) is what the title means. Again, it was the first word that came to my mind. I guess it means that we relinquish control at the end of the year, or at least try to. Workplaces take time off. School lets out. We build bonfires for the year behind us and make resolutions for the one ahead. For that matter, we spend a lot of time on the road. As the holidays begin this week, drive safely, all of you. Or, at least, take a ride with someone who does.