Sunday poetry: "Moment"

Years ago, my 6th-grade class and I tried to write a Harry Potter story in which nothing bad happened. It was part of a lesson on conflicts in literature, and I urged the students to be counterintuitive by spinning a story with no conflict at all. We delved into our knowledge of the Potter universe and came up with a...well, maybe not a "plot," but a series of events. Harry aced all of his classes. Ron and Hermione fell in love. Draco Malfoy refrained from bullying anyone, and Voldemort didn't impose. At the end of the term, everyone racked up awards, Dumbledore hosted a giant feast, and everyone went home beaming for summer vacation (Harry, presumably, didn't go back to stay with his awful aunt and uncle). Once our magnum opus was complete, I asked the students what they thought of it. A few faces grimaced around the room, and I asked what the story was missing. One boy finally raised his hand and uttered seven words that have bewitched me ever since: "We don't want Harry to be happy." I deemed the lesson a success, and we soon went back to reading Greek mythology, where virtually every story ends with at least one character dying a horrible death.

Authors are kind of mean that way. One of my favorite bits of Shakespeare comes from King Lear, where the Earl of Gloucester intones, "As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport." He might just as well have said, "As characters to authors"; we create Harry (or Hamlet, or Achilles, or whomever) and then make his imaginary life miserable. Harry being happy makes an uninteresting story, at least for those seeking suspense or catharsis. On the other hand, we don't always insist on misery being part of other mediums. The Mona Lisa smiles, and we never expect anything else from her. David stands frozen with his confident gaze, always healthy and primed for Goliath. Jackie Wilson belts out "(Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher and Higher," and he hasn't plummeted back by the end of the song. Yes, each of these works depicts a moment in life. Yes, life is a story, with plenty of peaks and valleys. But characters in paintings, sculptures, and songs sometimes have the privilege of being eternally happy. If I hadn't invoked so many classic artworks in this paragraph, I would throw in a quote from John Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn" as well. Pull the poem up on Google; you'll see what I mean.

No matter. I am happy as I write these words. It is Thanksgiving, actually -- you will read this blog entry a few days later, when it goes online -- and I am sitting in a comfortable chair in the backyard. My wife is beside me, reading, of all things, a Harry Potter book. (Surely Harry is in some kind of trouble right now.) The rest of our family is playing catch or chatting in the lawn chairs. Our dog, who had a tough life as a stray before she was rescued and adopted by us, is radiating her usual Zen-like calm. I couldn't write much of a story about this moment, but I could paint it, maybe, or compose a melody. That might be more pleasant than spoiling the mood with a crisis, just for the sake of building to a climax and resolution. As one who teaches novels and short stories on a weekly basis, of course I love stories. Once in a while, though, I need a break from them.

​My poem this week in the Journal of Radical Wonder, "Moment," is my own contribution to the annals of mega-happy art. (I borrow that phrase from the movie Wayne's World, in which the heroes regale the audience with a series of possible resolutions before concluding with the "mega-happy ending.") Nothing bad occurs in this poem, although it features a cast of characters who, for the simple reason of being human, will encounter frustration soon enough. The setting is the track outside an old school building on a warm day. A boy runs while his father times him, presumably because he has a race coming up. A girl with a sketchpad sits nearby, thinking of her own father and brothers as she watches this moment of familial bonding. The boy and his father finally leave, arms slung around each other's shoulders as their shadows cross the dirt, "both of them titans / through a trick of the light." That's all that happens, but a moment doesn't require anything more.

Sitting here in front of my computer, I am asking myself if I have ever felt as content as the characters in that poem. The answer is, of course I have. I have been blessed with many moments. When I was younger, I felt​ like each one would last forever. Now that time has passed, I find myself more intrigued by how they end. The universe has a way of winking on us before long: cars fail to start, knees become skinned, well-intentioned words get taken the wrong way. If we pay good money to watch Harry Potter suffer, perhaps it's to remind ourselves that we're not alone. Or, if his trials are bad enough, perhaps we're simply glad that it's him instead of us. I suppose if J.K. Rowling wants him to live unbothered, she can take up grecian urns.