Dee Evetts
Essay #13 Jan/Feb 2023
I concluded my previous essay with a quartet of haiku that represented in various circumstances that period in a relationship when divorce is definitely on the table, but not yet quite a certainty, followed by a pair of poems derived from the final days of sharing a home. I have since then come across two other notable examples from the anticipation period (as one could call it), one from Barbara Strang and the other written by the British haiku poet ai li:
you speak of divorce — talk of divorce
the morning sun she feels the knife edge
in your face of her skirt’s pleat
In the first of these poems, while it is not totally clear to me that the face in question is squinting against the sun, I am inclined to see it that way. And I find a subtle poignance in this picture that I would be hard pressed to explain. It may be that there is a suggestion of regret or nostalgia, deriving from the poet’s memory of a particular occasion during the couple’s early years together.
Coming to ai li’s poem we discover an interesting and compelling tension created by the haptic detail. The reader’s own hand might well twitch with empathy; it may be her fingertips that are running along the pleat, or a knuckle, or the quick of a nail.
* * *
After all the anticipation, the see-saw of resistance and acceptance, finally the decision has been made — whether that has been mutual or otherwise. We are going to separate, and thus for all practical purposes, to divorce. Whatever the relevant and prevailing laws may say, this for most people is the actuality, the moment of truth as we experience it. There are of course alternatives such as trial separations, and I have witnessed one or two that have led to a renewal of the relationship in question. Otherwise it has been my observation that such strategies are essentially a means of postponing the inevitable. They mostly serve to give comfort (albeit false), and to sidestep for a while having to use the D-word around our friends and colleagues.
And so here we are. Day zero has arrived, and it is time for one or the other to move out.
moving day — moving out:
the coolness of my cheek she suggests I stay
after your kiss for tea
moving day —
the other men
in her life
Collin Barber’s poem is both poignant and precise. After all that kissing — and most of it not merely on the cheek — there is this final peck. But that is neither fair nor accurate. If the poet detects coolness on his cheek, then the kisser’s lips cannot have been tightly closed. And that could be a small consolation. Nonetheless the relationship has come to this: a coolness. The second poem is one of my own, and it came to mind only just now, providing as it does a parallel moment to Barber’s parting kiss. My reflection now, some twenty years on, is that humor may not be deemed appropriate when writing about such circumstances. And yet: if we can smile over this kind of ambiguity, could that not bode well for the future? The offer of staying for a final cuppa together certainly seems to do so. Concluding this group, John Stevenson’s haiku exhibits a wonderful economy of expression, with its pitch-perfect tone of ruefulness, resignation, plus a measure of speculation. Add to that his trademark irony, just on the cusp of humor.
It is an odd thing that we humans do, is it not? We live side by side more or less intensely for years — even decades — making sometimes love and sometimes omelettes together. And then out of the blue (except that it isn’t, of course), you find yourself politely handing over a set of keys. And hearing in return: “Don’t you want to keep the little Sacré Coeur thingy? You bought it that rainy day in Montmartre, do you remember?”
Beyond the physical split may still lie the worst. If the separation has been a contentious one, and the relationship has seriously broken down, we will quite likely find ourselves in court. And who should we see there but Roberta Beary?
custody hearing court-ordered visit
seeing his arms cross I take up her unfinished
i uncross mine crossword
In the first of these two poems the picture itself could not be clearer. However, readers’ interpretations could vary widely. My first take was that this depicts a reflexive and intuitive response by the subject, of which she may be unaware at that moment. But another possibility is that this disassociation by posture — so to speak — is entirely deliberate. It may signal that if he intends to be confrontational, that’s a game she is not going to play. The second haiku is more challenging to parse. I have shown this poem to a couple of friends (non-haiku poets both, yet familiar enough with the form). Both gave it a thumbs-down, on the basis that not enough information is provided. Myself, I find that there is sufficient material to let me speculate — and so long as I can do that I am a happy camper.
My own father was awarded monthly visiting rights by the courts, which allowed him to see each one of us children alone for an hour once a month. This was at the home of a long-suffering family friend. My mother had trained us not to open our mouths — not to answer even one question — during that interminable hour. After three or four months my father gave up. It would be ten years before it occurred to me that I could seek him out for myself. Which I then did. The relevance here? Just that upon reading this type of enigmatic haiku we tend to project our own past upon it. In the present example I picture the visiting parent, unable to coax her daughter out of a stubborn silence (or less dramatically, waiting for her to finally come downstairs) picking up the crossword that her ex-husband’s new partner has left on the table. She fills in a few clues to pass the time and just as much to display her intellectual superiority. Thus neatly delivering the clear message: “Screw you, lady”. For in the world of cryptic crosswords, at least, such behavior is not considered friendly.
All the haiku so far discussed are couched in the first person (even Stevenson’s “moving day”, by implication). Here we have a poem by Cindy Guentherman that could be debatable in that regard:
laughing together
out in the hallway
her lawyer and his
Is the poet in this case merely a detached observer? If she too is here for a court appearance, the scene could certainly cause her some disquiet. I have a hunch that the poet has deliberately avoided the first person — as in “my lawyer and his” — in order to take a step back from her situation and thereby achieve a degree of objectivity. It is as if at some level she acknowledges that this is the way things work, and there is nothing to be gained by getting indignant about it. (Obviously all of this is speculation on my part.) Before we leave the courthouse, here is a glimpse provided by Don Erlich that conveys — I know not exactly what. He gets my attention nonetheless.
custody battle
a bodyguard lifts the child
to see the snow
Is this one of those celebrity cases where money is no object? Are we at the courthouse, or in the home of whichever parent currently has custody? I believe the poem — whatever the locale — is essentially about the relationship implied between the man (for most likely it is a man) and this small child. Inevitably they spend a lot of time together, and we could speculate that the hired hand would make a better parent than either of the so-called natural ones.
Court appearances or no, there are always papers to be signed. These must be hand-delivered, and the delivery signed for. In the first of the two poems below, I wanted to suggest the idea of retreat into a remote area — not indeed to avoid the serving of papers, but to simply chill out for a while. This is the moment, depending on the law prevailing in the state where you married, when you may discover you are required to declare that you mistreated your spouse. She agrees with you on the phone that of course this isn’t true. But, she points out, there is no way forward other than to say that you did. So you sign. Life has its low points, and you need to move on.
deep in the mountains divorce papers
divorce papers she carefully snips
delivered by hand a loose thread
In the second poem, Ferris Gilli has composed a quietly devastating masterpiece, with her evocation of studied indifference — or something akin to that. The envelope may be lying unopened beside her; alternatively, she has already read its contents and laid them aside to be dealt with in due course. Meanwhile she carries on with her work. We may hear that precise snip of the scissors as a metaphor if we choose to do so.
There we have it. The thread has been cut, and a new life is beginning for all involved. This includes the children, where there are any. Naturally the situation presents a formidable extra challenge for parents, since purely personal interests need to be put aside in favor of of the larger imperative. As we shall see next time, much has been written about this aspect of the new order, as well the near-inevitability of new relationships being formed (if that has not already happened), and these becoming new partnerships. All of which creates a potential for push and pull with regard to off-spring — whether they be toddlers or teenagers.
