Rae Armantrout, "Decor"

Hi all --

This post by John Ganz about Marx's famous take on events happening twice in history, "the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce," has been accused of trivializing differences between the two parties. I see it as very thoughtful and necessary. While I'm happy the Democratic party seems to have chosen a competent candidate willing to do the work and communicate clearly, that's just the bare minimum. I'd like to end mass incarceration (the U.S. has 4% of the world's population, 20% of its prisoners), feed the hungry (poverty among seniors is spiking), decriminalize certain drugs, forgive student debt, get free community college if not free college, build a serious social safety net, stop throwing 1 trillion dollars at the military, stop throwing billions from the federal government at cops, get childcare for all, have publicly funded elections, and have Medicare for All. You're going to say that's radical and I'm going to say that's the floor. None of that makes us a utopia or a perfect society. It makes us a society that has a chance.

Below I've put together some scattered thoughts on Rae Armantrout's amazing poem, "Decor." I hope they get you to wonder about it. The poem was a real joy to think through, to uncover new surprises each time I attended to the words.

Rae Armantrout, "Decor"

Rae Armantrout's "Decor" has my attention for two reasons. First, I'm in awe of its rich but minimally described scenes. For example, the opening stanza presents "drinking tea," "growing leaves," and "uneven stones" marking a wall around the cafe patio:

Drinking tea to pass time;
growing leaves to pass time.

Concrete wall —
the arm slung round this
café patio — is studded
with uneven stones.

The scene is quiet but the drama is suggestive. She begins the poem with the line "Drinking tea to pass time," but surely we do not drink tea only for that reason. Tea can be tied to contemplation and ceremony. Is something amiss? "[G]rowing leaves" adds to the mystery. If we're talking about tea leaves, then is thinking about the future also merely passing time?

There's no mention of anyone else in the first stanza. Are we staring at a wall's "uneven stones" while everyone else talks, enjoys themselves, and passes time in the manner of a pastime? Why does staring at rocks feel like a recounting of disappointment?

Decor
Rae Armantrout

  1

Drinking tea to pass time;
growing leaves to pass time.

Concrete wall —
the arm slung round this
café patio — is studded
with uneven stones.

  2

Ground cover of pert
green hearts:

mass market.

And these hot-pink,
splay-petalled pinwheels —

such toss-offs!

  3

Already 
it's started again

with new bodies
inflected differently

so that most of us
will end up loving

some dated version,

feeling shame

There's so much going on in this poem in terms of craft that it merits comment on that alone. But I don't want to forget to introduce my second reason for bringing "Decor" to your attention. This text serves as the intersection of a few complicated themes: the cheapness of capitalism, relationships, and identity. It is able to adeptly cover such a wide ground because of its focus on aging. You can feel it in the first stanza. Are we passing time because we are being treated like the decor? What is that doing to our mood? What are we thinking about, what are we trying to understand?

In this cafe, there's a "Ground cover of pert / green hearts: // mass market." There are also "hot-pink, / splay-pettaled pinwheels."

I can picture myself there. I have plenty of memories of tacky places–a department store dependent on its toaster oven sale, a coffee house blaring a mind-numbing Christmas album–and about to lose it. I'm looking at boxes stacked clumsily in an attempt at a display, or I'm hearing non-stop nostalgia, and I'm miserable. I want to be miserable. It has to be a more authentic, more real experience than wherever the world has shoved me.

But the cheap aesthetic of capitalism does more than successfully attract shoppers. The green hearts and pinwheels resembling flowers mimic something we think should be ours. Something natural. Maybe its love, maybe its growth, maybe its beauty. Maybe something else entirely. Who knows? Our desires aren't explored. They're splayed out in bits and pieces, all around us in hints, but not fully articulated or able to be addressed.

Well, what if everyone else in the cafe is having a good time? Aren't their desires known? Aren't they fulfilled? Perhaps. We've learned to play roles to not be offensive. Plenty will endure a miserable time so they can escape without notice. Whatever is real takes effort beyond appearances. It might be like the concrete wall with the uneven stones. A lot of life, I realize now, is having memories that aren't diamonds or gems but hard like rocks. It isn't clear how they would fit together, but jammed together in concrete they make us who we are.

Armantrout's third stanza finally takes notice of the others in her vicinity. It sounds like they're having a good time. They're probably falling in love, with their "new bodies / inflected differently." You'll note that "inflected" is a word that means "bent to:"

Already
it's started again

with new bodies
inflected differently

so that most of us
will end up loving

some dated version,

feeling shame

She doesn't linger long on the topic of relationships. She opens with "Already / it's started again," as if seasonal decor was the only point of the seasons. They are merely excuses for decor, are decor. Love without apprehension of what's essential might be like that. Seasonal, superficial. I've known people who were completely dependent on being immediately desired by whomever they came in contact with. If they weren't desired, their confidence crashed. Maybe love depends on something like knowledge, if not knowledge itself. Something more permanent.

Maybe. Armantrout changes the topic. She's glanced herself in the people around her, and that's what she's been wondering about this whole time. "[M]ost of us / will end up loving // some dated version, // feeling shame." Regrets feature prominently in these lines, and we can say why. There were times at the cafe with lovers which were full of joy. We can love who we were even though things didn't work out, right?

That's the fundamental conundrum. How do you love one of your past selves–a self outside you, not unlike the decor of a room–and not be ashamed? You literally moved on from yourself, after all. What's stunning is how difficult it is to get to this question. It's buried not just under endless exploitation of various desires, but going back to the first stanza, even under practices we don't make our own. I can sip all the tea I want contemplatively and do nothing more than "pass time" if I'm not aware of my needs.