{"id":405,"date":"2015-01-22T11:02:10","date_gmt":"2015-01-22T16:02:10","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/casit.bgsu.edu\/marblog\/?p=405"},"modified":"2015-01-22T11:02:10","modified_gmt":"2015-01-22T16:02:10","slug":"accepted-porch-light-moonlight-or-the-neighbors-bedroom","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/casit.bgsu.edu\/marblog\/accepted-porch-light-moonlight-or-the-neighbors-bedroom\/","title":{"rendered":"Accepted: “Porch Light, Moonlight, or the Neighbor\u2019s Bedroom”"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"porchlight\"<\/a>In our \u201cAccepted\u201d column, <\/em>Mid-American Review editors discuss why they selected stories, poems, or essays for publication. In this post, Assistant Poetry Editor Jenelle Clausen discusses a poem that appears in issue 34.2. This will be the final “Accepted” entry for 34.2; stay tuned for columns from 35.1.
\n<\/em><\/p>\n

Genre: <\/strong>Poetry
\nTitles: <\/strong>\u201cPorch Light, Moonlight, or the Neighbor\u2019s Bedroom\u201d
\nAuthors:<\/strong> Carroll Beauvais
\nMAR issue:<\/strong> 34.2\/Spring 2014
\nFirst lines:<\/strong> \u201cWhen we were children, we dreamed the moon \/ full of pink lakes, swimming holes without water moccasins.\u201d<\/p>\n

In the title, \u201cPorch Light, Moonlight, or the Neighbor\u2019s Bedroom,\u201d Beauvais presents us with three possibilities. Already, we want to know more. And then, the epigraph: \u201cFor my sister, if I\u2019d had one.\u201d The epigraph is brief and thoroughly surprising; it establishes the poem as fiction, which is perhaps a nod to the inviting trap of assuming that a poem\u2019s events \u201creally happened\u201d or that the poem\u2019s speaker is the poet himself or herself (a problem we don\u2019t encounter nearly as often when reading prose).<\/p>\n

But the epigraph doesn\u2019t diminish the sincerity of the poem. In the first two lines, we are immediately impacted by a striking image\u2014pink lakes on the moon\u2014that is unusual and that establishes the active world of children\u2019s imaginations. This imaginary world on the moon is also defined by what it lacks: \u201cswimming holes without water moccasins.\u201d There is no danger here. This first stanza continues in describing this shared dream-world, a world where girls could wear as little as boys in summertime and where stars would shed glitter on the grass.<\/p>\n

The second stanza uses images to firmly ground us in time; the speaker and sister were children when \u201cBuffalo nickels and baseball cards\u201d were popular. We also see the title verbatim and learn that the children would bet on what kind of light it was that \u201ctipped in through the blinds.\u201d The speaker says, \u201cI always chose moonlight and you always won.\u201d This suggests that the speaker\u2019s childhood was characterized by hopeful idealism, which she later realized to be unrealistic.<\/p>\n

The death of this hopeful idealism is addressed in the very next stanza, where we\u2019re brought to the present day, many years later. The speaker mentions that \u201cscientists claim water exists on the moon,\u201d but this potential fulfillment of a childhood dream does little good now for an adult filled with worry by the stark reality of life\u2019s hardships: \u201cWhat good does that do us now that we\u2019re old \/ and you just called to say they found another tumor?\u201d<\/p>\n

Like the first two stanzas, the final stanza is characterized by compelling images that create an emotional impact on readers. It is no longer summer, but autumn; this transition of seasons reflects the aging process. The \u201csugar maple\u2026is growing bare.\u201d How does something grow bare; how does growth lead to loss? The language here is subtle, and it indicates the disillusionment and sense of loss that comes with growing older, when childhood is left behind.<\/p>\n

We are left with a final striking image, not star glitter on the grass, as in the first stanza, but \u201cyellow leaves\u201d that look like \u201cthe small, wilted hands of a child.\u201d We can all relate to the sense of loss associated with giving up childhood dreams; this poem has universal meaning.<\/p>\n

But wait\u2014remember the epigraph? We\u2019re told that none of this happened. For the speaker, there was no sister, no cancer. This leads to the wonderful intentional ambiguity of the poem: Which is worse? To have lived through this experience, this suffering and disillusionment, or to have not had anything, or anyone, to lose?<\/p>\n

What MAR <\/em>editors said about \u201cPorch Light, Moonlight, or the Neighbor\u2019s Bedroom\u201d:<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cThe epigraph is really attention-grabbing, and even though it makes it clear that the poem as a whole is fiction, that in no way lessens the emotional truth and impact of it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe author uses great images to let us know where we are in time. There are a lot of imaginary images, like pink lakes, but there are also images like Buffalo nickels and autumn leaves that let us know when the speaker was a child and where we are now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jenelle Clausen, Assistant Poetry Editor<\/em><\/p>\n

Photo:<\/strong> Jeremy Stratton<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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