Uncle Poem

I've been blessed with an abundance of fine uncles and aunts. Especially if a person grows up near uncles and aunts, or if the aunts and uncles visit a lot, the person is likely to perceive these sisters and brothers of parents as parental supplements, sometimes as advocates, certainly as interesting--and, if fortune smiles--eccentric personages.

. . .One of my uncles, Fred, is perhaps the wryest, funniest person I've met in my life. His humor is deadpan, but it also contains more than a small dose of absurdism, partly perhaps because he was a bombardier in World War II, flying numerous missions in a "Flying Fortress," experiencing too much; a very little bit of war must certainly be too much. One of my aunts, Nevada (whose nickname is "Babe"; if your name is Nevada, you wouldn't think you'd need a nickname), is certainly one of the bravest people I've known. She simply won't back down from a fight. Arguably, she started the only bar-fight I've been in; she slapped a man in the bar. Yes, he had it coming, but the chaotic brawl that ensued probably did not need to happen. Another uncle was one of the most ferocious people I've ever met; another ucnle is one of the kindest. One uncle was named Edsel, was born in the 1920s, but was truly a child of the 1940s, with a rakish, thin moustache, a chain-smoking habit, and a liberal use of place-holding names for people, such as "Bub," "Pal," and "Doll." If you've seen the actor Jack Carson in the film Mildred Pierce, you will have seen a bit of my uncle Edsel. Who names their kid Edsel--after (it seems) one of the least successful automobiles in U.S. manufacturing history? Answer: Henry Ford; and my grandparents on my mother's side. Actually, Henry Ford named the car after his son, or so I've read. . . .

. . . I think most aunts and uncles seem to children to be kind because they're not the children's parents. They can afford to have a sense of humor; to be overly generous; and to leave if something complicated comes up. Also, they know at least one of your parents well (most likely), so they add some information, if not some accountability, to the picture. They help make the paents seem less mythic because they give the parents a concrete past. . . .

. . . .Many of my students, who are in their early 20s when they graduate, are now becoming aunts and uncles for the first time. It's interesting to see how excited and proud they are of this new status, which brings much potential satisfaction with very little (in most cases) responsibility. Certainly, "aunt" and "uncle" are official kinship-posiitons, but to some degree, they are also ceremonial posts. . . . .

. . . .Lore has it that the phrase "Say uncle," meaning "Give up" when a person who has another person in a headlock utters the phrase to the headlocked person, originated in Roman civilization, when uncles held quite a bit of filial power. Apparently the phrase was "Patrue, mi patruissimo"--uncle, my best uncle. Children wrestling would say it to another. I'm not sure if this linguistic history is accurate, but it sounds good. . . .

. . .I've found that poems about aunts and uncles are difficult to write. In fact, the following poem, "Return to Uncleton," really isn't about uncles, per se, certainly not about any uncle I know. I think the poem springs from what poet Richard Hugo called a "triggering town," in a book by the same name. The town imagined here has arisen out of images, emotions, and fictional scenarios that live in my head. Partly, the poem may be about feeling oppressed by family or by the past; partly it may concern being an outsider; and it may contain the residue of my having passed through countless, vaguely depressing small towns--vaguely depressing to me, I hasten to add, not necessarily to those who lived there. . . .

"Return to Uncleton" is one of those "construct-poems," which synthesize a lot of free-floating material and which do not, for example, spring from one strong memory or one self-contained observation. Most of all, I think I liked inventing a town called Uncleton. For some reason, I felt compelled to have someone--the persona in the poem?--sing an impromptu lyric at the end.

I should probably add that the Edsel was actually a good car. It certainly is interesting to look at, and I think it was one of the first widely manufactured (but alas, not widely purchased) cars to use automatic transmission.



Return to Uncleton


His uncle had named the town Uncleton,
served as mayor for fifty years.

Except to tidy up the dog’s grave,
he goes back only for the annual

Rust Festival. He owns snapshots
of the Rust Queens and their Oxidized Courts

from the last twenty years. The lake looks
different from before and smells.

His trousers slip off his buttocks,
and teenagers laugh, their goddamned

music thumping out of cars. He’s inherited
just a pinch of his uncle’s rage

but no property. The sun off the lake
makes him scowl. Where exactly is

the dog’s grave? He remembers how,
just a pup, the little bastard nipped him.

Uncleton, O Uncleton, I hate the way you
draw me back like English on a cue ball.

Copyright 2007