Sunday, August 26, 2007

Syllabus Time

Classes start this week at Hope College and I have just finished the syllabus for my poetry class, which begins on Wednesday afternoon. On Thursday, I am driving my son--and all his stuff--to Rhode Island for school, then turning around and (I hope!) making it back to Michigan in time for class again on Monday (yes, Labor Day) afternoon.

I always teach Philip Levine's poem "What Work Is" on Labor Day and sometimes when I read the poem I think, "Yes, Phil, I actually do know what work is." Sometimes. It isn't Labor Day yet, of course, but "What Work Is" is a wonderful poem. And any day is a good day to read Philip Levine. The poem is from Levine's National Book Award winning collection, What Work Is (Alfred A. Knopf, 1992). The poem (along with much of Levine's work) has been widely anthologized, but the entire collection is very much worth adding to your book list. This is a volume--and a poet--I come back to time and again.


We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is--if you're
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fingers,
and of course it's someone else's brother,
narrower across the shoulders than
yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin
that does not hide the stubbornness,
the sad refusal to give in to
rain, to the hours wasted waiting,
to the knowledge that somewhere ahead
a man is waiting who will say, "No,
we're not hiring today," for any
reason he wants. You love your brother,
now suddenly you can hardly stand
the love flooding you for your brother,
who's not beside you or behind or
ahead because he's home trying to
sleep off a miserable night shift
at Cadillac so he can get up
before noon to study his German.
Works eight hours a night so he can sing
Wagner, the opera you hate most,
the worst music ever invented.
How long has it been since you told him
you loved him, held his wide shoulders,
opened your eyes wide and said those words,
and maybe kissed his cheek? You've never
done something so simple, so obvious,
not because you're too young or too dumb,
not because you're jealous or even mean
or incapable of crying in
the presence of another man, no,
just because you don't know what work is.


Blogger Margaret said...

I love this poem and the book it comes from, too. Levine's really good at conveying heartbreak and rage.

1:32 PM  
Blogger Bryan Newbury said...

Aside from the shot at Wagner, it is a great poem. I suppose I can (very reluctantly) forgive such things in a work.

1:15 PM  
Blogger greg rappleye said...


Dude! You are back!

Yeah, he does take a cheap shot at Wagner.

2:25 PM  
Blogger Amanda Auchter said...

Such an amazing poem! Good luck w/ your classes & thanks so much for your comment! =)

8:16 PM  

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