Skip to main content

On Marriage

Marriage is all contradiction.
On blissful days, you choose to live
for the moment, as in romantic fiction;
on miserable ones, believe
in what lies beyond the blue horizon.
In short, you can't be realistic
unless you dare to throw out reason...
and marriage, after all, is a joint
venture, not a game in which
adversaries score a point;
both of you stand to lose the match
.



That's Mary Jo Salter. The poem is "A Benediction."

It's really a poem about death (I think). You and your partner can live in the present, or you can dwell on fears about deterioration and loss (things that are inevitable, in life: "what lies beyond the blue horizon"). A little realism is a good idea, but it can bog you down. A little fancifulness is a good idea, but it can leave you blind-sided.

The final lines could help so many people, if posted in so many living rooms: "Marriage, after all, is a joint venture, not a game in which adversaries score a point; both of you stand to lose the match."

These lines helped me after a recurring bit of comedy in my own marriage. My husband and I arrive for a house inspection; I want to help move things along by managing the Baby Bjorn on my own. My husband wants to ensure the safety of all by overseeing the use of the Bjorn. Good intentions all around: Efficiency (on my end)! Helpfulness (on his)! But, tilt the prism, and the intentions can be lost: What looks like efficiency can also look like sloppiness. What looks like helpfulness can also look a bit overbearing.

A deep breath and a poem: These are great things.

Happy reading!

P.S. Two playful things I like in this poem. (1) How "reason" is echoed in "realistic." (2) How Salter declares that marriage isn't a game, but then says both of you "stand to lose the match." Not a game, but also: a game. "All contradiction."

P.P.S. There's an interesting use of sort-of-rhyme-sort-of-consonance. Contradiction, fiction, horizon, reason. Live, believe. Which, match.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...