Skip to main content

On Ambivalence

A.R. Ammons wrote a poem without metaphor, without rhyme, without allusions:

One can't
have it

both ways
and both

ways is
the only

way I
want it.

It's a poem about ambivalence. The speaker both would, and wouldn't, like a certain thing. The speaker acknowledges this, and also admits that conflicting desires make for an uncomfortable situation. ("One can't have it both ways.")

I think this is a funny poem, and I think it's funny because of the word "and." We're *not* reading this sentence: "One can't have it both ways, but both ways is the only way I want it." We're *not* reading this sentence: "One can't have it both ways, and yet both ways is the only way I want it." Ammons doesn't give us a comma, and his choice of conjunction doesn't underline or spell out the fact that the two halves of the poem are in tension (a "but" would accomplish that).

By leaving out the "but," and the comma, Ammons seems to be creating a "rambling" quality, and to be smirking just a little bit: Yes, I know that life is a ridiculous undertaking, even as I behave coolly, or faux-coolly.

I also like that "both ways" functions as both an adverb and a noun. I want it both ways. "Both ways" is the only way I want it. In the second case of "both ways," there is a line break between the "both" and the "ways," and this break conveys a sense of subtextual madness or exasperation (at least if you ask me). Small cracks under an apparently smooth surface.

Am I reading too much into a sentence? You decide! Happy Wednesday to you.

Comments

  1. Great to hear from you, Mahalia! Check out Maile Meloy's stories -- "Both Ways" ....she uses the Ammons poem (with intelligence!) ......

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

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...

Joshie

  When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

 Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...