The plane was delayed,
the rumor went through the line. We shrugged,
in our hopeless overcoats. Aviation
had never seemed a very natural idea.
Verse, it has been said, is the literary form of choice for dealing with myth. That is why when one thinks of the great literature about those heroic larger-than-life figures from ancient Greece, one thinks of poems by writers with names like Homer and Milton. Updike is writing myth, too, but it is a different sort of myth. His subject is the myth of middle-class, mid-century America for the most part. If you want to get an idea—but not quite a history textbook entry—about what living in America was like for the multitudes between World War II and Reaganomics, then read the poetry of Updike. In this entry, the deadening reality of the mythic idea that most of us waste way too much of our lives waiting in line for something is transformed into high art with a juicy kicker at the end that continually rings ever more true.
What can you say about Pennsylvania
in regard to New England except that
it is slightly less cold, and less rocky,
or rather that the rocks are different?
Updike’s fiction is as inextricably linked to New England as Faulkner’s is to Mississippi or Willa Cather’s is to the Great Plains. Many of his novels are set in that region as are a great deal of his most memorable short stories. Interestingly, however, the bulk of his poetry is not too concerned with setting and really could be taking place almost anywhere in America, at least. This poem is a definite subversion of that trend, however, as it entirely about setting. In fact, with the exception of the first two of these four four opening lines, it is basically forty lines of continuous images of the rocks, trees, animals and people of Pennsylvania which for may who don’t live there probably does not seem all that different from New England.
Begowned, recumbent on one's side,
one views through uprolled eyes the screen whereon
one's big intestine snakes sedately by,
its segments marked by tidy annular
construction-seams as in a prefab tunnel
slapped up by the mayor's son-in-law.
Anyone looking for a poet of the people need look no further than Updike. Anyone who can make a poem out of the experience of undergoing the invasive examination of one’s colon should definitely not be situated among the more precious poets who never write of anything one can actually touch. True, this may not be quite the type of poem one would want to heard read aloud at a poetry reading, but reading it as poetry is inspirational to anyone would-be poet wondering if their stuff is really going to connect with readers. Of course, some might quibble that Updike fails to take full advantage of the potential in making this procedure his topic for verse. The final imagery, after all, is one that gives the speaker a positive outcome as he hears the words everyone who has undergone colonoscopy hopes to hear: “Perfect. Not a polyp. See you in five years.” Where’s the drama in that outcome? Well, it certainly builds up suspense for the sequel.
