Kelly
Cherry was born in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, on December 21, 1940. She was the daughter of a violinist, and her
early exposure to music has had a profound effect on her work. Her work includes poetry, novels, short
fiction stories, and memoirs.
He stands at the door, a crazy old man
Back from the hospital, his mind rattling
like the suitcase, swinging from his hand,
That contains shaving cream, a piggy bank,
A book he sometimes pretends to read,
His clothes. On the brick wall beside him
Roses and columbine slug it out for space, claw the mortar.
The sun is shining, as it does late in the afternoon
in England, after rain.
Sun hardens the house, reifies it,
Strikes the iron grillwork like a smithy
and sparks fly off, burning in the bushes--
the rosebushes--
While the white wood trim defines solidity in space.
This is his house. He remembers it as his,
Remembers the walkway he built between the front room
and the garage, the rhododendron he planted in back,
the car he used to drive. He remembers himself,
A younger man, in a tweed hat, a man who loved
Music. There is no time for that now. No time for music,
The peculiar screeching of strings, the luxurious
Fiddling with emotion.
Other things have become more urgent.
Other matters are now of greater import, have more
Consequence, must be attended to. The first
Thing he must do, now that he is home, is decide who
This woman is, this old, white-haired woman
Standing here in the doorway,
Welcoming him in.
like the suitcase, swinging from his hand,
That contains shaving cream, a piggy bank,
A book he sometimes pretends to read,
His clothes. On the brick wall beside him
Roses and columbine slug it out for space, claw the mortar.
The sun is shining, as it does late in the afternoon
in England, after rain.
Sun hardens the house, reifies it,
Strikes the iron grillwork like a smithy
and sparks fly off, burning in the bushes--
the rosebushes--
While the white wood trim defines solidity in space.
This is his house. He remembers it as his,
Remembers the walkway he built between the front room
and the garage, the rhododendron he planted in back,
the car he used to drive. He remembers himself,
A younger man, in a tweed hat, a man who loved
Music. There is no time for that now. No time for music,
The peculiar screeching of strings, the luxurious
Fiddling with emotion.
Other things have become more urgent.
Other matters are now of greater import, have more
Consequence, must be attended to. The first
Thing he must do, now that he is home, is decide who
This woman is, this old, white-haired woman
Standing here in the doorway,
Welcoming him in.
This
moving poem by Kelly Cherry entitled Alzheimer’s
paints a vivid picture of an all too common ailment. The simple, one-word title informs the
reader immediately of the focus of the poem, allowing us to associate the text
of the poem with a victim of Alzheimer’s disease from the very beginning. The speaker’s tone initially seems rather
harsh and insensitive as the man suffering from Alzheimer’s is described as “a
crazy old man back from the hospital, his mind rattling like the suitcase,
swinging from his hand that contains shaving cream, a piggy bank, a book he
sometimes pretends to read…” One can
almost sense impatience and frustration from the speaker. The picture the speaker paints is initially
not flattering and doesn’t seem to portray the “real” man – the man who raised
a family, who built the walkway between the front room and the garage at the
very house described in the poem, who planted rhododendron
in the backyard, and who loved music.
As the poem progresses, the tone seems to convey a sadness, pity, a
sense of despair. One thinks of this
stricken man as he returns home from the hospital. Life around him continues as always with the
sun shining, rain falling, flowers blooming.
This gentleman’s world, however, is in turmoil as his memory fails
him. While he can remember certain
things such as his house, the car he used to drive, and how he loved music, he
cannot remember his own wife. The man’s
confusion is almost palpable.
The style of this poem by Kelly
Cherry seems to be free form. Within
this 29-line poem, there are no stanzas, no rhyming, or alliteration, and
sentences end in the middle of lines.