Vox Populi
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Bill Knott: The Closet
(…after my Mother’s death)
Here not long enough after the hospital happened
I find her closet lying empty and stop my play
And go in and crane up at three blackwire hangers
Which quiver, airy, released. They appear to enjoy
Their new distance, cognizance born of the absence
Of anything else. The closet has been cleaned out
Full-flush as surgeries where the hangers could be
Amiable scalpels though they just as well would be
Themselves, in basements, glovelessly scraping uteri
But, here, pure, transfigured heavenward, they’re
Birds, whose wingspans expand by excluding me. Their
Range is enlarged by loss. They’d leave buzzards
Measly as moths: and the hatshelf is even higher!—
As the sky over a prairie, an undotted desert where
Nothing can swoop sudden, crumple in secret. I’ve fled
At ambush, tag, age: six, must I face this, can
I have my hide-and-seek hole back now please, the
Clothes, the thicket of shoes, where is it? Only
The hangers are at home here. Come heir to this
Rare element, fluent, their skeletal grace sings
Of the ease with which they let go the dress, slip,
Housecoat or blouse, so absolvingly. Free, they fly
Trim, triangular, augurs leapt ahead from some geometric
God who soars stripped (of flesh, it is said): catnip
To a brat placated by model airplane kits kids
My size lack motorskills for, I wind up glue-scabbed,
Pawing goo-goo fingernails, glaze skins fun to peer in as
Frost-i-glass doors … But the closet has no windows,
Opaque or sheer: I must shut my eyes, shrink within
To peep into this wall. Soliciting sleep I’ll dream
Mother spilled and cold, unpillowed, the operating-
Table cracked to goad delivery: its stirrups slack,
Its forceps closed: by it I’ll see mobs of obstetrical
Personnel kneel proud, congratulatory, cooing
And oohing and hold the dead infant up to the dead
Woman’s face as if for approval, the prompted
Beholding, tears, a zoomshot kiss. White-masked
Doctors and nurses patting each other on the back,
Which is how in the Old West a hangman, if
He was good, could gauge the heft of his intended …
Awake, the hangers are sharper, knife-’n’-slice, I jump
Helplessly to catch them to twist them clear,
Mis-shape them whole, sail them across the small air
Space of the closet. I shall find room enough here
By excluding myself; by excluding myself, I’ll grow.
~~~
Bill Knott (1940-2014) was an American surrealist poet who taught at Emerson College for more than 25 years. His work has been admired by many poets including James Wright who called Knott “an unmistakable genius.” An appreciation of Knott written by John Cotter, along with a generous selection of Knott’s poems can be found at this link.
Copyright 1983 by Bill Knott. From Becos, published by Random House. Include in Vox Populi for noncommercial educational purposes only.
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An original! I remember seeing him in Cambridge. We’d exchange a few words.
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I never met Bill Knott, but I’ve admired his originality and sense of absurdity since I was a college student.
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His use of end rhyme, slant rhyme, full rhyme and homophone is so subtle and original:
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I’d never heard of Bill Knott. This poem is outstanding, halloweenish, nightmarish, beautifully written, captivating. Must learn more about this poet. This is what happens when you’re a foreigner.
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A unique and genuine poet, a genius.
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Knott’s poems do interesting things to my sense of language, as if he is making mistakes that re-order the world.
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Thank you for reminding me of this awesome poet. I was lucky enough to work with him on some of his poems. But I’ve tried on 3 browsers and I can’t get that link to work for more Knott poems and a review.
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PS Adding to my comment on Knott . Stephen Dobyns wrote a wonderful essay on him after his death but I’ve been unable to find it since. It was an intimate, personal encounter with him. If any one knows how to access it, I’d love to re-read it. Thanks, Deborah DeNicola, dd1226@comcast.net
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Thanks, Deborah. The link in the credits above seems to have expired, but here’s an essay by John Cotter published by The Poetry Foundation.
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Deborah: There’s a book of essays on Bill Knott from Tigerbark Press that contains the Dobyns essay, and many other excellent essays : https://www.tigerbarkpress.com/catalog/p/knott
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Only one Bill Knott x
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Only one.
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Knott’s particular closet was turned from a playstation to a devastation.
His use of the metal hangers captured the pre=Roe v. Wade environment for pregnant women, and is relevant again today.
It’s a poem that needs several readings to reach its core. The ending raises my question, not as a poet but a human: when he writes by excluding myself, I’ll grow, does he ever, can we ever exclude ourselves from facing the closets like this?
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Envisioning the closet, Knott investigates his past.
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What courage and sharpness it takes to write like this. I feel a sense of shock even after reading this poem several times. Thank you for this.
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Bill Knott had genius…
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