Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Mark Strand's "The Dreadful Has Already Happened" is a harrowing and surreal poem that evokes the inevitability of loss and the grotesque performance of societal expectations. Through disjointed imagery, fragmented memories, and a detached narrative voice, Strand crafts a disturbing meditation on grief, familial complicity, and the haunting presence of the past.

The poem opens with an unsettling scene: relatives leaning over, "staring expectantly," urging the speaker forward. This tableau of familial spectatorship immediately establishes a sense of pressure and detachment, as if the speaker is caught in a macabre performance. The "heaps of broken bottles" glinting in the sun add a visceral sharpness to the scene, suggesting danger or fragility. The act of holding the baby in the air—a gesture that might ordinarily symbolize celebration or protection—becomes ominous, especially against this backdrop of implied violence and decay.

Strand masterfully juxtaposes the ordinary and the grotesque. The "small band... playing old fashioned marches" and the mother stamping time with her foot evoke a carnival-like atmosphere, contrasting starkly with the darker undercurrents of the poem. The father’s inattentiveness, as he kisses a woman "waving to somebody else," underscores the speaker’s alienation and the disjointed nature of familial bonds. The idyllic imagery of "orange flamboyants" and "tall billowy clouds" provides a false sense of tranquility, as it is undercut by the speaker's growing unease and the foreboding command, “Go on, Boy.”

The repetition of commands—“Go on,” “Break his legs,” “Now give him a kiss”—emphasizes the speaker’s lack of agency and the surreal absurdity of the situation. These imperatives, coming from authoritative familial voices, suggest a ritualistic violence masked as tradition or duty. The storm imagery—darkening skies, thunder, and "bleak tropical wind"—mirrors the escalating tension and dread. Nature becomes complicit in the unfolding horror, echoing the chaotic emotional landscape.

The central act of the poem—shaking the baby’s lungs "out in the air for the flies"—is delivered with chilling detachment. The grotesque imagery of this action, coupled with the cheering of the relatives, reveals a collective dehumanization and a resignation to brutality. The baby's lack of a scream and the sigh that accompanies this moment are haunting, embodying both innocence and the inevitability of destruction. It is a moment of surrender for the speaker, marked by the admission, "It was about that time I gave up."

The latter part of the poem shifts into a surreal reflection on the lingering presence of the baby, who becomes an inescapable part of the speaker's existence. The transformation of ordinary objects—telephone receivers, pillows, and searches—into repositories of the baby's body parts signifies the psychological burden of guilt and memory. The fragmented descriptions, such as "his lips are in the receiver" and "his hair... around a familiar face," evoke the disorientation of grief and the inability to escape the past. The baby, now described as "what is left of my life," becomes a haunting symbol of irrevocable loss and the speaker's fractured identity.

Strand's language is stark yet evocative, combining detached observation with deeply visceral imagery. The poem resists clear interpretation, instead enveloping the reader in its dreamlike and nightmarish logic. Its structure mirrors the disjointed nature of memory and trauma, moving between vivid scenes and abstract reflection.

"The Dreadful Has Already Happened" captures the cyclical and inescapable nature of loss, where the past lingers in the present, and violence becomes a defining memory. It is a meditation on the rituals of family and the way they can perpetuate pain, as well as a chilling exploration of the human capacity for both participation in and survival of the grotesque. Strand’s ability to weave the surreal with the profoundly emotional ensures the poem lingers long after its unsettling conclusion.

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