with a full gospel choir crooning behind him,
with twenty thousand spectators surging to their feet,
with an arena of flashbulbs flashing its approval,
and I’m spellbound, thinking it’s all so spectacular, until
the broadcast team weighs in,
and Charles Barkley says, “That wasn’t the greatest dunk,”
and Marv Albert says, “But the presentation was pretty fun,”
and I’m made to revisit what I thought I saw
as one question replaces all others—
Was it truly extraordinary?
When I read Doerr’s story “The Master’s Castle” a few days ago I went back and forth between the ending being one of hope, or one of delusion. This pivoted on my mood, varying from wonder and sincerity to a bitter cynicism. This poem crystalizes that pivot, beginning with a basketball dunk.
I’m totally ignorant of basketball except for the bits and pieces I see on Twitter (there’s someone named Steph Curry, right?) so I had to look up the scene that begins the poem. Fortunately, there’s a clip on Youtube that shows some kind of dunking contest, and this guy jumps over the hood of a car to plant the basketball in the basket. And, indeed, there is a gospel choir. And, indeed, one of the announcers (he’s a basketball player, too, isn’t he, this Charles Barkley?) immediately disses the stunt.
Now, I understand where he’s coming from, though I have no way to judge whether it was an astounding feat or not. In nearly every human endeavor — literature, art, figure skating, music, politics — there’s flash, and substance, and flash always impresses the audience while substance impresses the experts. There could be some jealousy there as well, but as I say, I can’t judge. But which it is doesn’t matter; the fact that there’s a difference is what the poem zeroes in on.
….I want to believe
in the marvelous, not because it feels authentic,
but because the alternative
is a world where no one dons a cape to leap over buildings.
No one turns lead to kindness.
No one sings the kraken to sleep.
In a kingdom that insists on repudiating all enchantments,
I feel catastrophic and alone.
Cynicism erases the marvelous, the enchanted, and leaves us with getting through the day; it leaves us feeling alone. Wonder lets us believe in things we don’t understand, in things greater than ourselves. In the extraordinary ability of an athlete. In miracles.
Do we have a choice between a viewpoint from cynicism or from wonder, from a hard edge of irony or a jumping-off point of sincerity? How firmly is it woven into our personalities to be one or the other? Pam Houston’s 2019 essay “What Has Irony Done For Us Lately” pled for a more earnest approach to life; I had some quibbles with parts of her argument, but overall agreed. I think a lot of us have see-sawed between cynicism and belief over the past few
days years, so it may not be totally under our control. It may not be beneficial to be wide-eyed with wonder in all circumstances, but neither is a sneer the best approach to everything.
The poem then turns intensely personal: the speaker’s wife had collapsed at work, and a visit to the emergency room sent her home with no answers as to what had happened. Or if it would happen again. In the absence of knowledge, which do we go for, hope riding on a sense of wonder, or despair under the weight of cynicism?
The speaker makes a choice:
I will cling to any rationale offered.
I might pray or go to a church where a priest
tells a story about transubstantiation,
hands me a chalice filled with possibility.
And I know there’s no blood in there.
I know the wine will taste like wine. Still—
I lift the cup.
The Pushcart edition has an interesting typographical change here: “lift” is italicized. In the original poem as shown online, it isn’t. The lifting itself recalls Blake Griffin leaping over the car, rather than the dunk, which is downward. What does the italic do? Emphasis of the motion? A lift of voice? Does it add a degree of confidence to the lifting of the cup, thus to the wonder and hope that provokes it? And, of course, it could be a simple mistake, in which case, says the cynic, it’s meaningless; and says the believer in wonder, it’s not quite meaningless, since it’s that word that is mistaken, and maybe someone typing copy subconsciously heard a something slant.
It’s our choice.
* * *
Other takes on this poem:
The Frost Place community blog
The complete poem can be found online at Four Way Review.