After Making Love
Call me crazy, but I teach a lot of poetry. To college students who really don't want to be reading poetry, no less. I can hear the collective groan now; semester after semester, it never changes. The few students that maybe-kinda-sorta like poetry tend to keep their mouths shut. I don't blame them. I do ensure that there will be no sonnets, no iambic pentameter, no set rhyme scheme. Otherwise, I just let the poems speak for themselves, and I promise the room nothing.
"Why aren't you telling us what it means," I was asked one day.
"Why aren't you telling me?"
Imagine it. A teacher asking you for the meaning of the poem, and with absolute sincerity. In my mind I'm thinking: "Please tell me what the poem means to you, because I'd really like to have a conversation about it."
And here we are. I've decided to drop in on a favorite Stephen Dunn poem and have a little conversation out loud. "After Making Love" reads like a shot of whiskey down the throat. It burns a little. It works its magic quickly. "After Making Love,"
No one should ask the other
"What were you thinking?"
No one, that is
who doesn't want to hear about the past
and its inhabitants,
or the strange loneliness of the present
filled, even as it may be, with pleasure,
or those snapshots
of the future, different heads
on different bodies.
This is the first turn of the poem, and it's pretty damn straight forward. There is always a sigh of relief around the room when this kind of thing happens. Not every poem is a puzzle, but I do believe every poem should make you work for it in some way. I just don't like working for comprehension. In my mind, the best projects begin after comprehension; why get hung up on the basics?
The poem continues:
Some people actually desire honesty.
They must never have broken
into their own solitary houses
after having misplaced the key,
never seen with an intruder's eyes
what is theirs.
A student raises her hand. "Is this person asking what the other one is thinking during sex?"
Laughter around the room.
"No, I'm pretty sure it's after. That would be where the title comes handy. Besides, who in their right mind would ask that during sex?"
"Maybe it was lousy sex," another student chimes in.
More laughter.
"Well, that's a possibility - and a shame, but let's try to figure out why anyone in their right mind would ask this question even after sex."
I like to start with the ending. How many people feel it makes sense? I do. And when you look at it closely, it's a pretty complicated metaphor - but something about it just works. Usually, initial discussions of this poem involve mini-sagas around the room, students having been locked out of their houses, apartments, cars. Most people have, at one point, broken into something they own. Or, they've at least tried. The estrangement is fascinating, the feeling that you are doing something wrong when you're just trying to get back into your own place. How does this happen, and how does this feeling work in Dunn's poem?
First, the bravery of the beginning. I think Stephen Dunn makes it clear that if you're going to ask someone "what were you thinking?" after sex, you better be prepared for an answer you don't want to hear. But here's the kicker: that's not true. In our daily lives, when asked "how's it going?" we tend to respond with a guttural, conversation-killing: "good." You could be having the shittiest day you've had in a long time, but you'll still answer: "good." In that way, if asked this question after sex, most of us would answer: "You. I was thinking about you baby, what else would I be thinking about?"
This is the kind of lie society condones. To answer honestly would require courage we aren't built to sustain. Imagine streaming Twitter updates of your internal dialogue. We would all hate each other. Then love each other. Then quickly hate each other. I know there are moments in sex when I am absolutely thinking about person in bed with me. I know there are moments when I am thinking of someone else, sexually or otherwise. There are moments when I am thinking about a whole slew of mundane and/or important things. Then there are those wonderful moments when I am thinking of very little. But, our thoughts seem to be a continuum: past, present, future. We experience it all, protect it all, filter it all, then usher a limited version of ourselves out into the world. Perhaps this accounts for "the strange loneliness of the present," though it can be filled with such extraordinary pleasure. I admit, I have never conjured an assembly line of the future, or "different heads on different bodies." But the image is delightfully bereft of all sentimentality. The bodies of the future are perhaps just variations of the bodies of the present (or past), without the personality attached.
The first part of the poem reads wonderfully and doesn't put up a struggle. The second half reads just as wonderfully, and doesn't put up a struggle, but it does catch you on your way out, stops you at the door before you can close it. You turn and go back inside. What was that? According to Dunn, those people who "actually desire honesty," they are the ones who "must never have broken into their own solitary houses." Perhaps they have never stood outside themselves, looking in. Never done anything that would estrange themselves from… the person they thought they were.
I look at it this way: they are the kind of people who do not recognize the brutal and beautiful complexity of inner life. Perhaps for them, thoughts are not on a continuum. They expect to be in the present, perfectly still. They expect you to be there with them. They always remember the keys. They never misplace anything, not even a word. They certainly never misplace themselves.
I am not one of those people. But, I have caught myself asking someone I love, "what are you thinking?" usually while driving in a car. I realize the gross violation of privacy this question entails.
And I never really understood why I asked it, that is - until I realized I only ever asked it when I came out of my own stupor of thought - a stupor that took me everywhere but in that car next to the other person. Perhaps it was guilty conscience. Or, more of a simple: "Hey, I'm back. Where were you?" I don't think this scenario exists in the poem, however.
To break into one's "own solitary houses" requires isolation and self-estrangement. It also begs the question, what got you locked out of your own solitary houses to begin with? The idea of "having misplaced the key" is introduced in the poem, but there must be more to it than that. I mean, how often do you misplace the key? Conversely, what does it mean to be the kind of person who has "never seen with an intruder's eyes / what is theirs?" Dunn seems to suggest this is the kind of person who would ask "what were you thinking?" after making love. It must be someone who has never experienced this kind of alienation. Perhaps they have never done something out of character. Or never had thoughts that would do harm (even unintentionally) to the person in front of them. They would never suspect the answer to their question could cause them harm, so they ask it. Naiveté. There exists, of course, the possibility that they have experienced all these things, and still "actually desire honesty." This is a particular (and exceedingly rare) kind of bravery. In a complete 180° turnaround of interpretation, I just might envy this kind of person. But ultimately, what I like most about this poem is the projected focus it places on the reader. What kind of a person are you? Do you embrace the inner life, the complexities of thought, thereby leaving others to their own? Have you found yourself locked out of the person you considered yourself to be, looking in with an intruder's eyes? Did you manage to break back in, thankful to reclaim something of your own?
Yes, Stephen Dunn's "After Making Love" reads like a shot of single malt whiskey - the good stuff. It makes me want to toast everyone around me, whether they've broken into their own solitary houses or not. It leaves me with a warm, burning feeling in my stomach. It is a combination of new questions, wonderful language, and sheer appreciation. It makes me think:
I have felt this.
Thank-you for saying it.
Thank-you for this human conversation.
(Stephen Dunn, "After Making Love" from: Loosestrife. Norton. 1998.)
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