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| Joyce Carol Oates (Photo by Richard Avedon) |
I find myself still thinking about Joyce Carol Oates (thanks to Leo Robson’s recent New Yorker piece). I woke this morning with the title of her poem “Acceleration Near the Point of Impact” in my mind. I first read it forty-eight years ago in Esquire. Here’s the poem:
the needles are starved, brown
fire-hazards warned of in the papers
but the yew tree rises miraculous
red and green ornaments
at its peak the hand-sized angel
again the release of dirty snow
the melting rush of sewers
the church bells’ ambitions
a Sunday of parades
rockets, ten-cent bombs
end of summer sales
bins of heaped-up bathing suits
sandals and shoes with cork heels
and tactile November skies
by minutes and inches pushing us
into history
fire-hazards warned of in the papers
but the yew tree rises miraculous
red and green ornaments
at its peak the hand-sized angel
again the release of dirty snow
the melting rush of sewers
the church bells’ ambitions
a Sunday of parades
rockets, ten-cent bombs
end of summer sales
bins of heaped-up bathing suits
sandals and shoes with cork heels
and tactile November skies
by minutes and inches pushing us
into history
What does it mean? I’m not sure. I think it’s about the onrush of time. I love the title – “Acceleration Near the Point of Impact.” It’s like a phrase from a horrific accident report indicating intent to injure, possibly suicide. Oates repurposes this chilling forensic expression, applying it to time’s current, flowing faster and faster as it sweeps us to our deaths.
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