19 pages • 38 minutes read
Richard SikenA modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality Study Guides with detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, and more.
“You Are Jeff” is a prose poem, which means that its text is not arranged in poetic lines, either with a particular metric scheme or in the form of free verse. Instead, its 24 segments (or stanzas) read like prose paragraphs. However, what makes it a poem is a deliberate and complex use of poetic devices other than meter and rhyme, especially the use of figurative language, intricate symbolism, strategic repetition of key images and phrases, and the density of emotion. The poem is lengthy and consists of a series of vividly depicted scenes, ranging from mostly or partially realistic to entirely metaphorical. It can be called a narrative poem since the outlines of a story, or overlapping stories, emerge from its fragmentary structure. Siken has stated that, as a painter, he thinks “in panels more often than […] in narrative. Series and sequence, sideways development, the repetition of images and scene […] ‘You Are Jeff’ is 24 panels from a really difficult room” (Russell, Legacy. “Fight Club: Richard Siken.” 2011. Bomb Magazine). In other words, the poem does not develop its story temporally (through exposition, rising action, crisis, and resolution) but spatially, by creating layers of visual details, actions, and feelings until the desired effect is achieved.
In addition to the obvious reiterations of key symbols, such as the road and the room, the poem acquires coherence and intensity through the repetition of minor details, frequently with intriguing variations in implication or context. Consider, for example, Siken’s use of the concept of light and the color red. Light permeates the poem even before the actual word appears: “The sun shines down” as the twins ride their “shiny red” bikes (Stanza 1). When one twin throws a lug wrench into the air, “it will catch the light,” which makes it look like a star (Stanza 4). The lonely boy is in a dark room, except for “a wedge of powdery light that spills in from the adjoining bathroom,” where someone sings, perhaps to the boy (Stanza 9). In the hotel hallway, “the lights [are] gone dim” (Stanza 10), and the heart is drowning “behind the red brocade” of a stage curtain (Stanza 11). As Jeff is deciding whom he loves, there is a “red door” and a “red dog,” and “the sun shines down” (Stanza 12). The wounded man buying bruise cream is comforted by “the afternoon light […] streaming through the windows” of the grocery store, which transforms into “the light inside you” (Stanza 14). Then, the light and the color merge in a particularly striking passage, which seems to describe someone being horrifically hurt: “Blood everywhere […] the red light hemorrhaging from everywhere at once. […] The red light streaming in from everywhere at once. […] Now look at the lights, the lights” (Stanza 15). There are a few references to light in the stanzas that follow, but this moment is the culmination of the deliberate and gradual intensification of the words “light” and “red” in the preceding stanzas. However one might interpret the connotations of these words at any particular moment in the poem, they present a good example of how Siken employs repetition with variation to develop minor details into a major effect.
In addition to making the second-person pronoun (“You”) a major feature of the poem by using it ambiguously (it refers to different people at different times), Siken also emphasizes the imperative grammatical mode, which is used to form commands or requests, or as in this poem, express wishes and provide advice: “Consider the hairpin turn. Do not choose sides yet” (Stanza 1); “Open the door again. Open the door” (Stanza 10); “Don’t move. Keep staring straight into my eyes” (Stanza 17); “Leave the lights on. Keep talking” (Stanza 21); “Come closer. Listen…” (Stanza 23). These are just a few such examples. At times, they come across as recollections of what a man has said to his lover in the past or a man’s efforts to speak to his former lover across the separation of space, time, or death. Using the imperative mode to express the wish that communication with a former lover were still possible contributes to the poignancy of such passages. On the other hand, when these statements come off as pieces of advice, they have a touch of irony about them. What gives the speaker the authority to tell others what to do? Is he wiser than the rest? More experienced? Considering Siken’s distrust of definitive statements and preference for ambiguity, this use of the imperative mode might be a subtle mockery of the kind of speech one finds in personal advice columns. In a poem this invested in ambiguity, fluidity, and flux, it is fitting that even the authority of the speaker, the “I” who presumes his words are something “You” should heed, may be questioned and undermined.
By Richard Siken
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