Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Fanny Howe’s "Victory" is a stark and unsettling meditation on the lives of marginalized children—those lost in systems of poverty, violence, and neglect. The poem’s tone is bleak yet rhythmic, mixing sharp imagery with observations that blur into philosophical reflection. The Rescue Mission of the opening line is both literal—a shelter, a social service—and metaphorical, standing for any attempt at salvation in a world where suffering is the status quo. The statement "There is no Rescue Mission where it isn’t freezing / from the need that created it" suggests that help itself is shaped by the desperation that necessitates it. The setting is cold, unwelcoming, a reflection of systemic failure rather than relief.

The lost children of the poem are distilled to something elemental, reduced to "pure chemical." They are stripped of individuality, abstracted into need and reaction, as if their humanity has been eroded by the brutal environment they navigate. In this world, "where Good is called No-Tone," silence is rewarded while expression is punished: "it’s the one who cries out who doesn’t get a coat." Vulnerability is not met with care, but with exclusion. The equation is simple—survival belongs to those who do not demand.

The poem shifts to images of violence and resilience, where children fuse together in defiance of division. The phrase "Daughters shot off of hydrants" evokes both the playfulness of city kids cooling off in summer and the brutal reality of urban violence. These children "cut each other in the neck and gut" not out of malice, but because violence is embedded in their world. They "don’t care / which one of them will end up later in surgery," an almost nihilistic acceptance of their circumstances. The indifference is chilling—pain is so common that it barely registers.

Similarly, "drugged sons pretending to be costumes" hints at boys numbing themselves, blending into the landscape of survival. They are "not welcome to comprehension either," suggesting they are not just misunderstood but excluded from the possibility of being understood at all. Their existence is not framed in terms of growth or redemption, but as something society has already written off.

The poem then moves into a surreal juxtaposition of internal and external worlds: "Why does a wild child confuse a moon / with a hole in his skin?" The child’s perception is warped by trauma—his wounds, whether physical or emotional, distort reality. The connection between personal pain and celestial bodies evokes a sense of tragic wonder, as if suffering itself becomes a cosmic force.

The lines "One was born soaked in gin. / His first sip was from a bottle of denial." reinforce generational cycles of addiction and neglect. The first child is literally and metaphorically poisoned from birth. The phrase "bottle of denial" plays on the dual meaning of denial—both as rejection of reality and as something fed to a child who inherits suffering without consent.

The question "What can ?leave me alone? mean after that?" strikes at the core of the poem’s theme. How does one escape a life that was imposed before they had the ability to choose? The answer is grim: "The system is settled, dimensions fixed." These children are locked into a structure that has little room for deviation, a fate determined before they have a chance to shape it.

The poem takes a sudden turn toward the strange and sensory: "Another one’s hand feels like a starfish. / Makes me hysterical like the word perestroika." The comparison is elusive but evocative—the softness of a child’s hand against the chaos of history, the collapse of systems, the failure of reform. The starfish, often associated with regeneration, is an ironic counterpoint to the systemic entrapment described earlier.

Yet, even amid the bleakness, there is a moment of fascination: "But they all dig the way the pepper is rosy in the vodka." This line suggests a heightened sensitivity to small pleasures, even within self-destruction. The taste of spice in alcohol is a rare indulgence, a tiny aesthetic experience in a landscape of deprivation.

The poem ends with a layered reflection on language and transformation. "It’s verbocity that creates jokers." The play on verbosity (excess words) and veracity (truth) hints at the power of language to both distort and entertain. The phrase suggests that in a world where pain is constant, humor is a survival mechanism.

The final lines shift to the role of teachers and volunteers, those who try to help but perhaps do so with rigid ideas: "Brick and grit are the candy and frosting / where volunteers and teachers write cards that go: / ?Donate books that say NOT and NO and poets / who say Urn instead of Oh.?” This critique suggests that charity and education often impose limits rather than open doors. Instead of providing expansive, imaginative possibilities, they give books filled with "NOT and NO," reinforcing restriction. The preference for poets who say "Urn instead of Oh" implies a world that values formality, mourning, and distance over raw, expressive emotion.

Yet, the poem’s closing question holds the glimmer of resistance: "How do the children convert their troubles / into hip-hop? Dunno—but it’s wonderful." Here, the children reclaim their narratives, transforming suffering into art. Unlike the prescribed language of teachers and institutions, hip-hop emerges as something organic, defiant, and alive. The speaker does not claim to fully understand this alchemy, but they recognize its beauty.

"Victory" is deeply ironic in its title—the poem offers no clear triumph, only the resilience of those who survive against overwhelming odds. It is a meditation on systemic neglect, cycles of violence, and the failure of institutions to provide real solutions. Yet, in the end, the act of creation—turning struggle into music, language, and movement—becomes the only form of defiance that feels genuine. The children, despite everything, refuse to be silent.

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