Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Simon J. Ortiz’s "To & Fro" is a poem of displacement, intellectual estrangement, and the pull of home against the forces of exile. As with much of Ortiz’s work, movement—both physical and psychological—plays a central role, highlighting the uneasy relationship between identity, history, and the modern world. The poem follows a speaker who leaves California in a state of existential and intellectual disquiet, returning home with little fanfare. What unfolds is an understated meditation on belonging, memory, and the unspoken forces that shape one’s journey.

The poem’s opening moment is blunt and charged with racial dynamics: "On the train to California, a Black porter told me, / 'We don’t serve Indians hard liquor, chief.'" This encounter, a moment of discrimination wrapped in condescension, is presented without embellishment. The porter’s use of "chief" reinforces the stereotype-laden, transactional nature of the exchange. The phrase "We don’t serve Indians hard liquor" evokes the long history of laws and policies restricting Native people’s access to alcohol, reflecting broader colonial efforts to regulate and control Indigenous lives. The speaker’s response—"That’s okay, man."—is casual, seemingly dismissive, yet it carries an undercurrent of quiet endurance. There is no protest, no challenge, only an acceptance that such moments are part of the landscape he must navigate.

This encounter sets the stage for the poem’s larger exploration of displacement. When the speaker arrives home, he is met with an immediate challenge: "When I got home my wife asked, / 'What are you doing back here?'" The question suggests that his return is unexpected, perhaps even unwelcome. The speaker’s reply—"I came home."—is simple yet loaded with ambiguity. The phrase asserts belonging, yet the wife’s question implies that home is not a given, that the speaker’s presence is not as natural or assumed as he might have expected.

Ortiz then upends the reader’s assumptions with a confession: "Actually, I was a fugitive." This sudden shift in tone transforms the poem, suggesting that his departure from California was not just a decision but an escape. The word "fugitive" carries a weight of secrecy and urgency, indicating that his movement was driven by something unresolved. The reason behind this flight is not immediately clear, but the poem gradually reveals the psychological and existential forces at play.

The moment of decision is described with precise detail: "I had decided that at 8:00 A.M. / in the East Commons over scalding coffee, sitting at an imitation-wood table as I watched crowds of students mangle each other before breakfast." The specificity of "8:00 A.M." and "imitation-wood table" situates the scene in a sterile academic environment, contrasting sharply with the visceral description of students "mangl[ing] each other." The word "mangle" suggests chaos, detachment, or even violence, implying that the setting—the university, the intellectual environment—is itself overwhelming or meaningless to the speaker. The image conveys a sense of alienation, as if he is watching something disjointed and disconnected from his own reality.

The speaker’s thoughts shift toward poetry and language: "I had several strange moments thinking of Charles Olson / and language, thinking about a point in particular the night before when the night and the connections were one and the same, / and I had touched a sustaining motion, realizing the energy that language is and becomes." The mention of Charles Olson, a poet known for his expansive, kinetic theories of language, indicates that the speaker is grappling with the mechanics of meaning itself. The phrase "when the night and the connections were one and the same" suggests an intellectual or mystical revelation—perhaps a moment where language felt organic, interconnected, and full of possibility. The idea of "a sustaining motion" reinforces this sense of fluidity, as if language itself carries a kind of energy, a force that moves beyond mere words.

However, despite this revelation, the speaker leaves. "I had to leave California I told my wife later / but kept secret that dove I heard one precarious morning / when I was sick and moaned for home, pushing back the memory of a boy in Summer morning fields." This final revelation is deeply personal, marking a departure from the academic musings on language to something more instinctual and emotional. The dove—a traditional symbol of peace, home, and longing—appears at a moment of vulnerability. The word "precarious" suggests that the speaker was physically or emotionally unwell, a state that triggered his longing for home. Yet, he "kept secret" this moment, implying that it carries an intimacy or weight that he cannot—or will not—articulate.

The last line—"pushing back the memory of a boy in Summer morning fields."—connects this moment of longing to childhood. The mention of "Summer morning fields" evokes a time of innocence, openness, and a relationship with the land that predates the complexities of adulthood. This is a memory that the speaker does not fully embrace but instead "pushes back," as if acknowledging it would reveal too much. It suggests that his departure was not just about California, language, or academia, but about something deeper—perhaps the need to reclaim a part of himself that had been lost.

Ortiz’s free verse structure enhances the poem’s fluid, introspective nature. The shifts between present dialogue, past reflection, and deeper memory mirror the way thought itself moves—unstructured, driven by associations rather than linear logic. The lack of punctuation in key moments allows ideas to bleed into one another, creating a rhythm that mimics both the movement of travel and the movement of the mind.

"To & Fro" is ultimately a poem about exile and return, about the intellectual and emotional forces that shape movement. The speaker, caught between academia and home, between language and lived experience, finds himself unable to fully belong in either space. His journey is not just one of geography but of identity, of trying to reconcile the forces that push him away with the memories that pull him back. Ortiz captures the inescapable tension between intellectual pursuits and the deeper, more instinctual needs for belonging, grounding, and home. The poem leaves the reader with an unresolved sense of longing—an understanding that, for some, movement is not a choice but a necessity, and home is both a refuge and a question.

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