Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Marie Howe’s "Certain Light" is a deeply intimate poem that captures the fragile boundary between life and death, the exhausting labor of caregiving, and the unexpected grace that can emerge even in the most painful moments. The poem unfolds like a narrative, recounting a day in the dying process of the speaker’s brother, John, detailing the struggle to manage his medications, the family’s efforts to keep him engaged, and finally, the luminous moment when he wakes with a clarity that momentarily defies his condition.

The poem begins with the precise cataloging of medications—"morphine and prednisone and amitriptyline and Florinef and vancomycin and Halcion." The sheer weight of these names underscores the medical reality of John’s existence, where survival is dictated by carefully timed dosages. The image of the "egg carton where they were numbered so there’d be no mistake" is both practical and heartbreaking—it speaks to the meticulous care involved in prolonging life, yet also suggests the inevitability of error or failure. Even with such precision, John vomits and must retake the pills, illustrating the body’s resistance to these attempts at control.

The shift from medical procedure to bodily suffering is stark. The "thin string of blue spit" is a quiet yet devastating detail, a reminder of the body’s frailty. As the poem progresses, John’s condition deteriorates; by noon, he is unresponsive, "breathing maybe twice a minute," a phrase that conveys the unbearable slowness of waiting for death. The urgency escalates when the family attempts to wake him, "shaking him hard," resorting to the crude yet standard cognitive test, "Who is the president?"—a question that carries an absurd mundanity in contrast to the crisis at hand.

The doctor’s order—"we’d have to keep him up for hours"—introduces a grueling ordeal. The poem makes clear the physical and emotional toll of caring for the dying: "He was all bones and skin, no tissue to absorb the medicine. He couldn’t walk unless two people held him." The image of John as a body diminished to "bones and skin" conveys his nearing departure from life, his body no longer functioning as it should. The effort to keep him conscious becomes an act of love and desperation, as they force him to talk about "the movies: What was the best moment in On the Waterfront? What was the music in Gone with the Wind?" These questions serve as both a tether to the world and a distraction from suffering, a way of maintaining engagement with something beyond pain.

The poem’s structure mirrors John’s own oscillation between wakefulness and sleep, consciousness and oblivion: "sinking, rising, sleeping, rousing, then only in pain again—but wakened." The repetition of actions and states reflects the cyclical nature of suffering, the way time distorts in the presence of terminal illness. The exhaustion of keeping him alert is palpable, yet the speaker recognizes that this labor is necessary.

Then comes the turning point—"that late that night in one of those still blue moments that were a kind of paradise." This phrase introduces a rare and unexpected beauty into the poem. "Still blue moments" suggests the eerie, almost sacred quiet of the hours before dawn, a liminal space where time seems suspended. In this moment, John opens his eyes, and the poem arrives at its title: "the room filled with a certain light we thought we’d never see again." This light is more than physical illumination—it is a moment of clarity, presence, and communion. It is a final gift, a reprieve from pain, a reminder of who John was before illness reduced him.

The exchange that follows is profoundly simple yet overwhelming in its emotional weight. John, seeing his caregivers, acknowledges them: "Look at you two," he said. And we did. And Joe said, Look at you. And John said, How do I look? And Joe said, Handsome." This moment, filled with mutual recognition and affection, strips away the pain, the medical realities, the desperation of the previous hours. It distills down to the essence of love—the simple act of seeing and being seen. Joe’s response, "Handsome," is not just a reassurance but a validation of John’s existence beyond his illness, an assertion of his dignity and worth even as his body fails.

"Certain Light" captures the paradox of death’s approach: the immense suffering and helplessness, but also the sudden, inexplicable moments of peace. The poem resists sentimentality; it does not offer false hope or miraculous recovery. Instead, it presents death as it is—unpredictable, painful, and yet sometimes suffused with an unearthly grace. The final exchange between John and Joe serves as a benediction, a farewell that acknowledges not just loss but also presence, love, and recognition. The poem leaves the reader with the image of this certain light, a moment of illumination that lingers beyond the darkness of death.

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