Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Marie Howe’s "Game" captures a childhood memory of makeshift worlds, domestic reprieve, and the intricate dynamics of siblinghood. The poem constructs a scene where children simulate a town in the basement, crafting a fragile yet deeply immersive reality that stands apart from the turbulence of the adult world. At its heart, "Game" is a meditation on innocence, the longing for order, and the comfort of ritual.

The poem opens with a rare occurrence: "And on certain nights, maybe once or twice a year, I’d carry the baby down and all the kids would come, all nine of us together." The emphasis on rarity heightens the moment’s significance, suggesting these nights were precious, almost ceremonial. The speaker assumes a maternal role, carrying "the baby," whose presence reinforces the family’s layered hierarchy—there are those who care for others and those who are cared for.

The game itself revolves around constructing a town from "boxes and blankets and overturned chairs." The list conveys both resourcefulness and improvisation, capturing how childhood often transforms the mundane into the magical. Each sibling finds a space in this world—"under the pool table or in the bathroom or the boiler room or in the toy cupboard under the stairs." The specificity of these locations underlines the intimacy of their play; each child inhabits a personal corner within a collective fantasy.

Roles are fluid: "you could be a man or a woman, a husband or a wife or a child." This flexibility hints at the children’s unconscious rehearsal of adulthood, testing identities in a way that remains playful, unbound by real-life constraints. The choice to include "or a child"—even though they are all children—suggests an awareness of their in-between state, a recognition that they are both part of and separate from the adult world they are mimicking.

The shift in tone begins when "one of us turned off the lights, switch by switch, and slowly it became night and the people slept." The gradual dimming transforms the game into something deeper, more atmospheric. It is no longer just a simulation of domestic life but an enactment of something larger—the passage of time, the rhythms of a society.

Central to this performance is the "Town Crier," typically "a boy," who assumes the role of the village watchman. "Nine o’clock and all is well, he’d say, walking like a constable we must have seen in a movie." The invocation of film suggests the way children absorb narratives, incorporating cultural fragments into their own constructed realities. The "all is well" refrain is especially poignant; it is both a comforting assurance and a performative assertion of order. As the game progresses, the Town Crier continues: "Ten o’clock and all is well… Eleven o’clock and all is well." The repetition builds a dreamlike quality, lulling both the children and the reader into the illusion of time passing within this fabricated town.

Yet, within this pretense, there are glimpses of reality: "And maybe somebody stirred in her sleep or a grown-up baby cried and was comforted…" These small disturbances serve as reminders of actual vulnerability, of real needs that exist alongside the game. The "grown-up baby" suggests a sibling playing a role but also speaks to the way childhood itself teeters between dependence and independence.

The game persists until "it went on like that through the night we made up until we could pretend it was morning." This closing line is deceptively profound. The children have not merely played at life; they have sustained it through an entire cycle, reaching a symbolic morning of their own creation. The phrase "the night we made up" underscores their agency—this was their world, shaped on their terms. And yet, "pretend it was morning" suggests an awareness of the inevitable end, that this town, this moment of unity, will dissolve as soon as the real morning arrives.

"Game" is ultimately about the fragile, constructed sanctuaries of childhood. It reveals how children, sensing the precariousness of their world, create their own order, their own rituals to assure themselves that all is well. The poem’s lingering beauty lies in its recognition that these acts of imagination, however fleeting, hold profound significance—not just as play, but as practice for understanding time, safety, and the narratives that shape our lives.

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