Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Simon J. Ortiz’s "Not By Any Chance" is a stark, introspective meditation on survival, addiction, memory, and the contrast between the natural world and urban alienation. Set in a detox center in Portland, the poem juxtaposes the speaker’s immediate reality—a place of sickness, desperation, and fleeting camaraderie—with memories of the woods, hunting, and Indigenous traditions. Through fluid storytelling, fragmented thoughts, and sensory detail, Ortiz creates a layered reflection on the struggle for renewal, the thin line between survival and loss, and the enduring presence of Native identity even in the most marginalized spaces.

The poem opens with a direct statement: "The corner of Burnside and Union is not the edge of the world." This sets up an immediate contrast—while this location might feel like a place of dead ends, it is not literally the end. There is something beyond, but the reality of this corner is harsh: "Car traffic, streetlight flash, the invisible siren wail every short hour. It’s Portland." The sensory overload of city life is presented in brief, clipped images—flashing lights, endless sirens—suggesting a chaotic and relentless environment. The mention of "invisible siren wail" adds a sense of detachment, as if the city itself is filled with ghosts or warnings that go unheard.

The poem then shifts to a conversation with Tom, another man in detox, who reminisces about working in the woods: "Man, the woods are the place to be," Tom says. "Cutting trees. Up there in Tulalip, Indians, the air smelling of smoke." This nostalgic reflection on nature and labor among Indigenous people stands in stark contrast to the setting of the detox center. Tom takes "a deep shaky breath," suggesting both withdrawal and longing, as if the memory is both comforting and painful. The speaker’s response—"I'm silent. Not thinking too hard. It's too hard to think in the detox haze."—captures the fog of withdrawal, the difficulty of processing anything beyond the immediate struggle.

The next lines paint a vivid picture of the detox center’s atmosphere: "The TV is pretty loud down the hall and the dudes and women are talking just as loud or louder. They're all right though, just wiggy. One or two of them tweaking." The casual, almost detached tone reflects the speaker’s numbness. The phrase "just wiggy" suggests a kind of chaotic but harmless energy, while "one or two of them tweaking" acknowledges the presence of deeper struggles—some are still caught in addiction, still spiraling. The phrase "Not bad if you don’t have to be here." is crucial—it acknowledges that while this place is necessary, it is not a place anyone wants to be.

The speaker then recalls a mountain alcove "upriver from Eureka. Nothing but woods." This memory serves as a point of contrast, an escape from the "frenzied city light and frenzied night." The word "frenzied" repeated reinforces the unnatural, unrelenting energy of the city. The alcove, by contrast, represents solitude, protection, and something elemental.

Tom’s story about hunting near Klamath follows, unfolding like an oral narrative within the poem. He recalls shooting a deer but not knowing what to do with it: "So I said to Quickman this big Indian, What now?" The naming of Quickman suggests an archetypal Indigenous figure—someone who possesses traditional knowledge, who understands the ritual of the hunt. The tension builds as Tom watches Quickman pull out his "big K-bar," a military-style knife, and run his thumb along the blade. Tom’s reaction—"Man, I felt a cold shudder run deep up my elbow to my shoulder. It was the deer or me I thought."—reveals both fear and realization. This moment distills something primal: the confrontation with death, the recognition of one’s vulnerability in a world where survival is not guaranteed. But Quickman, unfazed, begins working on the deer, reinforcing his role as someone grounded in survival and tradition.

The narrative then returns to the detox center: "This place is not very far away." The statement is ambiguous—it could mean that Klamath is physically close, or it could suggest that the wilderness and survival instincts are not far removed from their current state of detox, where they are once again fighting for life. The speaker then reflects on his own experiences: "In my life I’ve been barely alive once or twice and I’ve been pretty damn close to my real last chance." This admission is raw, acknowledging brushes with death, whether from addiction or other struggles.

Yet, there is a sense of refuge: "The alcove protects me though and the alcove protects the others too." This alcove could be the literal detox center, but it also refers to the speaker’s inner place of survival, the small mental space where he can still hold onto something beyond addiction. The line suggests that even in a place of sickness and struggle, there is some measure of shelter, of protection.

The final lines present a haunting image of the street outside: "The street outside is running with winey puke, sour sweat, bloody men and women." The phrase "winey puke" captures the physical cost of addiction, while "bloody men and women" suggests violence, injury, and suffering. The city itself is a space of loss. The next line—"I hear the mournful wail of a ghost hiding from the dense heart of the city."—reintroduces the ghostly presence, a spirit that seems trapped, much like the people in detox. The word "dense" reinforces the weight of the city, its overwhelming force.

The poem closes with an unexpected shift: "And through the screened window drifts the smell of Indian woods and smoke." This final image is both literal and symbolic. The speaker, despite being in the heart of the city, still senses the woods, the smoke—a connection to something older, something enduring. The fact that the window is "screened" suggests separation, but the presence of the woods and smoke implies that Indigenous identity, memory, and survival persist, even in the most unlikely places.

Ortiz’s free verse, fragmented thoughts, and fluid shifts between past and present mimic the disorientation of withdrawal, the way memory and immediate experience blur together in moments of reckoning. The casual, conversational tone, particularly in Tom’s storytelling, makes the poem feel lived-in, as if the reader is overhearing fragments of conversation in a detox center, where stories are told between moments of sickness and recovery.

"Not By Any Chance" is ultimately a poem about survival—physical, emotional, and cultural. It acknowledges the brutal realities of addiction and urban alienation while also holding onto the possibility of renewal. The contrast between the city and the woods, between Quickman’s steady survivalism and the chaos of detox, reflects a broader struggle—one of Indigenous endurance, the tension between displacement and belonging, and the fight to reclaim one’s life, no matter how many times it has come close to slipping away. In the end, the speaker remains aware of both worlds—the frenzied street and the distant woods—suggesting that survival is not just about leaving one for the other, but about finding a way to exist between them.

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