Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Lawrence Raab’s "My Soul Is a Lighthouse Keeper" is a meditation on love, absence, and self-rediscovery. The poem presents a speaker who, once devoted to watching over a distant lover, comes to embrace solitude and personal agency. Through the metaphor of the lighthouse keeper, Raab explores the tension between devotion and independence, the impulse to care for another versus the necessity of caring for oneself. The poem suggests that love, particularly unreciprocated or unbalanced love, can become an obligation rather than a joy—until one recognizes the quiet fulfillment of living for oneself.

The poem begins with an intriguing framing device: (Error in the printing of the line "My soul is a lighthouse keeper," by an unknown female poet.) This note immediately establishes an element of metafiction, as if the poem is a response to or a reinterpretation of another’s words. The notion of an error in the printing hints at misinterpretation or distortion, suggesting that the theme of misunderstanding—especially within relationships—will play a central role.

The speaker adopts the persona of the lighthouse keeper, watching over a distant figure: "Bored with the high drama of watching, I see myself bound always to your absence, sending out my pure circle of light so you will know where I am, and how close you might come to disaster." The lighthouse serves as a metaphor for unacknowledged or unappreciated devotion. The speaker is "bound always to your absence," existing only in relation to the other person’s potential need, warning them of peril but never actively engaging. The "pure circle of light" symbolizes both guidance and futility—an unwavering beacon that does not demand attention but simply persists.

The speaker then turns to the emotional toll of this role: "Imagine, love, the tedium of this watch. / On almost every day nothing happens." The watchkeeping becomes monotonous, revealing that this dynamic is not one of romance but of waiting. The relationship, if it can still be called that, is defined by distance and expectation rather than shared experience. The rhetorical question that follows—"And isn?t it wrong to yearn for a great storm just to feel important?"—is a moment of self-recognition. The speaker admits that the absence of crises, of grand dramatic gestures, has left them feeling insignificant. This confession acknowledges the unhealthy tendency to equate suffering or rescue with emotional depth, a pattern that often arises in relationships built on longing rather than reciprocity.

With this realization, the speaker decides to let go: "I?ll let you go, then. Why shouldn?t my house be my own, and my soul its keeper?" The lighthouse, once dedicated to another’s safety, now becomes a home, a space of personal ownership. The shift in metaphor—from being a guardian for another to being the keeper of one’s own soul—signals the speaker’s reclamation of autonomy. No longer defined by the absent lover’s movements, the speaker asserts control over their own emotional landscape.

This newfound independence is reinforced in the next lines: "This work I needn?t take so seriously since I?ve learned what pleases me, the light of late afternoon through that window, the intricate cobwebs I won’t disturb." The speaker embraces the quiet pleasures of domestic life, finding beauty in small details rather than in grand romantic gestures. The "intricate cobwebs I won’t disturb" suggests an acceptance of imperfection, of letting things be rather than constantly seeking to maintain or fix them.

Yet the poem acknowledges the other person’s likely reaction: "I know you don’t want to think of me not always thinking of you, brave and imperiled." The absent lover, it seems, enjoyed being the object of devotion, imagining themselves as the "brave and imperiled" figure whom the lighthouse keeper existed to protect. This line hints at the self-centered nature of the relationship—one where the speaker’s role was to provide stability while the other sought adventure or validation.

Anticipating the lover’s protest, the speaker imagines their response: "I?m sure you?ll write to say: How can you change so completely? You?re not the woman I thought I knew." The expected accusation of change is revealing, as it assumes that the speaker was meant to remain static, unwavering in their role. However, the speaker’s response subverts this assumption: "And I?m not, but understand, dear, it wasn?t such a great change." The change is not a radical transformation but an unveiling of something that was always there.

The final lines bring the poem full circle, returning to the beginning of the relationship: "Imagine you could have seen that side of me at the beginning, when we walked / for hours along the shore, and you were so certain I was yours just because you loved me." The speaker suggests that the lover’s certainty was an illusion—an assumption based on possession rather than understanding. The implication is that love was never about the speaker as an individual but rather about the lover’s own desires and projections.

"My Soul Is a Lighthouse Keeper" is ultimately a poem about self-realization and the necessity of moving beyond roles imposed by others. The speaker begins as a watchful, devoted figure, waiting for someone who may never return, only to recognize that this existence is neither fulfilling nor necessary. The poem captures the moment when the burden of waiting is lifted, when devotion to another is replaced by devotion to oneself. Through its restrained, meditative tone, the poem illustrates that true change is not sudden but rather the gradual acceptance of what was always present—an identity independent of another’s expectations.

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