Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Lawrence Raab’s "At Evening" is a meditation on the evolving nature of grief, capturing how loss, once raw and immediate, gradually transforms into something quieter, more diffuse, and eventually, almost abstract. The poem traces the arc of mourning from its initial intensity to the subtle, almost unnoticed ways absence lingers in daily life. Through understated imagery and a restrained, reflective tone, Raab conveys the paradox of remembrance: how the deceased both recede from memory and remain ever-present in the fabric of time and place.

The poem begins in the immediate aftermath of loss: "At first everything reminded us of you. / We couldn?t help remembering, wanting to talk about it together." The use of "everything" suggests an overwhelming flood of memory, where the presence of the deceased seems to permeate every object, every moment. The phrase "couldn’t help remembering" reflects the compulsion of early grief, the way mourning manifests in an almost involuntary need to revisit the past. Yet, Raab is careful to temper this reflection with an acceptance of grief’s function: "We understood this was the way grief works to return us to ourselves—no discoveries or revelations, just the old stories full of incident and detail." There is no grand transformation in grief, no profound revelation—just a return to familiar narratives, to retellings that reaffirm both the life that was lost and the lives that continue.

As time passes, however, the shape of grief changes: "Then your death grew quieter, / a suspicion the world would always seem vaguely wrong, / as when turning a corner we recognize someone who isn?t there." The phrase "grew quieter" suggests that grief does not end but settles into something less consuming. Yet, this quietness is not comfort; it is a "suspicion," an ongoing, unresolved feeling that something is out of place. The simile—"as when turning a corner we recognize someone who isn?t there"—perfectly captures the fleeting, almost subconscious ways absence asserts itself. The grief is no longer an explicit wound but a subtle misalignment, a persistent, unsettling sensation that something is missing.

The poem then expands this metaphor to the natural world: "Or when a storm, pushed up for hours against the mountains, / swerves off and only the ordinary afternoon remains." This image reinforces the unpredictability of grief—the way it builds, gathers force, and yet sometimes dissipates unexpectedly, leaving behind not devastation, but a kind of eerie normalcy. The "ordinary afternoon" is not a relief but a reminder that life continues, indifferent to loss.

The passage of time becomes more concrete: "Six years now: marking the time / season by season." The speaker has moved from measuring grief in days and months to years, a sign of distance. The phrase "marking the time" suggests an almost ritualistic awareness of time’s passing, a continued acknowledgment of absence through the cycles of the year. Yet, there is also forgetfulness: "So we say without thinking of the first warm days of spring: ?Like last year.? / And when we decorate the tree: ?Last Christmas.?" The absence, once central, is now unspoken, replaced by casual references to time that no longer include the one who is gone. This omission marks the shift from grief as active mourning to grief as something unspoken, integrated into daily life in a way that no longer requires direct acknowledgment.

This transition is reflected in the next lines: "Left out, you move further away, no longer even the image of yourself / but an idea of absence, sad and abstract." The deceased is no longer vividly present in memory; instead, they become "an idea of absence," something intangible and distant. The paradox here is that in losing specificity, the loss becomes even more complete—the person is not just gone, but their image is fading, leaving only the fact of their absence.

The setting shifts to the present moment, with the speaker noting that "the ragged music of the crows does not remind me of what you might have said." Unlike earlier in grief, when every sound, every detail carried echoes of the lost, now even familiar noises fail to conjure them. The grief has lost its immediacy; the connection to the deceased is no longer reinforced by the world’s sensory details.

Yet, as the poem moves into its closing lines, there is a subtle but profound shift: "And at evening the light is dense and delicate, / the mountains arranged in a purity of blue tier after tier." The landscape becomes both an emblem of permanence and an entry into something larger, a setting that, despite its beauty, does not demand grief. "So that a sense of comfort begins to include me, without acknowledgment." This is perhaps the most striking moment in the poem—the speaker does not seek comfort, nor does he articulate it explicitly, but it "includes" him, subtly, naturally, without force.

The final images deepen this sense of quiet acceptance: "One by one: fireflies, stars. / So many flickering emblems—and this stillness / in which remembering might not be an obligation." The "flickering emblems"—fireflies and stars—suggest both transience and continuity, light that appears and disappears but is always part of the night. The phrase "in which remembering might not be an obligation" is key. The speaker does not forget the deceased, but he allows himself to exist without the compulsion to remember. This is not erasure but a kind of peace—grief no longer demands constant attention.

The poem closes with a deeply personal, intimate address: "You would know what I mean, you would have known what I mean." This shift from present to past tense in the repetition signals both an assertion of connection and a final acknowledgment of distance. The lost one would have understood, but now that understanding is left unanswered. The speaker, for all his reflection, must ultimately sit with the reality of absence.

"At Evening" is a masterful exploration of how grief evolves, from its overwhelming early stages to a quiet, almost imperceptible presence that integrates into daily life. Raab captures the paradox of loss—not just the pain of remembering, but the strange, slow process by which the deceased fades, not because they are forgotten, but because life moves forward. Yet, even as they become an "idea of absence," the final lines suggest that love remains in the speaker’s awareness of what the lost one would have understood, a silent communion that lingers even in the stillness of acceptance.

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