Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Alan Shapiro’s "Haunting" is a quiet, devastating meditation on divorce, memory, and the lingering effects of joy as much as sorrow. The poem moves through recollections of a failed relationship, not focusing on its breakdown—the “long sulks” and “chilly” voices—but rather on the fleeting moments of happiness that, paradoxically, will be the true ghosts in the minds of the children. Shapiro constructs a haunting not out of pain, but out of love that once was and could not be sustained, a love that, though rare and imperfect, was radiant enough to leave a permanent absence.

The poem begins by dismissing what might conventionally be considered the most painful elements of a separation: “It may not be / the ghostly ballet / of our avoidances / that they’ll remember.” The phrase ghostly ballet captures the silent, choreographed way people in strained relationships navigate each other’s presence, avoiding direct confrontation while still being acutely aware of the other. What follows is a catalog of suppressed emotions—long sulks, chilly voices, anger we were careful mostly not to show—that the speaker assumes will not be what lingers in their children’s memories. This dismissal is striking, as these are typically the markers of a failing relationship. But the speaker suggests that the defining memory will not be the pain but something more elusive.

The first section closes with the stark assertion that their separation seemed not only “unavoidable / but good, but just.” The repetition and fragmentation emphasize the difficulty in arriving at this conclusion, as if the speaker is convincing himself. The idea that a separation can be both painful and necessary is central to the poem—though the choice was rational, its emotional consequences remain unresolved.

The second section shifts into the revelation: “No, what I think / will haunt them is / precisely what / we’ve chosen to / forget.” The true haunting will not be the bitterness or the fights, but the moments of shared joy that became increasingly rare yet never entirely vanished. The speaker notes that even toward the end, these moments were still possible. This phrase carries an ache—suggesting that the love was not wholly extinguished, only insufficient.

The central image emerges: a spontaneous dance. “One of us / would all at once / start humming an old / tune and we’d dance, / as if we did / so always.” The casual phrasing—"all at once", "as if we did so always"—conveys both the spontaneity and the illusion of normalcy, as if these dances could trick them into believing in their happiness. The description of movement—"a swoon of gliding / all through the house, / across the kitchen, / down the hall and back"—gives the moment a sense of weightlessness, as if in these instances, the burdens of the relationship were momentarily suspended. There is something cinematic about the phrasing, as if the speaker is replaying the memory like a slow-motion sequence in a film.

The children’s presence is crucial: “the children / would hear us and / be helpless not / to come running / down to burrow / in between us.” Their reaction underscores the magnetism of these rare moments of unity, as if their parents? joy was something irresistible, a force drawing them in. The use of burrow suggests both comfort and a desire to secure themselves in this fleeting embrace. The memory is communal, binding them together, even as the marriage itself was unraveling.

Then comes the poem’s most heartbreaking realization: “the dance that now, / I think, will haunt them / for the very joy / itself.” The irony is that what should have been a moment of pure happiness becomes the most painful in retrospect—not because it was false, but because it was real and ephemeral. The dance becomes symbolic of the possibility of happiness that was never fully realized, a vision of unity that could not last. The phrase “something better than joy” elevates this feeling beyond mere happiness; it was belonging, completeness, a rare moment when the family felt whole. And yet, the closing lines shatter this completeness:

"And yet for you / and me, ourselves, / alone, apart, / still not enough.”

The separation was inevitable not because there was no love, but because even at its best, it could not sustain them as individuals. The contrast between for them and for you and me is devastating; what was perfect for the children was insufficient for the parents. The final words—*"still not enough"—*carry a weight of resignation. No amount of joy, no moment of dancing, could undo the fundamental rift between them.

"Haunting" is a poem about the paradox of memory, the way joy can become a ghost more potent than sorrow. Shapiro masterfully captures the way children remember love—not in its absence, but in its fleeting presences. The real loss is not what was ugly in the relationship, but what was beautiful and could not be saved. The poem lingers in the reader’s mind much like the dance lingers in the memories of the children, a brief, luminous movement suspended between love and loss.

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