Please Remember To Wash Your Hands

Sandra Greaves

 There are wolf thickets.
 There are culverts full of bears.
 There are alpine hares
 that were lost children.

 Do not talk to strangers.
 Do not cross the road.
 Make a ring of fire.
 Do not play with matches.

 There are migrant birds
 that shouldn't be here.
 There are people listening.
 There are ill considered
 consequences. There are
 no answers to your liking.

 There are precautions
 you can take. Switch off
 the lights. Remove
 sharp objects on entering
 the liferaft. Suck fish eyes
 to stave off thirst.

 There are many things
 that do not come alive
 except in the small hours
 before the day makes it.

 Wolf thickets.
 Half silences.
 The distance
 between lovers.

Commentary

This is a marvellously quiet poem; Greaves makes very effective use of the repeated, passive “there are” to stitch together a series of images into a compelling, coherent whole. I love the way it starts off as a parody of the litany of advice children are subjected to, and then gradually gets darker and more serious, pivoting around the lines

  There are ill considered
  consequences. There are
  no answers to your liking.

and then taking another wholly unexpected turn in the penultimate stanza until the whole poem crystallises in the last two lines.

I was reminded of my favourite Atwood poem, “Variations on the Word ‘Sleep’” [Poem #1093] - there is the same sense, towards the end, of being gradually enveloped in a tangible, organic silence that is composed in equal parts of love and distance. There is also, in counterpoint, a pervasive note of darkness and night that conjures up terrors only reinforced by the “childish” tone at the start, the whole adding up to a poem whose richness and depth belies its surface simplicity.

— Martin

Links

I couldn’t find out much about Greaves;
http://www.thepoem.co.uk/limelight/greaves.htm says “Sandra Greaves was born in Edinburgh and now lives in London.” Anyone knowing more about her is, as usual, encouraged to write in.


The Wondering Minstrels, poem #1812 · 6 March 2006

Poem selected by Martin DeMello

Fair use