Cryptic Symbolism in John Talbot’s “Nightjar”

This poem may just fit the stereotype of all poems. Right from the beginning the symbolism is trying. You are left to grapple with each word fighting to try and decipher what the poet was trying to represent to the reader. This can be fun to some, frustrating to others. In the case of this poem, it does not come easily. The poem begins:

“And if I shrink to drain your flask of pitch?

Call you duskfeather, call you nightjar.

Up and churr then, up and hawk for moths.

Come morning, not crosswise as others do”

A quick search of the word Nightjar will give you lists of information on a bird called a nightjar. This may help the reader begin to surmise the meaning of the poem. Nightjars are active at evening and all through the night. They also eat moths as a main food source.

The poem ends with:
“You toast of no vintage, you draft

Of afterthought tipped pinging into the butt,

Nightjar. Shallow in the ruts you scored

By the footpath, your paired bald

Eggs will baffle in the sun the toddler

Tomorrow and the toddler’s mother.”

In this sense we can see that the nightjar can be compared to the mother of a toddler. This reminds me of my personal reflections of my own mother. Just as the Nightjar works all through the night, the mother cares for the toddler late into the night. She wakes when the toddler has a nightmare or is sick. She cleans, prepares, and feeds.

The aspect of religion is also intriguing. There is an allusion made to the verse in the Docterine and Covenants, “shrank to drink the bitter cup” and also referring to the Savor’s words in Luke 22:42. This religious undertone further exemplifies the mother’s commitment to the child and to God. The symbolism between the Nightjar bird and the mother and child brings out the dedication of the mother.

The Universal Dream

 

Photo from: my.englishclub.com

Every child has a dream. To become something great, something that is marveled at; that is the universal dream. There is something deep within us that inspires us from birth to want to become something special. A fireman, astronaut, professional musician. The list goes on and on.

Photo from: kidsdreamspot.com

There is one thing in common with these dreams: virtuosity. Becoming something above and beyond the average person. To become so skilled and fluent in one thing that you shine above the rest.

 A main theme in the book, Added Upon by Nephi Anderson, is virtuosic excellence, although not in the way we normally view it.

It came in the criticism of Sardus’ love of music. His friend Homan tells him, “I think there is danger in it. Some I know who neglect every other duty except the cultivation of a certain gift.”

At first, this makes no sense. How could working towards that childhood dream, that universal goal, be so terrible? But Homan continues.
Homan explains, “I think we ought to grow into a perfectly rounded character, cultivating all of Father’s gifts to us, but not permitting any of them to become an object of worship.”

Delsa affirms Homan’s stance, saying, “It is well enough to excel at one thing, but that should not endanger our harmonious development.”

Photo from: questforgod.org

And here we find a continuous theme throughout the book. The author expands our view of excellence and that dream that we were all born with.

Orson F. Whitney exhorts all in his talk, Home Literature, to rise up in our own sphere and to be like Shakespeare, Goethe, and Carlyle.  He says of them, “[they brought] rich treasures of inspired thought and intelligent research into the lap of humanity, giving birth to civilization and filling earth with fame and glory.”

He shows us that it is not enough to improve one aspect of our lives. No, we should be striving toward a much higher goal. In the eternal scope that the novel, Added Upon, places us in, the goal becomes excellence in more than just one aspect of our lives.

 The goal becomes excellence in every aspect of our lives.

The Story Must Change

Every summer my family and I take a vacation to our cabin in Michigan. It’s a tiny cabin that sits between two small lakes. I haven’t gone a single summer of my life without visiting this special spot.

Most of my strongest childhood memories come from these cabin trips. It’s a child’s dream come true; fishing, daydreaming, and exploring the thick woods and wild apple trees that surround the lakes.

A trip to the cabin would not be complete without my father’s retelling of his scary stories before bed each night. His most well known story is called, “The Great White Ape”.

The story is given differently each time, but the plot always remains: The weather is dark and stormy. We find a castle and enter to find a giant white ape in a cage with a sign that reads, “Do NOT touch the Great White Ape.” Well someone always ends up touching the Ape and chaos ensues. The Great White Ape breaks from the cage and chases us around the house until he catches us. Tension mounts and the end seems near— it’s in that moment that the Ape reaches out and taps us with one finger, saying, “Tag! You’re it.”

There are many reasons why this oral literary tradition has made such a profound impact upon me, but what always stunned me is the fact that the story always changed! When new brothers were born, new characters were added. Details about how we found the castle or how the Ape was first touched were also apt to change. And this is what made our tradition so special. I learned an important concept: art and literature adapt. It’s this aspect of change that makes life and storytelling so mystifying. There is always a new story to be told.