Earthquake Engineering
I.
Half of California looks as though it’s on the verge of crumbling completely
condo buildings on dried-out, eroded hills.
Mariposa loam turned chalky, under paltry stilts
propping up the building’s foundation
like some kind of suicidal dare against the next earthquake.
II.
Right next door sits an old victorian
impossibly lofted on a hill four stories high
when every neighboring house cut into or demolished
its way into the earth. A madman’s flight of stairs
climbs from the curb to the front door
half a block back, half a block skyward.
The houses next door built retaining walls and new foundation
to hem in the soil. The victorian towers in its monumental instability
a foreboding, fragile as a dollhouse
while its neighbors offer layers of concrete to lean on
some strained and cracking under the pressure of the earth, already
as if to say: it’s only a matter of time.
| Emily Pinkerton |
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levelheaded: Earthquake Engineering
Just when humankind’s capacity for innovation starts to seem limitless, along comes a poem like this one to remind us we’re all just one big earthquake away from oblivion.
We don’t want to give the impression that we think this poem is “about” the science of earthquake engineering. (It’s more about human behavior in the face of our collective and inevitable doom). But by pulling its central metaphor from a technology associated with manipulation of the environment, the poem roots itself in a contemporary point of view, specifically one in which climate change and environmental issues are (or should be) on the tip of everyone’s tongue. By choosing earthquake engineering as a metaphor, the poet leaves open the possibility that she’s making a political statement about human innovation, about our demonstrated need to control the world around us. It’s heartening to read a poem with political and environmental undertones drawn up so beautifully.
So what does the poem have to say about human behavior? Essentially, it examines and compares different ways people resist calamity, specifically the big, final calamity that awaits us all: death. The poem presents three types of buildings:
- The condo building from the first part is engaged in a “suicidal dare against the next earthquake.” The contemporariness of the word “condo” suggests it represents the brashness of youth in the face of death.
- Then the “houses next door” that “cut into” the hills, that “built retaining walls and new foundation,” that “offer layers of concrete to lean on,” represent our futile compulsion to put off death by manipulating the world around us.
- Finally, there is the “old victorian” that “towers in its monumental instability / […] fragile as a dollhouse” which gives us a wizened approach, resolved to die by the idea that “it’s only a matter of time.”
We’re paraphrasing, but the poem organizes its worldview by considering experience and effort. While the condo is merely “prop[ped]” up, and the other houses are already “strained and cracking,” the speaker values and admires the longevity of the “old victorian.” In fact, the “old victorian” comes off as a hero here (not to mention the word “victory” imbedded in a distinctly non-capitalized “victorian”), so the poem gives a first impression it’s looking back wishfully on some good ol’ days.
But that’s not the poem’s only truth. If the speaker is preoccupied with the surfaces of the buildings, she also touches the idea that the newer buildings might be technologically superior. The poem’s title leaves open the possibility that the condo building has a tuned mass damper or the other homes use reinforced concrete. But the point remains: we may be able to postpone death, but nothing can totally save us. These buildings may be standing now, but which one will be the next to go?
Note: This poem was sent to us with section I and II on separate pages. They are kept together here because of our online format. We think the page break emphasizes the separate, stand-aloneness of the two parts, but we also enjoy seeing both parts together so we can draw quick connections between the two scenes. From an editor’s perspective we sometimes wonder: how often do poets format their poems with either online or print journals in mind? What formatting decisions are made, and what is their large-scale affect on poetry? How does the tactile experience of turning a page affect our reading? Yada yada yada.
-The Editors
