It’s All Been Done Before
It’s all been done before and thank heavens for that!
The most magnificent organ is not
heart or brain, but hypothalamus.
Earth, the human body—
both are composed of atoms
from ancient stars exploding,
which makes sense. Of course
family betrays us. So we fashion
new ones. Small dogs are not small
in their own hearts. And I am satisfied
with my small victories. If I earned a nickel
each time I gave a damn for what came before
I’d still be penniless and thirsty, I’d still explode
bit by bit, which is a grace, an unanticipated mercy.
| Elizabeth O’Brien |
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levelheaded: It’s All Been Done Before
The phrase “It’s all been done before” has already been done before. People say it quite often. The phrase hasn’t only been said a gajillion times by English speakers across the globe, but, by the time we come across these five words in the poem’s first line, we’ve already read them in the poem’s title. How often has that happened? How many times has a poem been titled “It’s All Been Done Before” and then opened with the phrase “It’s all be done before”? Based on our incomplete research—once.
The speaker of this poem claims to be relieved that she needn’t try to make a grand, sweeping gesture of newness. But by marrying simple words and phrases she in fact creates something original. Paired with the opening words already discussed, the stock phrase “thank heavens for that” re-contextualizes what precedes it. The typically depressing sentiment behind “It’s all been done before” is replaced by the idea that this concept is somehow a blessing.
For the remainder of this contemporary sonnet, the speaker goes on to explore just how the impossibility of newness is positive, which results in original expression. She focuses on the little things—for instance, a poetically underappreciated organ within an organ, the hypothalamus. In a laid back, talky tone, she reminds us that atoms spread throughout our planet, even making up our own bodies. This concept alone isn’t particularly surprising. What surprises is the leap to the assertion that “Of course / family betrays us.” We are left to consider how the idea that the world and our bodies being “composed of atoms / from ancient stars exploding” is a logical justification of family quarrels.
Just as the world takes its fundamental form of matter and repurposes it, so do we “fashion” new families, and so does O’Brien create an inimitable poem. The word “small” means something different to a dog given this label and the human doing the labeling. And “small” again is redefined in the context of the speaker’s personal “victories.” The poem ends similarly to how it began, but in a new place—with gratitude for the present. As immersed as one can be in today though, these modest verbal explosions we call poems, these emblems of our livelihood, are reminiscent of distant dying stars.
– The Editors
