"Places with Terrible Wi-Fi," by J. Estanislao Lopez
Let us gather around a list poem and explore how the form conveys meaning.
Reader, I love writing lists. I write to-do lists in notebooks and post-its and scraps of paper. At the top of my paper I write “TO DO:” and date it in the top right corner so one day when I look back at the list I can remember what I accomplished on a given day. Most often, I cross out my completed tasks, but when I am feeling fancy I’ll draw small boxes next to the tasks to check them off instead. Some days, the only thing on the paper is “ANYTHING” written in my looping script not crossed out.
Lists themselves can be a poem. Think of a grocery list: each line enjambs at a thought, leading you to the next unfurling into a recipe, a restock, a story of the food you will eat in the days to come. Is the writer having a lot of people over? Are they eating alone? Non-/perishables? Lists are a boiled down poem–all you have are the words on the page and the images they conjure.
If list poems are a genre of poetry, then it is my favorite genre. Today, I present to you “Places with Terrible Wi-Fi,” a list poem by J. Estanislao Lopez. The title of this poem gripped me immediately. When you think of places without Wi-Fi, you may think about highways in the middle of nowhere, a parking garage, a bus, a hotel room with its crisp, untouched sheets. How do you feel in these places? Do you feel disconnected? Isolated? Free? Stressed or at ease? Take these feelings and this state of mind with you when you analyze the poem. Think about the intent of this title and how it affects your reading and understanding of the piece as a whole.
Note on the poem: The “tell of Megiddo” mentioned in the poem is short, archaeological mound (tell) in Megiddo located in Israel, though it may be better known by its Greek name, Armageddon
Places with Terrible Wi-Fi
by J. Estanislao Lopez
The Garden of Eden. My ancestors’ graves. A watermelon field in Central Texas where my father once slept. Miles of rivers. The waiting room of a hospital in which a doctor, thin-looking in his coat, shared mixed results. A den of worms beneath the frozen grass. Jesus’s tomb. The stretches of highway on the long drive home after burial. The figurative abyss. The literal heavens. The cheap motel room in which I thought about praying despite my disbelief. What I thought was a voice was simply a recording playing from another room. The cluttered attic. Most of the past. The very distant future, where man is just another stratum in the ground. The tell of Megiddo. The flooded house and the scorched one. My favorite cemetery, where I can touch the white noise distorting memory. What is static if not the sound of the universe’s grief? Anywhere static reigns.
This poem begins with “The Garden of Eden.” This is the first of many allusions to Christianity and religion in this poem. The Garden of Eden is the setting for the origin of man in the Bible. Why does Lopez want us to think about Wi-Fi there? Later in the poem, he comments on his relationship with religion, writing: “The cheap motel room in which I thought about praying despite my disbelief.” He hears a voice responding. Then, “What I thought was a voice was simply a recording playing from another room.” There is a lot of grief in this poem, too. Many of the places in this poem deal with death: cemeteries, funerals, burials.
This poem takes place in a liminal space. The speaker of this poem writes after loss, but before healing. He is isolated (symbolically without Wi-Fi), contending with places that are now empty and haunted with memories. Even the religious places he writes about are tainted with loss: the garden, the tell (where God let his wrath rain down on all sinners), Jesus’ tomb. Along with personal places, the speaker intersperses natural places one may come across unknowingly. My favorite is the “den of worms beneath the frozen grass.” I think this line is beautifully crafted. It makes the poem feel cold, claustrophobic, closed in on all sides by dirt, and the worms add a layer of otherness. What could mortal sins and earthworms in the dirt have in common?
I like the use of the list here because it feels like the speaker is working through complex feelings by making a list. The form allows the speaker to bounce between different elements of his mourning. He can go from personal, to religious, to universal, and then linger on a sentiment whenever he wants. You can feel the speaker’s sadness, rarely writing a line that lasts more than a few words.
All of this culminates in a realization at the speaker’s favorite cemetery. There, he can “touch the white noise distorting memory.” Absent Wi-Fi, there is a static that fills the air in the cemetery that alters the speaker’s memory. He then writes: “What is static if not the sound of the universe’s grief?” The speaker at the end of his list argues that this white noise, a lack of sound and the accompanying buzzing silence, represent the universe’s grief. Maybe he thinks that the universe mourns the lack of people in these spaces with terrible Wi-Fi. Maybe in these areas, the universe cannot support and entertain and love humans, so instead there is silence, and in that silence is sadness. The final place with terrible Wi-Fi in this poem is anywhere where you hear this static. Think back to the vacant Garden of Eden that started this poem. There aren’t living people there; there is only grief.
I’m still grappling with this poem. Despite the simple form, there are so many beautiful metaphors that start in the title. I haven’t quite figured this poem out, but I’m entranced. I hope that you are, too. Thank you for gathering.
If you enjoyed reading this poem… you can read more poems by J. Estanislao Lopez here or maybe check out his most recent collection here.
If you are looking for some new music to start off the spring… check out Beyonce’s new album Cowboy Carter or Hozier’s new EP Unheard. All bops!
If you want to try writing poetry… write a list poem! You can start with anything, mundane or extraordinary, and see where your stream of consciousness takes you.