Windsor Knot

June 7 2011

There are no uniforms

anymore.

The suit, off the rack

in dark blue, or black

with dress shirt, and hat

and sharply creased pants.

Because we revere individuality

and will not be confined. 

But fathers still teach sons

to knot a tie.

Which he does

clumsily,

used to going by feel

while his mind

rushes off.

So the skinny end is clownishly long

the knot, cocked to one side.

And the son

who feels it tightening

like a noose, around his neck.

The badly finished thread

in the stiffly pressed collar

scratching him.

He holds his head erect,

scrutinizing his reflection

in the shaving mirror.

He will require this skill

for funerals, and weddings

if nothing else.

Like a rite of passage

into manhood,

passed down from the elders.

And the father

who went through the motions

for 30 years

dressing each morning for work,

in the heat of summer

in winter, shovelling out.

He was relieved

not having to think

about what to wear.

And the uniform made him invisible,

so he could toy with subversive thoughts

in peace.

The knot, feeling tighter

as his neck thickened with age

button-down collars frayed.

Which recalled to him the famous phrase

“The prospect of being hung in the morning

concentrates the mind wonderfully.”

His son will wear a fast food uniform

 —  open-necked, garish red.

While his uniform

will retire with him.

A closet of empty suits,

lined-up like soldiers

awaiting orders.

Presenting arms.

A forced march.

Perhaps, a firing squad.

He taught his son

a Windsor knot,

who dashed off to practice

the manly art.

Leaving him feeling like tying one on;

a celebration, perhaps

to the years that have passed

since his own dad showed him how.

One thing I wanted to convey in this poem was the ambivalence of the father, the hint of subversion; a seriousness which nicely contrasts with the young son’s unjaded excitement.

The reference to a “fast food uniform” is a lament for a diminished future:  the first generation in which it is a real possibility that the children may not have better life than their parents.

I can’t seem to escape this nostalgia for an idealized past:  for traditions that were safe and predictable, for rites of passage.

There is a metaphor running through the piece:  in the uniform, the soldiers, the tightening noose, the firing squad. I hope this helps illuminate the repression, the uniformity of appearance and thought.

The poem ends by invoking a sense of continuity. But tinged with uncertainty. Disillusion, perhaps.