Summary

"Of Indistinct Interpolation" is a surreal and introspective poem by Gustave Deresse that explores themes of identity, reality, and existential uncertainty.

Abstract

The poem "Of Indistinct Interpolation" by Gustave Deresse delves into the abstract and disorienting experiences of a narrator grappling with the fluidity of dreams, memory, and reality. Through a series of fragmented vignettes, the narrator reflects on the elusive nature of their own existence, questioning their surroundings, the presence of a cat, and their personal identity. The narrative weaves through states of comfort, confusion, and fear, as the protagonist encounters shifting environments and confronts the possibility of being trapped or lost. The poem culminates in a moment of surrender, as the narrator, overwhelmed by the enigmatic circumstances, retreats into a state of vulnerability and introspection, questioning the nature of reality itself.

Opinions

The narrator expresses a sense of detachment from their surroundings, suggesting a lack of belonging or understanding of their environment.
There is a recurring theme of questioning the nature of reality, with the narrator pondering whether their experiences are part of a dream or an altered state of consciousness.
The presence of the cat serves as a motif for uncertainty, as the narrator struggles to determine if the cat is part of their reality or a figment of their imagination.
The poem conveys a sense of existential anxiety, particularly when the narrator confronts the darkness and their own fragmented memories.
Moments of surrealism, such as the changing environments and the sudden appearances of light and figures, contribute to the overall theme of interpolation and the blending of different realities.
The narrator's reactions to the unfolding events, including their thrashing on the floor and their interaction with the child's cry, suggest a struggle with internal and external conflicts.
The poem ends with a resignation to the unknown, as the narrator acknowledges the futility of seeking answers and instead succumbs to the mysterious forces at play.

Poetry

Of Indistinct Interpolation

by Gustave Deresse

First, my dream made no sense, then it vanished completely from my memory.

Upon waking, nothing returned to me.

Ah, a cat.

Did I always have a cat?

No — no.

This cat belongs to someone, it’s just a matter of discovering whom.

All I know is it can’t be mine — for all my love of the idea, it isn’t a responsibility I’ve ever been willing to have.

If this is my house, then it’s not horrible at all.

Something tells me I don’t live here.

It can’t matter, for I was incredibly comfortable in this bed.

I might be a guest, though surely not a prisoner.

This is something for which to be grateful, just in case.

Worst case scenario, the gratitude is always nice while it lasts.

Sweet thanks, my gracious hosts, if that you may be.

To visualize the possibilities beyond this point — there’s no need.

Fear, without means to act, serves no one.

I can tell there’s little left for me to do, but wait for the solutions to drop onto my lap.

Besides, what kind of prison would have fluffy cats inhabiting the cells?

Questions shot into the void.

Oh —

This cat isn’t real.

I yank the chain, rapidly lifting the blinds only to find I’m surrounded by a darkness more complete than my memory of this location.

There isn’t a streetlamp or heavenly body to light my environment, and I wonder if panic has yet become the appropriate response.

No, of course not.

There are no best case scenarios accompanying such state of mind.

It’s good I can remember some things.

So who am I?

Relax, I’m not asking you.

Besides, probably doesn’t matter, in the grand scale of things.

It could help me understand what’s coming next, but at this rate, I’m not even sure I want to know.

Ah, we have light.

Wait, that’s too bright— not to mention revealing in a way I find drastically unhelpful at this time.

This corner of the room would never have struck me as occupying space in a parking lot.

And I really hope this daunting figure speaks soon.

Oh —

I guess it’s dark again now.

You’d expect this light would travel more.

You’d be wrong.

Come to think of it, that wasn’t there before.

I squint at it.

Nothing comes of this.

And why should it?

We’ve solved nothing.

No light on the face of this Earth owes me a damned —

Is this Earth?

Holy f —

You know what, probably is.

Returning to the window, I consider we are most probably under water.

I faintly recall a meeting for which I must be late.

My dream flashes through my vision.

There was a bird.

Could I harm such an innocent little creature?

Silence.

I don’t know.

The question strikes me as odd, and I leave it be.

But now I kind of want to.

I salivate.

The walls begin to shrink around me.

I thrash my body against the floor, and scream for my jailers to let me out.

The whimpering of a child resonates from a distant corner of the room.

I become still.

What is this?

Did I have children after all?

The thought reviles me.

A raucous roar escapes my lungs, as I jump to my feet and charge recklessly for the space where once stood an open doorway, and the silhouette of a man staring in.

And I fell silent.

A new door had opened gently, six feet to my right, the colour red emanating, striking me with less knowledge than I’ve ever held before.

Would that I may return to my dream.

The crying ceased.

I began to rock.

No one could make me enter this room; let them try.

Please God, let this entire night be a lie.

Martha —

Who’s Martha?

I’m met with the mental image of a classical Jesuit, and decide to let it rest.

Curling up on the spot, I forget about the door, or the cat, or the child, the window, the light, the dark, or the life I may never have known.

I weep.

The door at my back, I ignore the guttural snickering approaching from behind.

It isn’t real.

Nothing is real.