A long story and then some talk.

here is the poem I analyzed!

The Road to Hell

For a long time, walking it,
         we sang Woody Guthrie songs,
This land is your land, this land is my land,
         and got along

with whoever came our way, although, to be honest,
         few came back
and those who did had downcast eyes,
         a sort of sad sack

hangdog look to them. For some reason
         no cars were on that road,
no towns either. Sometimes an eagle
         would bank to the west. No Good

Will Come of This, a bullet-pocked
         stop sign read. Luckily,
we carried provisions: Spam, fruit-flavored
         water in plastic bottles, brie

to spread on small crackers. And we wore
         sensible shoes laced up tight,
loose-fitting jackets. In the distance,
         just short of night

we could make out the glow of Hell,
         a kind of red halo
hanging over its cities. It was then
         we knew enough to throw

the last of our good intentions down
         and walked the final miles
free as proverbial birds, well-intended,
         wreathed in our satisfied smiles.

Dick Allen

I have walked across Oregon.  Not literally, of course, walking across Oregon would require scheduled food drop-offs by car and plane.  But I have walked across Oregon in, I suppose, the figurative sense of the word.  My father grew up in Oregon, my grandparents reside in Oregon, and this means that from birth, I was destined to spend many a vacation there.  These vacations were not spent lazing about the Portland Embassy Suites, however.  While my mother chatted and sipped white wine with my great aunt throughout most of these vacation days, my father and sister and I were out exploring the land.  Now, I liked hiking.  Especially in Oregon.  I liked the weird transitions from desert to barren lava rock and from lava rock to pine forest.  I liked seeing the oddballs who were hiking the Pacific Crest Trail barefoot.  I did not like hiking with my dad.  When we were younger, it was alright.  Dad would stick to trails, bring snacks, and let us rest if we were tired.  However, the older we became, the more reckless my father would become.  I remember him climbing onto a specifically roped off rock that was precariously balancing on another rock that was on the edge of a cliff just to get a good picture.  I remember him making us hike the “more scenic route” on Mt.  Hood.  But one of my most memorable hikes with my father was when it was just him and me.  We were walking a trail that the guide book said would be a loop.  After walking four miles and the trail abruptly ending with no turnaround in sight, my father decided to make his own loop.  We had been walking next to a river the first four miles and my father thought it would be a good idea to cross the river and continue on the other side.  (He was sure there was a trail over there.)  After crossing, we saw a picnic spot, a pile of trash, a road, but no trail.  This did not stop my father.  He decided that we would walk on the road until we saw a trail head.  He assured me that we would be fine as long as we could see the river.  After half a mile and no trail head, I urged dad that we go back.  He was stubborn.  He refused to back-track.  We walked for about a mile and a half more and ran into a camp ground.  We asked a family unpacking an F-150 if there was a trail nearby and if not, were we headed in the right direction.  They looked at us and sighed.  They informed us that the river forked about a mile and a half back, and we had been walking east instead of south.  All we could do was backtrack. 

            This was not a very exciting story.  But this is what I thought when I read this poem.  When walking those two faithful miles in the complete wrong direction, the words echoing in my head were “This is the road to Hell.”  Every heavy hiking boot falling on the road patted out the words; road. to. hell. road. to. hell.  It didn’t look like hell, sun was dappled through the trees, bird were chirping somewhere unseen, but in my head was absolute hate.  Hate for hikes, hate for stubbornness, and yes, hate for my father.  But this poem is not like that story.  This poem is like a well-planned trip, with good maps, and accurate guide books, nature sightseeing, and tasty food.  It is obvious that the people heading to hell want to get there; they seem prepared and almost optimistic about their futures.  The mention of the Woody Guthrie song seems to imply a sense of ownership over the road, though not a territorial one with the mention of amiable behavior with those passing on it.  These others, walking back from the great destination seem defeated and deflated.  I imagine them with dull, lightless eyes and slightly singed hair, smelling of cigarette smoke.  But for some strange reason, these people don’t seem discourage the narrating crowd.  Nor does the complete lack of civilization on the sides of the road.  After all, who would build a hotel on the road to hell?  You couldn’t really list local attractions on your pamphlets or say “Have a nice stay.” The sign telling them that “no good will come of this” seems to have no effect on them.  They seem to take in these details as if they were insignificant, if slightly amusing. 

I imagine this group of people to be corporate thirty-somethings, a group of friends, deciding to take a trip together.  I feel like this trip to hell is symbolic of something more.  I feel like their walk to hell is like their trip up a corporate ladder and their arrival at hell is symbolic of them selling their soul to the corporation.  No wonder people can’t walk away from that without looking a little dead in the eyes.  As soon as they said brie spread on tiny crackers, I imagined large office parties, full of unenlightening conversation.  The line about sensible footwear brought to mind images of men wearing oxford shoes quietly stepping down carpeted office building hallways.  The loose-fitting jackets made me think about men button and unbuttoning their sport coats and suit jackets as they sit down and get up from lunch meetings.  The line about being free as proverbial birds was interesting to me because they referred to birds as being proverbial, making me think that they had spent so long in their offices, that the only birds they had been seeing were the ones that crashed bloodily into their floor to ceiling windows.  The last line appears to be talking about something simple; satisfied smiles.  However, I feel like these smiles were achieved only after crushing countless other souls under their heels with the force of pure ambition.  That is what hell is about;  throwing other people under the “proverbial” bus.