Poem: They're The Marrying Kind But They're Not Funny

Satire is a literary form which allows us to laugh at something serious. A Handbook to Literature (by Thrall, William, Addison Hibbard, and C. Hugh Holman, eds.) describes it as “a literary manner which blends a critical attitude with humor and wit to the end that human institutions or humanity may be improved.” Don’t miss the purpose.

There are several ways to motivate change in attitude and behavior. Preachers rebuke, teachers lecture, parents scold and writers encourage or satirize. The satirist hopes that people will stand back, view the seriousness of the matter and giggle to relieve the pressure of the emotional impact while thinking deeply about its significance. Having explained that, let me assure my readers that the aim of satire is not personal shame;although it can be an invitation to laugh at one’s self, and consider change.

My attempt at satire targets men and women who consider themselves the marrying kind—capable and desirous of marriage. My contention is that too many of them insist on being married, even if it means marrying again and again—like the two honorable gentlemen who, at separate times, offered me the thrill of being wife number four. Both men were exceptional in their willingness to forget the past, and their commitment to begin a brand new life. They made it seem that starting over was something they could do (and keep doing) with considerable ease.

He is the marrying kind—the kind who keeps on marrying

Like the traveler who keeps traveling, looking for new scenic views.

Thirty seconds after we meet, his gaze is fixed upon me permanently;

Thirty minutes after, he has made a list of everything we have in common;

Thirty days after, he pops the question:

“How soon after my divorce will you marry me?”

I would laugh but he isn't funny.

She is the marrying kind—the kind who cannot exist without someone to love:

Someone besides the two children who cry while staring at her confusion;

Someone to make her feel alive, like a woman functioning as other than a mother;

Someone who cannot wait for her emotions to heal

Before he snuggles in her bosom to receive all the exciting love she has to give.

“He’s knocking,” she whispers. “Help me hide the children.”

I could laugh but she isn't funny.

He is the marrying kind—the kind who’s so good at relationships

That he has completed several marriages without one failure on his part.

The first wife was too young to understand the feckless fantasies he called ambition;

The second had a personality disorder which made her choose to leave him;

The third disliked the stress of the success that put the spare wheel round his middle.

“Here’s a picture of me and my big house,” he shows me.

I want to laugh but he isn't funny.

They’re the marrying kind—the kind with three, four photographs

Of the special days when they paraded as recycled brides and grooms.

Over and over they find and lose their one true love.

Over and over they enjoy and regret their happiest day ever.

Over and over they jump over the threshold and fall over the brink.

“This is the last time,” they say for the fifth time.

I dare not laugh, ‘cause they’re not funny.