The Story Behind the Poem: “Schrödinger's Caterpillar” by Alex Oeming

Stratford poet Alex Oeming, author of "Schrödinger's Caterpillar."

It’s hard to imagine a more fertile ground for stories and poetry than Alex Oeming’s childhood. He and his twin sister grew up in rural Alberta on a private zoo run by his father, a zoologist. Not just a petting zoo or hobby farm but a collection of well over a thousand species, many exotic.

“As there were few other children around outside of school, much of my early life was spent exploring and adventuring on my own,” he said. “I didn't watch much television. Instead I spent time around animals and adults, wandering through this strange world that seemed completely normal to me at the time. Looking back, I realize how unusual it was. Not everyone grows up with a cheetah!”

Oeming’s father was also a gifted storyteller and public speaker and would recite poetry from memory while they worked around the zoo. That exposure gave Alex an early appreciation for rhythm, language and a good turn of phrase.

At first he focused on storytelling, studying playwriting and screenwriting at the National Theatre School of Canada and the Canadian Film Centre. He worked in radio and film for many years focusing on longer narrative forms. Poetry came later:

“It wasn't until midlife that I found myself drawn back to poetry as a way of paying closer attention. I had reached a point where I was looking more carefully at the world around me, at history, landscape, family, memory and the passage of time and poetry seemed uniquely suited to exploring and expressing those things.” 

“Over the last few years I've been writing poems primarily for myself without any intention of publication. Entering the (Every Voice) contest was the first time I decided to share any of them publicly.”

For Oeming, there is nothing complicated about writing poetry. It’s simply something he’s experienced that suddenly takes on a new meaning:

“To be honest, I wasn't thinking about readers when I wrote the poem. It wasn't written for an audience or with a particular message in mind. I was simply trying to follow an idea that interested me and see where it led. If readers can connect with that, then I am happy. I've always been a little suspicious of art that sets out to tell people what to think or feel”.

“In the case of ‘Schrödinger's Caterpillar,’” said Oeming, “it was literally a caterpillar. The title is a playful reference to Schrödinger's famous thought experiment. In my case the question wasn't whether there was a cat in a box but whether there was still a caterpillar inside the chrysalis. As long as I didn't look, both possibilities remained alive. The caterpillar eventually became a symbol of hope, transformation and possibility. More than anything the poem is interested in what happens when we choose not to seek certainty.

“For me the job is to explore something honestly and let the work stand on its own. That said, the poem does circle around ideas of hope, transformation and possibility. The final stanza exists in that space between despair and optimism, certainty and uncertainty. The poem was submitted for a contest about resilience and I suppose resilience for me often comes down to choosing hope over despair, even when the outcome is unknown.”

The Story Behind the Poem is an ongoing series by Mark Hertzberger featuring conversations with poets recognized in this year’s Every Voice Poetry Contest and published in the anthology, Roots Through Stone: Poems of Strength and Resilience. Copies of the anthology are available for purchase at Fanfare Books in Stratford.

Schrödinger’s Caterpillar

By Alex Oeming

On weekends with the kids

we still check the chrysalis

hanging under the dash of the old Accord

their mother and I trade

in the arena parking lot every week

same exchange, different weather

same half-smiles through the window.

It started as a kind of science project

a striped monarch caterpillar

crawling across the hood

while we fished with plastic lures

that caught nothing

but sunlight and impermanence.

The kids wanted to save it from the birds

so we put it in the glove box

closed the door

and forgot.

By morning it had hung itself

beneath the heater vent

a little green lantern

swaying as I braked.

We looked it up on Google

three weeks it said

or maybe three years

if conditions aren’t right.

The kids liked that

that time could stretch

for miracles.

And I liked it too

though knew better.

Green turned brown then black

and their mother said it was creepy

asked to take it down.

I said I would

but didn’t.

As I said I’d change

but didn’t

or haven’t

not yet.

Seasons turned like the key in the ignition.

The kids changed grades

lost teeth

learned to try again and again.

The car was all mine then

too far gone to fix

and I oiled the rust and kept looking

just a glance starting the engine

pretending it was for them

when really

it was for me.

Now winter’s got its hand on everything.

The Accord coughs at stoplights

burns oil

groans in reverse.

The cocoon hasn’t moved in years.

Still I don’t touch it.

A quick pinch and wipe

that hollow crunch

would tell me what I already know

or don’t want to admit.

Today the car goes for scrap.

The kids don’t ask anymore.

They’re older now

learning other sciences

where faith is smaller

and harder to find.

Still it hangs there

black perfect mute

a relic of small belief.

I imagine myself inside it

wrapped tight

half awake

while the crane hooks the bumper

the chains lift metal shifts

the sky turning in the windshield

and just before

the great grinding of gears

the impossible thought

that I might still

break open,

into light.