The Refrigerator Awakes

       Upon reading The Refrigerator Awakes, written by Nabokov in 1942 and published in the New Yorker shortly after, the first thing that came to mind was a twinge of jealousy at the fact that–surprise– not only is Nabokov an excellent novelist but a poet as well. Jealousy aside, I had to read this poem a few times to really understand it– though I'm still not quite sure I really know what it means. However, after analyzing Lolita so throughly, I confidently found a dozen or so similarities in themes and language. First, we see an unknown speaker in this poem that reminded me of H.H. in the way that whoever they are, they are confident and speak eloquently. This speaker often uses alliteration and alludes to poets like Poe– much like Humbert Humbert does in Lolita.  The most striking H.H. allusion, I think, is in the first stanza that reads:

Crash!

And if darkness could sound, it would sound like this giant

waking up in the torture house, trying to die

and not dying, and trying

not to cry and immediately crying

that he will, that he will, that he will do his best

to adjust his dark soul to the pressing request

of the only true frost,

and he pants and he gasps and he rasps and he wheezes:

ice is the solid form when the water freezes;

a volatile liquid (see "Refrigerating")

Here, we are presented with a metaphor of darkness as a blundering giant that attempts to die, but cannot, and attempts to not cry, but cannot. He is sniveling, raspy, and wheezing– and no matter how hard he tries to achieve something, he is nothing but darkness, nothing but a dark soul and a monster. This reminds me of H.H. in that both this metaphorical giant and this fictional pedophile attempt (and fail) to keep their composure and no matter how hard they try, they are left with nothing but darkness. 
The rest of the poem, though, leaves any remnants of H.H. out, and the focus turns to the language. Though I am still trying to weed out exactly what this poem means, I can see that one must pay close attention to the language. I mean, it's hard not to. Sometimes in poetry, the language takes a back seat, but one has to be reminded that they are reading Nabokov....and that Nabokov never lets language do anything but sit behind the wheel. We get this image of darkness as a blundering, sobbing giant, of a refrigerator awakening, and in just these fifteen or so lines, a million different images are thrown at us all at once. It's a bit overwhelming. Nabokov uses phrases like " Nova Zembla, poor thing, with that B in her bonnet/ stunned bees in the bonnets of cars on hot road" and "Keep it Kold, says a poster in passing, and lo,/loads," that present to use a massive use of wordplay. Zembla has a B in her bonnet and stunned bees are in the bonnets of cars on hot roads. He uses "Kold" instead of "cold". Even if you have no idea what it means, it sticks out on the page like a sore thumb and provokes some sense of unexplainable emotion. Just that alone is an example of Nabokovian writing. Language is his most important weapon. 
Almost just like H.H. says, "you can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style." Here we are, presented again with this fancy prose and with sniveling giants and "starry-eyed couples in dream kitchenettes". Not to say that Nabokov is a murderer, obviously, but his protagonists and  poetic speakers are completely self aware of the language they're using. 
Another big theme that I can see in both Lolita and Nabokov's poetry, is this obstruction of reality and a  fantasy-like feel. This poem is enchanting and magical, there is a sense of mystic brought to us by Nabokov's use of the words "starry-eyed", giants, "stunned bees", and a man preserved in blue ice with his bride. it all reads like it came from a fairytale yet, like Lolita, nothing is really what it seems. It begins with darkness and ends with criminal night. Just like Humbert without his Lolita, just like Life. Nabokov yet again creates some sense of superimposed immortality. 

Crash!

And if darkness could sound, it would sound like this giant

waking up in the torture house, trying to die

and not dying, and trying

not to cry and immediately crying

that he will, that he will, that he will do his best

to adjust his dark soul to the pressing request

of the only true frost,

and he pants and he gasps and he rasps and he wheezes:

ice is the solid form when the water freezes;

a volatile liquid (see "Refrigerating")

is permitted to pass into evaporating

coils,

where it boils

which somehow seems wrong

and I wonder how long

it will rumble and shudder and crackle and pound

Scudder, the Alpinist, slipped and was found

half a century later preserved in blue ice

with his bride and two guides and a dead edelweiss;

a German has proved that the snowflakes we see

are the germ cells of stars and the sea life to be;

hold

the line, hold the line, lest its tale be untold

let it amble along through the thumping pain

and horror of dichlordisomethingmethane,

a trembling white heart with the frost froth upon it,

Nova Zembla, poor thing, with that B in her bonnet

stunned bees in the bonnets of cars on hot roads

Keep it Kold, says a poster in passing, and lo, 

loads,

of bright fruit, and a ham, and some chocolate cream, 

and there bottles of milk, all contained in the gleam

of that wide-open white

god, the pride and delight

of starry-eyed couples in dream kitchenettes,

and it groans and it drones and it toils and it sweats

Shackleton, pemmican, pegnuin, Poe's Pym--

collapsing at last in the criminal

night.