When D.A. Powell’s “The Imaginal Stage” reminds us there are more planets than stars/more places to land/than to be burned, I take this as a hopeful statement, as in more places to stand, more places to call, or at least to feel, like home.
Most clichés reveal an element of truth. After a month-long visit to India, I was ready to return home. My husband and I stayed our last few days of travel in beautiful Goa in the southern region, along the Arabian Sea. Because of its coast, it felt most like home than any other region we had travelled to. We were able to enjoy swimming and surfing there much like we do in our coastal town. I felt a serenity that only comes with the familiarity of home, when you feel your heart at ease.
We met many wonderful, warm, and welcoming people during our stay on campus at O.P. Jindal Global University (JGU) where my husband taught as a Fullbright/Nehru Specialist. After the initial overload to the senses and recovery from jet lag, we found a rhythm and I could sincerely say I’d miss our new friends. Still, I was longing for home. But I learned on that trip how fortunate I was to have a home to return to. At JGU, we met Sonam Tsering, a Tibetan refugee studying for his MA in Public Policy. He’s been in exile for fifteen years and can’t return home since he was smuggled illegally out of Tibet so he could study under His Holiness, the Dalai Lama. He writes of his refugee experience:
“The saddest thing about being a refugee is that there is nothing around you that you own and even the heart and mind choose to run away every now and then towards the homeland.”
Perhaps because I was missing home while curating this summer quarterly’s collection of poems, I found a thread of longing in each one. It was certainly easy to pick up in Lucy Griffith’s poem, “Attention” where its first line reads:
Home—the place of attention.
In her second featured poem, “Queen Yucca”, she imagines the yucca tree as a landmark for the lost, providing for the wanderer what a home often does: food, water, shelter. Then we have “Girl as Birch” by Rebecca Kaiser Gibson. I wondered what home for a girl portrayed as a tree might mean. Could it be a resilience as this poem speaks of? The springing back, after being pushed from the path could signify the insistence to return to one’s rooted place. But does this necessarily mean it’s where our roots are? For Sonam, the answer is yes. He considers Tibet his homeland. For me, it’s the American northeast. And for many of the Indians I met, from all castes, their answer, too, was yes. Given India’s long history of fighting for independence, their homeland pride runs deep.
When the speaker in Elizabeth Coleman’s “The Errand” hears the dialect of a foreign language in a neighborhood filled with pictographs she loved but could not read; the German sibilant obscenities remind her of her ties at home; her toddler grandson’s consonant-clustered thanks. For Samantha Kolber, and her fellow Vermonters, it is written in [their] bones. Though sometimes, the bones are in undesirable cities. As in the Indian poet Nandini Dhar’s “Intimate Ossuaries” a city’s kept bones are chronicled by a young girl, but No one will buy this portrait of a city’s/detritus: no museum will light her way home.
An ancient tribe from the New Mexico region known as the Mimbres depicted their culture’s story in clay with geometric markings. Edison Dupree’s “Paint on Clay: Homage to the Mimbres” tells of their bowls, often used for burial ceremonies, with holes cut out, to allow their souls to come and go: Soul could ride on a grain of sand,…or just as happily/fall, in raindrop’s belly,…or drift away and never return. One could say for the Mimbres, home was where the soul was.
The couple, in “Brace’s Cove” by Jay Featherstone, during a walk along the beach, encounter a thigh-high city made of pink and gray granite, home to druid figures piled up from rocks. The speaker muses about the inhabitants, how they tilt their oval shoulders/as if it were bad luck to say: so close to paradise. William R. Stoddart’s paradise in his poem “Through Such Blue” consists of a sky so blue that I ache thinking of that silent/glide through a mute town.
Home is considered more often a feeling than a structure. “It’s where we stand, not where we sleep” says British-born American essayist and novelist, Pico Iyer. Sonam Tsering misses his homeland, but in its absence, he stands among the Tibetan refugees and finds some solace. In India, seven thousand miles from home, I found comfort beside my husband, nearest the sea.
Hoping you, too, find comfort in these poems of longing, wonderment, and attention.
Poems2Go is celebrating National Poetry Month internationally. P2G has found a home away from home at Jindal Global University in Sonipat, India, just outside of Delhi. Above are pictures of me with students of Professor Nandini Dhar at a talk discussing Literary Citizenship: Promoting Poetry in the Public Sphere. Also there’s me with Professor Dhar, and me with Sonam Tsering, a Tibetan student we had the pleasure of meeting with and learning his story; how he came to India, inspiring me to write my very first ghazal as tribute to studying in India. The ghazal originated outside of Arabia, matured in Persia, but was adopted and adored by India, in particular the Urdu poets.
When my husband, Michael, received notice that he would be teaching at JGU as a Fullbright/Nehru Scholar we were excited for the opportunity of travelling to another country. Excited, but admittedly (speaking for myself) also a little apprehensive. India is very far from home. Knowing Michael would be busy with his teaching I had to consider how I would spend my time, except it wasn’t too hard to consider. Given one month of free time and space to create is a gift. Writers relish this sort of freedom. I was lucky, but I didn’t realize how lucky until I started to feel a connection here, and to feel that India doesn’t feel so far away anymore.
Before coming to JGU, I searched through their English faculty list and course schedule. I was surprised to recognize Dr. Nandini Dhar’s name. I had read her poetry. She studied, taught, and has been published in the U.S.. When I was a reader for Sugar House Review, I read her submission. I remember the poems she submitted. For me, this was one of those miraculous “it’s a small world” moments. I contacted Prof. Dhar, and we decided we’d meet for chai when I arrived and go from there. These last few weeks, I’ve sat in on two of her comparative literature classes, Gender Conflicts, and Culinary Fiction. Through literature and through listening to the students, I learned a great deal more about Indian culture than I ever could have in a tourist’s travel book. When a student would say hello to me on campus, I felt I belonged. And when several students showed up for my discussion about Poems2Go and poetry in the public sphere, I was happy to share my knowledge, and talk poetry. I’m grateful to Prof. Dhar for the opportunity, and to the students for engaging with me. These are bright, young individuals who have opportunities to make a difference in whatever is close to their hearts.
I’m thrilled that Poems2Go will now be distributed at JGU. It really is a small world, and poetry gives us the forum to build empathy, to bridge the gaps of understanding between people of all backgrounds.
Preservation: What We Keep
“This place could be beautiful, right? You could make this place beautiful.”- Maggie Smith
My parents are in the process of moving into an assisted-living residence, down-sizing from a home of fifty years, a home with “good bones.” My mother, always the hostess, is insisting on packing and bringing her ten-piece place setting, even though she won’t have a kitchen. Admittedly, I was annoyed at first, but realized that her need for keeping them was not to host a dinner party but to hold on to memories of loved ones gathering around her table.
The term “good bones” is most commonly used in reference to a building with a strong foundation. Maggie Smith extends this metaphor to address the world. It’s a world that can be difficult to live in but one the speaker, a mother, in “Good Bones” believes, albeit questioningly, that despite what it may look like on the surface, can be made beautiful because it is decent at its core. This belief is worth preserving. And could be essential to our survival as Julian Randall’s “Chicago” alludes to. After the confession, “I can only sleep on buses/in shoes I can run away in,” the speaker describes passing by a “road so green/it might convince you/the world is not dying.”
We know the world is not dying when we can taste the “out-of-reach pulp” in Steven Riel’s “Blackberrying.” The lushness of the soft ”u” sounds abound in this poem, begging the reader to quench the thirst of desire, get “drunk” on all that is delicious. Keeping such “plump clusters” of blackberries becomes a must.
And we know the world is not dying when we read of ‘bumblebees guzzling dry/the white blossoms” of spring as David Miller witnesses and writes of in “An Empty Cup, A Flight of Uncarpeted Stairs.” This poem keeps a burgeoning joy as it balances upon the still point of beauty’s “fulcrum moment” relishing in that motionless hovering, that quietude of being neither this or that, here or there, before becoming “frantic for shade.”
For all that is gorgeous about the natural world, what does it mean when we preserve its death? The bee in Martha McCollough’s “Natural History” is a “lone glass bee/thirsty among so many flowers” and the “frayed fawn curled in its case…in its pale twist of grass” showcases our fascination with the dead. Taxidermied animals in a museum, even sorry-looking ones, educate us of a world full of wonder. What we keep reminds us of what we are.
If I had to choose one thing to keep for our world it would be the kindness that Bruce Hawkins speaks of, “kept/ in its cast iron cage” that which “warms the small house, allows/me to undress…”
Akhil Katyal, a poet based in Delhi, reminds us however not to discard grief, because the world is as sad as it is beautiful, because “there will be nights/when you will see even steel/ dissolve under your touch.” “The Father Speaking Through My Son” by Taylor Mali considers this “magic” of grief. Though a loved one may be gone, it’s possible we can hear them.
What greater preservation is there than self-preservation? Camille-Yvette Welsch describes the traumatic days after giving birth, of feeling “blown apart” and the process of mending, putting pieces back together as if a sculpture, using ‘clay to seal the cracks.” Venus of Willendorf and Semele appear as the speaker “recreates” herself, “this time as mother, watcher.” Though more “fragile than before” with an “echo and omega” of a pitched cry, she marvels at the “holding seam.”
“How does your mother remember her birth?” asks Carolee Bennett’s “Hold On.” Its title urges us to keep our footing in this ‘slippery” world, to picture “tentacles” instead of “ventricles”, to hear the words “prayers” and “mileage” as we travel the winding roads complete with missed garbage pick-ups and raised cable rates. “The situation is fluid” says the chief investigator. Keep our mind’s eye says this poem, so we may “pray to the imagined octopus for a moment of grace.”
What we keep is more than objects in a magpie’s nest. We keep sadness and hope, fear and love, and as Bennett poignantly writes, “All I need to know about anything is how it feels/when I hold it. And the word for that is tend.”
“But who can divide the world, the word (mundo y palabra) from any child?”
-from “Bilingual/Bilingüe” by Rhina Espaillat
As a new year ushers in, many of us think of resolutions. We may think of how we can be kinder in a country that still rings of political discord and bipartisanship. In this quarter’s featured interview, P2G contributor Rhina Espaillat responds to a question regarding her poem “Bilingual/Bilingüe” and its reflection of her immigrant father trying to maintain and honor their native Spanish while living in a new country. I ask her what she would say to the new generation of Hispanic poets amidst such challenges.
“I tell them that those of us with two languages, two nationalities, two cultures and two identities are not divided but multiplied, and lucky to inhabit more than one “home” to which we are loyal and attempt to be useful.”
Her answer resonated with me as to how rich a timbre of sound we’d hear if our country’s leadership embraced its diversity and understood the importance of feeling “multiplied” rather than divided. This left me with a sense of fullness, not depletion.
After almost eight decades of living within poetry’s landscape, Rhina says, “It still feels like music that I want to dance to, but now what’s under it is often nothing to dance about.”
Except that despite ourselves, poetry continues to give us something to listen for, to hope with, and yes, to dance to.
Sarah and I have been honored to present these interviews that have given us opportunities to learn more about the spirited, driven, and humble nature of poets such as Rhina.
With many blessings for a “mulitplied” year of kindness, gratitude, and dancing.
an introduction by Sarah Kirstine Lain
It begins with a word as small as the cry of Athena’s owl. / An ache in the cage of breath, as when we say ‘can hardly breathe.’ –Carolyn Forché, from “Harmolypi”
As we close out this year of the woman, our 2018 P2G Winter Quarterly is dedicated entirely to femme poetry. Here’s to the world-womb, the well-aimed skillset and game face; here’s to elegance and precision. C’est bon, said the lady smacking her nude lipstick, without any ado whatsoever.
We begin with Rhina P. Espaillat’s “Triptych,” a three-part Shakespearean sonnet centered on a woman. As a triptych comprises three images in three folds, so these sonnets paint a woman in three phases of a journey: Departures, Suppose, and Road Map. How compelling that triptych derives from the Greek, τρίπτυχον, meaning three-in-one: and isn’t multiplicity associated with both the godhead and poetry? In Departures, a newlywed woman grips a ticket, eager to leave with her new husband, wary in a space divided by the glass of her names and families, of shifting life. In Suppose, a woman, perhaps the same woman, is also boarding; this time she is solo, marriage left, with nothing but a blank notebook and a pen. The word suppose is aloof and lacks certainty; it hopes, assumes, and argues. As I read this sonnet, I think of how my various departures suppose me into new phases of my own femininity. Supposing I, woman, board where I choose. Suppose the narrative is as soft as my frame and as daring as warmth, if I write it thus (I will). Suppose I own my name, and a woman’s name is a theme in the triptych. In Road Map, it folds upon itself; it opens again: how the road loops round to fold / back into what will have her / learns to learn / her name again.
In “Artist’s Delight,” CM Burroughs writes with such music: baskets at my side fill with: this // is a passionflower; this is a black-eyed / susan; this is a tired iris; this is a bloom of / cotton bright…” The repetition of this is, this is, this is demands acknowledgement of both the beauty and hurt in these lines; and the enjambment foreshadows a sort of ominous turn. As the artist paints his subject, the poet introduces the reader to a less-than-harmonious landscape: When he is unhappy with / so many things, he stabs the forests. This kind of jolting opposition is also present in Emily Jungmin Yoon’s “American Dream,” where initially the speaker writes to a lover, The alcove of your arm / has become my favorite room. As the poem twists, this same lover laid calm last night while a Korean man broke into your room / and raped me. Yoon confronts race and masculinity in this poem as the speaker’s “platinum” white lover is guilty of an indirect violence—of inaction in the presence of direct violence. The role of the mother in Yoon’s poem speaks to the survivor’s “managing up” so often required in trauma narratives: the lineage of facing it, and of putting on a face: I comfort my mother, the poem concludes.
Carolyn Forché writes of “Harmolypi” – a song of joyful grief that begins with a word as small as the cry of Athena’s owl (i.e., the owl of Minerva, a symbol of knowledge). It was Hegel who wrote that the owl of Minerva takes its flight only when the shades of night are gathering. Here, the reader experiences the joy-grief of awakening, finally, as history’s canon wheels over itself like Carl Sandburg’s “Grass”: What place is this? / Where are we now? When Forché speaks of the owl’s night forage, I picture its wings brushing the walls, waking the human doze with ferocity. But what walls–of a lifespan or silence? ‘Not now’ is what it sounds like. Or two other words. The diction of confinement isn’t the point, is it? There is only the need to testify to the wall, to touch it. It exists. Yet in much the same tone as “Harmolypi,” Forché welcomes the reader to Begin again among the poorest in “Prayer.” This poem resides in an ambitious discomfort: to see human suffering, and having been altered by sight, to manifest the answer to one’s prayer with an imagination toward creative and actionable empathy. Forché writes: Language will rise then like language from the mouth of a still river. No / one’s mouth. It is a poet’s work to find a new (disruptive) language with which to testify to the silent fog that Eliot wrote about in “The Dry Salvages,” and to the polished stillness from a locked church that Forché writes about here in “Prayer.”
“Wrapped in Red” by Cynthia Bargar speaks to historical narratives on the physiological connections to madness. It addresses domestic in/sanity, boredom, and simplicity: The floor strewn with rolling balls of yarn / you pick one up put it down / brew a cup of tea. / Fortified you cast on. In “Trespassing,” Erica Wright addresses poverty and victim shaming. The speaker draws the image of a copperhead that has targeted her because she shouldn’t have been there in that field, / too big to ever belong to a rag of a thing like you. As if rags could define a girl. As if the bite is her fault, this girl with the audacity to step into a freedom that the copperhead does not believe she can wield. This being-space, this green open. As if a copperhead has any idea of what a girl can wield. To drive home this spirit, Natalie E. Illum writes so poignantly about the corporeal experience of a disabled girl in “Adage,” disrupting the familiar dictum with:
My mother says, ‘remember what doesn’t kill us, makes us.’
And having been made thus, we hope you find solace and understanding here in the language-womb and fortitude of the feminine.
Hegel, Georg William Friedrich. 1991. Elements of the philosophy of right. Translated by H.B. Nisbet. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. (Orig. pub. 1820.)
Read Sarah Kirstine Lain’s chock-full interview with P2g’s contributor poet Jan Verberkmoes. Here you’ll learn how the current Stadler Fellow at Bucknell University came to poetry, how she found the music and rhythm of poetry to be a language of its own, and how she crafts this language with white space and run-on lines to create “a reading experience that conveys the uncertain and polymorphous structuring of memory and interpretation.”
Jan Verberkmoes’ conversation with Sarah is an enlightenment of poetry’s construct and its ongoing pursuit to express what we are continuously striving to understand.
We’re thankful for Jan’s time and thoughtful engagement with us.