What Persists: Selected Essays on Poetry from The Georgia Review, 1988-2014

What Persists

Georgia Review Books Edited by Stephen Corey

What Persists

Selected Essays on Poetry from

The Georgia Review, 1988–2014

JUDITH KITCHEN

© 2016 by the University of Georgia Press

Athens, Georgia 30602

www.ugapress.org

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Kitchen, Judith.

Title: What persists : selected essays on poetry from The Georgia Review,

1988-2014 / Judith Kitchen.

Description: Athens : The University of Georgia Press, 2016.

Identifiers: LCCN 2015032703 | ISBN 9780820349312 (hardcover : alk. paper) |

ISBN 9780820349305 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Poetry.

Classification: LCC PS3561. 1845 A6 2016 | DDC 814/.54—dc23

LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015032703

What Persists was made possible in part by the generous gifts from the friends, fans, and family of Judith Kitchen.

Mary C. Blew

Nancy Boutilier

Kevin Clark

Jennifer Culkin

David Huddle

Nancy Geyer

Greg Glazner

Kate Carol De Gutes

Rebecca McClanahan

Gerry McFarland

Kent Meyers

Kay Mullen

Scott Nadelson

Ann Whitfield Powers

Lia Purpura

Christine Robbins

Stanley Rubin

Marjorie Sandor

Hilary J. Schaper

Tina Schumann

Kathi R. Shannon

Peggy Shumaker

Joseph Usibelli

Georgia Whitney

And anonymous friends.

Contents

Foreword by Stephen Corey

Author’s Preface

Summer 1988: Speaking Passions

On William Stafford, Heather McHugh, Linda Pastan, Brigit Pegeen Kelly, Li-Young Lee

Spring 1991: Auditory Imagination: The Sense of Sound

On Pamela Gross, Jane Kenyon, Li-Young Lee, Thomas Lux, Wayne Dodd

Spring 1992: Excellent Excesses

On Stanley Plumly, William Matthews, Pamela Stewart, Albert Goldbarth, Les Murray

Fall 1993: Skating on Paper

On C. K. Williams, W. S. Merwin, Judith Hall, Deborah Pope, Gerald McCarthy,

Summer 1996: The Ladybug and the Universe

On Stanley Kunitz, Donald Justice, Gerald Stern, Michael Harper

Summer 1997: What Persists

On Charles Wright, Robert Hass, Maxine Kumin, Paul Zimmer, Lisel Mueller, Leslie Norris

Winter 1998: Against

On Mary Karr, Billy Collins, Thylias Moss, Ted Hughes

Summer 1999: Tensions,

On George Szirtes, Paul Muldoon, Albert Goldbarth, Suzanne Paola, Naomi Shihab Nye

Winter 2000: In Pursuit of Elegance

On Les Murray, Yehuda Amichai, Derek Walcott, Jane Cooper, Robert Wrigley, James Richardson, Gregory Djanikian, Stephen Dunn

Winter 2002: Interlude

On Madeline DeFrees, Linda Gregerson, Li-Young Lee, Philip Schultz, Natasha Trethewey

Fall 2005: The Fact of the Room

On Albert Goldbarth, Quan Barry, Joseph Stroud, Ann Townsend, Kevin Prufer, Linda Bierds

Fall 2007: Raindrops on Roses . . .

On Albert Goldbarth, Carl Phillips, Robert Wrigley, Rebecca McClanahan, Bruce Beasley, Paul Zimmer, John Engels

Spring 2008: The Omnivorous Omnibus

On Michael O’Brien, Meghan O’Rourke, Robert Hass, Philip Schultz, Stanley Plumly

Fall 2010: Puzzles

On Tony Hoagland, Terrance Hays, Connie Wanek, Peggy Shumaker

Summer 2011: Walking the Line

On James Richardson, Robert Wrigley, Elizabeth Bradfield, Robert Cording

Summer 2012: A Question Takes

On Marvin Bell, Jane Hirshfield, Kevin Prufer, Kevin Goodan

Winter 2012: With a Little Help from My Friends

On Natasha Trethewey, Kathleen Flenniken, John Hodgen, Alice Derry, Lola Haskins

Winter 2014: Da Capo al Coda

On Michael Mlekoday, Kerrin McCadden, David Koehn, Laura Donnelly, Kasey Jueds

Appendix: Notes on the Other Twenty-Eight Essays

Foreword

And the Kitchen Sink: Judith Kitchen’s

Vision of American Poetry, 1988–2014

STEPHEN COREY

FIRST WE NEVER THOUGHT it could last so long, and then we came to think it would never end; we were wrong on both counts.

In 1991, Georgia Review editor Stanley W. Lindberg announced that Judith Kitchen and Fred Chappell would be regular essay-reviewers of new poetry for the journal, each producing two substantial commentaries per year. Judith’s invitation was made on the strength of Speaking Passions (Summer 1988)—which leads off this book—and A Want Ad (Spring/Summer 1990), both produced during the time when we were auditioning replacements for Peter Stitt, who reviewed poetry for the Review from 1977–87 before departing to edit a new literary journal, The Gettysburg Review.

Fred supplied fine discussions through 1997, at which time he stepped down to give more time to other pursuits. Judith, however, kept going . . . and going . . . and going, even through many years of uncertain health brought on by two potentially fatal conditions. In late October of 2014, from an intensive-care hospital bed in Seattle, Judith made final revisions to Da Capo al Coda, her study of first books by five promising poets of widely varying ages for our Winter 2014 issue. On 6 November 2014, at the age of exactly seventy-three years and three months—she became in 1945 a Hiroshima baby—Judith died at home with her longtime husband Stanley Rubin close at hand. After Judith’s death, with Stan’s blessing, I added Da Capo al Coda to the book because it really does represent her final word in more ways than one. Also, to complete the record, I created an Appendix entry for her penultimate essay, When the River Is Ice (Summer 2014).

Across twenty-seven years, Judith wrote some fifty lengthy essay-reviews for The Georgia Review, with the emphasis on essay. John Stilgoe, one of the outside readers for this book, called Judith Kitchen one of the two or three leading poetry critics in the United States and one of the five or so in the English-speaking world. What Persists is aptly and accurately titled, because Judith did not dash off journalistic reviews meant to be held in mind only until another round of the same popped up from some other hand a week or a month later. Judith’s essaying of American poetry is always mindfully broad-sweeping and minutely particular, always so wisely and passionately crafted that it manages to speak engagingly and instructively to both expert and neophyte readers.

The Georgia Review and the literary world have been inevitably diminished by the loss of Judith Kitchen’s voice, and I am personally saddened that Judith did not live to see this book come off the presses. I had told her for years that I believed her essay-reviews deserved publication as a body of work, and when The Georgia Review and the University of Georgia Press reached an agreement in 2013 for a Review-generated book series I knew exactly what the inaugural title should be. In early 2014 Judith herself made the selection of pieces and wrote her introduction, and then at my suggestion she created—beautifully and effectively—the appendix that gives thumbnail sketches of all her other essay-reviews and is, literally, a vital part of the collection.

Judith opened that initiating 1988 study, Speaking Passions, with a comment from the literary critic Leslie Fiedler about Randall Jarrell (1914–62), widely regarded as one of the great poetry critics of the twentieth century:

Jarrell is everywhere the man who has just read something he loves or hates, sometimes the man baffled by what surprised him into admiration or exacerbated him beyond patience by its ineptitude; but always the man speaking his passion, rather than an embodied institution pronouncing judgment. He is resolutely unsystematic, committed to no methodology or aesthetic theory—responsible only to his own responses, hushed only before the mystery of his own taste.

Judith offered this quote not to compare herself with Jarrell but to try to indicate the kind of poetry discussion she loved and hoped to conduct; I repeat it both to claim that she achieved, again and again, what she hoped and to assert that she has been as vital a voice for poetry for her decades as Jarrell was for his.

Author’s Preface

WHAT WOULD MAKE ANYONE continue to review poetry for going on three decades? I asked myself this question as I was selecting my own selected. Two hundred thirty-seven books, or an average of around 9.5 books per year; for every one reviewed, at least three more read; for every book read, at least another three considered. We’re into the thousands. My answer seems so simple: I’ve enjoyed it. From the time I was small, I had a passion for poetry, reciting it as I flew up and down in the swing. In junior high, I had a fierce argument about Frost’s Mending Wall with my Uncle Willy. In high school, I once taught a class on Keats’s Ode on a Grecian Urn that was, I now suspect, roundly unpopular. In college, I was elated with the close reading that opened the work of Elizabeth Bishop, Robert Lowell, and John Berryman even as it was just being published. When I began writing, I turned to poetry first, and only after that to nonfiction. So my tenure as a reviewer for The Georgia Review has been a natural extension of my ongoing interests. Over the years, I’ve enjoyed thinking about what poetry can do, about what each book I looked at did, or did not, accomplish. I’ve enjoyed encountering new voices; and I’ve enjoyed assessing new work by established writers. I’ve loved writing the introductory material, finding topics, gimmicks, whatever—an umbrella under which the essay-review could help me to see different poets from a new perspective.

Most of all, I’ve enjoyed the freedom to be who I am, to break all my own rules, to be cantankerous and celebratory in the same review. For this collection, I’ve selected eighteen, approximately forty percent of my output in the past twenty-five years. These essay-reviews represent the range of my taste. They also reveal a cultural history from the dismantling of the Berlin Wall, through 9/11 and the Iraq War, into today’s political climate. They chronicle my personal interests while they also make note of what was happening in contemporary poetry. Cumulatively, they reflect a larger context.

I had always felt that I knew more about poetry than I was able to articulate, and it was Stanley W. Lindberg, then editor of The Georgia Review, who gave me the opportunity to learn how to talk about work that excited me. In 1990, I was paired with Fred Chappell, each of us writing two in-depth reviews per year. I read Fred’s reviews avidly, wishing I could see what he saw, say what he said. Maybe the most agonizing fun I’ve ever had were the long phone conversations with Stan as, together, we sorted out my cries that that was not what I meant at all. We argued over commas, semicolons, word choices, you name it, and at least I was able to reject the word whomsoever, which I said would never—ever—come out of my mouth. But I was grateful for the chance to learn how to say what was on my mind.

So now, after a quarter century, I look back. Early on, for the Fall 1991 issue, I talked about the act of reviewing itself:

Essentially there are two kinds of reviews: those that tend to categorize and those that offer a reading. The former passes down a verdict. The latter does not attempt to judge in terms of abstract ideas, but rather attempts to show the reader why a particular work is worthy of attention, and to suggest what sort of attention the work demands. In such a reading, often a pattern or shape will emerge as the reviewer attempts to map the contours of the writer’s imagination; at the same time, the aim of the review is to open this particular landscape to as many others as may wish to follow. Such a review should open responses rather than close them.

Clearly I was sorting out just who I wanted to be, and I know now that I most definitely wanted to become the latter type of reviewer. I wanted to discover what I was thinking as I wrote, and I wanted to feel my way toward a full sense of what was important in and about the poems. Over time, I learned more and more how to respect the writer’s cues. This came about, in part, because of another astute editor at GR—Stephen Corey. I have him to thank for the fact that my dictionary is now far more ragged at the edges, and the fact that I have learned the need to clarify just about everything I think I’ve already said. Over the years, his penetrating questions have made me go back in to make it new again. He has been my staunchest supporter and harshest critic—and every critic (like every poet) needs both.

My generation has lived in a comparatively dull time for poetry. After the great modernist movement, after the confessionals and post-confessionals, just where could poetry take us next? Not surprising that confession devolved to story, followed by a retreat into new formalism. Not surprising that the line lost some of its power or that experimentation was relatively mild, that we ended up with L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry as our only true movement. Not surprising that, as theory invaded the academy and the ranks of critics thinned, the two would seem almost interchangeable. As early as the Winter 1997 issue, I had had my fill:

The cleverness with which many of [the critics] treat the poetry they talk about is terrifying. . . . Such sentences as The phrases seek a continuum of organic time, always mindful that what is organic is gendered and My analysis of metaphoric configurations . . . suggests the subtle but precise permutations of signification that occur through historical markings within metaphoric significance use scholarly discourse to perpetuate certain assumptions—that the reader already agrees with the statement and that the critic’s job is simply to point out the instances where it applies. As with so much of this sort of writing, the style is so dense as to be almost impenetrable. Those reviews functioned . . . as places where the critic could show off a kind of knowledge that helps neither writer nor reader.

Dullness has its advantages. It enables you to see what stands out—and why. It allows for retrospection and prediction. You can see the forest and the trees.

So what do I make of my efforts over the years? I see that over time my reviews became more assured. I also see that the early reviews have a kind of energy I now envy. I realize that my taste in poetry has changed over time. The more I learned about craft, the more I admired poets who were masters at rhythm, or slant rhyme, and forms used so subtly you almost didn’t notice, then did. Naturally, my taste in content changed as well. Where before I had been hungry for a poem as expansive as Lowell’s The Quaker Graveyard in Nantucket, now I find myself drawn to quiet lyrics that catch me unawares. I’ve enjoyed charting my discoveries, and I can only hope that my readings have helped both writer and reader alike.

Throughout, I was encouraged to discuss work by older and younger American poets who were not yet part of the contemporary canon. In short, I was given free rein, and I took it. I used my personal life and my other interests as background music; I held the poetry I was reading up to that light, to see just what role poetry played. And now, gritted teeth and pulled hair aside, I see that my struggle to get it right has paid off with my own oddball brand of criticism. I came at poetry from every possible angle, tackling a little bit of everything, including poets from other countries: Australia, Wales, Ireland, Hungary, Norway, Israel, Jordan. I took the liberty to review novels, essays, novels in verse, prose by poets, anthologies, letters, even volumes of selected poems. I commented on prizes and awards, the academy, readings, quotations, other reviews—all the requisite ephemera that constitute the life of poetry. I revisited the work of Robert Lowell when the Collected Poems came out; I revisited Sylvia Plath when she became the topic of a book on women; I introduced reviews by talking about Frost, Pound, Stevens, along with Margaret Anderson’s Little Review, and I was able to muse about grandchildren, soccer, snow, rain, landscape, spies, politics, science, family anecdotes, my own illness—all in the service of the poems I was reading.

What do these selected essay-reviews say about poetry today? At the very least, they show what a wide range of poetry is being written—by women, men, poets who celebrate their ethnicity, poets who show a fierce individualism, poets whose careers have soared, promising poets whose work has all but disappeared. I see poets whose work I admired suddenly being recognized years later. I even see a resurgence of interest in poets who died over the course of my tenure. I hope to have been a source for some of this renewed enthusiasm. There were several poets I looked at more than once, and I felt it was my obligation to note whether they were changing direction, deepening an aesthetic, or possibly just marking time. Some poets have one great book in them; some have more, and then more. Some continue to write what they have always written well. Some change gear, rev up, move into new territory. And I have had the wonderful opportunity to delve into—and comment on—it all.

How did I make my selections? I had to make sacrifices, including discussions of poets whose work I admire, even revere. In the end, I took the straightforward route and chose to retain the recognizable essay-reviews as opposed to the more eccentric variations. I decided to represent nearly every year with the widest variety of poets I could muster, hoping that time alone would speak for the future health of our nation’s poetry. I tried to ring the changes on the specific topics with which I began my reviews, omitting those that seemed to me to be most dated. But I couldn’t resist adding an appendix to offer a bit of their flavor and provide information on other books and writers I had found myself discussing. Perhaps readers will find something there.

So thank you, Stephen, for persisting with those persistent questions. You made me think around the edges of my own claims. And thanks also to my husband, Stan Rubin, who was always there to force me past my vagueness into something that resembles insight.

Speaking Passions

On William Stafford’s An Oregon Message;

Heather McHugh’s To The Quick and Shades;

Linda Pastan’s The Imperfect Paradise; Brigit

Pegeen Kelly’s To the Place of Trumpets; and

Li-Young Lee’s Rose.

ON THE BACK COVER of Randall Jarrell’s Poetry and Age, Leslie Fiedler writes, "Jarrell is everywhere the man who has just read something he loves or hates, sometimes the man baffled by what surprised him into admiration or exacerbated him beyond patience by its ineptitude; but always the man speaking his passion, rather than an embodied institution pronouncing judgment. He is resolutely unsystematic, committed to no methodology or aesthetic theory—responsible only to his own responses, hushed only before the mystery of his own taste." This description would jar many contemporary reviewers who try to be systematic, who commit themselves to methodology or theory and would love to have the authority of institutions. In fact, contemporary reviewers often act more like theorists; the would-be reviewer sheds his or her passion in favor of a dispassionate academic approach. Fiedler’s quote, it seems to me, is a pretty good description of what a reviewer ought to be, but seldom is. The risk of taste is the mark of the reviewer who puts his or her responses on the line, knowing that history may or may not support that position. What matters more is the dialogue he or she enters into (however silent) with other readers—readers not of the reviewer’s work, but the specific book(s) being discussed. Such a reviewer assumes other readers, and other passions.

Each book has its own territory, and that territory deserves to be entered on its own terms. The ideal review does not limit a book by looking only at one aspect or attempting to compare the book with books by other authors. It may, of course, be relevant to compare a new book to an author’s earlier books, to look at how the new work extends the vision or moves in new directions. And it may also be informative to place a writer within a larger literary tradition by noting similarities with well-known predecessors. But the reviewer should not necessarily take on the role of the critic or theorist. The reviewer’s major job is to chronicle the present tense; it is the task of criticism and theory to reflect on what has already happened and/or what might be about to happen.

The last line of Fiedler on Jarrell reads, And what unfailing taste he possessed. But Jarrell cared most about reading, and about an idealized interested public who would care about his caring, leaving it to history to characterize his taste (in the form of Leslie Fiedler and others), just as he left it to the readers to enter the world of the poetry he discussed. Responsible only to his own responses, he demonstrated a love for poetry and a passion for reading. Isn’t this what most of us are still looking for?

Over the years, William Stafford has given us such a consistent voice and vision that it is difficult to tell the poems in An Oregon Message from the poems that appeared over twenty-five years ago in West of Your City. Because of this mix-and-match quality, William Stafford should be read in large doses—several books at a time—so that his readers can perceive the vastly larger picture which emerges from the intricately woven tapestry of a lifetime’s work. Like Wallace Stevens before him, Stafford has built a language, an interlocking set of images through which one can enter his imaginative spaces. Unlike Stevens, he uses a seemingly transparent, even commonplace, vocabulary. Words and images are repeated from poem to poem, and book to book. It takes accumulated reading to understand the complexity of his vision. So, if one has to choose a place to begin—and begin one must—Stafford’s latest book would be a good choice. An Oregon Message is an extension of Stafford’s central vision and, at the same time, a return to its roots.

An Oregon Message flagrantly blends the humorous, the nostalgic, and the prophetic. It reveals a more didactic side of Stafford, as though he is less willing to let time do its work for him. The messages are gentle, often playful, but always carry the bite of truth. Its first message is found in the form of a prose statement preceding the poems, where Stafford—calling his poems organically grown—defends his method against what must be seen as hidden critics. I must be willingly fallible in order to deserve a place in the realm where miracles happen, he writes. Why should Stafford feel compelled to state this at such a late stage in his career? The answer may lie in the new way this book includes the reader as part of its subject matter, thus asking the reader to be fallible with him.

Beginning with a section entitled The Book About You, Stafford equates the I of the poems with the You of the title. His life is your life—or very like it. In this way, he allows you to take on his perspective, and his wit. He begins to have fun. He burns books: Truth, brittle and faint, burns easily, / its fire as hot as the fire lies make—/ flame doesn’t care. He confesses, I let history happen—sorry. He lets out all the stops in Thinking About Being Called Simple by a Critic, where he alludes first to William Carlos Williams by opening: I wanted the plums, but I waited. Then, sitting in the dark, he identifies with his critic, agrees with him, finds his own life so simple there was no way / back into qualifying my thoughts / with irony or anything like that. This playful side of Stafford dominates the first section of the book, then serves as an undercurrent throughout.

What the critic missed in calling Stafford simple is a realization of just how deep he is, how serious he can be. This is a serious book—perhaps Stafford’s best since The Rescued Year—and it goes back to some of his original material with renewed urgency. It reexamines and reaffirms his moral commitments to pacifism and social justice (as in Serving with Gideon, which unforgettably examines his own near-complicity with racism). It looks at the past—especially his family—and tries to reconcile the polarities of father (patience) and mother (judgment) that have characterized Stafford’s earlier work. It continues his concerns for the land, and for how we will use our technologies. And it affirms that, like the bush from Mongolia whose roots will not relax, some of us have to be ready. What we must be ready for, Stafford does not make clear, but he does suggest an eventual merging of self with the elements—a transcendence far less rhetorical than Whitman’s and far more convincing that Emerson’s:

     . . . that river divides more than

Two sides of your life. The only way

Is farther, breathing that country, becoming

Wise in its flavor, a native of the sun.

                             (Looking for Gold)

One of the best poems in the book is 1940—a poem that recalls his most anthologized poem, Traveling Through the Dark, in both its content and its formal structures, but most in its shiver of premonition:

1940

It is August. Your father is walking you

to the train for camp and then the War

and on out of his life, but you don’t know.

Little lights along the path glow under their hoods

and your shoes go brown, brown in the brightness

till the next interval, when they disappear in the shadow.

You know they are down there, by the crunch of stone

and a rustle when they touch a fern. Somewhere above,

cicadas arch their gauze of sound all over town.

Shivers of summer wind follow across the park

and then turn back. You walk on toward

September, the depot, the dark, the light, the dark.

Stafford insists on making this a universal poem. It is your father walking you. Moving through time and space, this poem reconstructs both a personal and a societal history. Sound reveals what sight cannot, and the gauze of sound that is the poem transports poet and reader alike into a place where the only thing you can be certain of is uncertainty: but you don’t know. Is this a moment of hindsight? Or is it a man’s continual state as he hovers on the verge of the future? Or is it the writer’s trigger for imagination? With characteristic deftness, Stafford allows for each of these—and more.

Stafford’s metaphor for the daily practice of writing (where one is most open to uncertainty) is found in Run Before Dawn:

Most mornings I get away, slip out

the door before light, set forth on the dim, gray

road, letting my feet find a cadence

that softly carries me on.

The poem goes on to describe what he passes, what passes him, what dream he finds himself in. It ends in the solitary vision of the creation of the poem:

These journeys are quiet. They mark my days with

adventure too precious for anyone else to share, little

gems of darkness, the world going by, and my breath, and the road.

For William Stafford, the morning run over the blank page is a way of living. He faces himself in mirror after mirror, learning to own his own face more. Perhaps this is because, after starting at his eventual death (certainly the largest theme in A Glass Face in the Rain, 1982), he has opted for continued life. An Oregon Message is filled with quiet joy—there is even a poem called Why I am Happy. Like the lie detector that proclaims a constant truth, the heart makes its own optimistic sound: saying ‘Now,’ saying ‘Yes,’ / saying, ‘Here.’

What fascinates me most about this book is a blurring of time which demands the participation of the reader. Past, present, and future fuse into a timelessness in which all good things can—and will—happen. Stafford hands these moments to us with a written gesture. Multiple tenses merge to create a link between the poet’s personal reflective time and the reader’s present; a new present tense is established on the page in the act of reading:

You who come years from now to this brief spell

of nothing that was mine: the open, slow passing

of time was a gift going by. I have to put my hand out

on the mane of the wind, like this, to give it to you.

                                                 (Little Rooms)

How who you are made a difference once

but the wind blew, changing everything

gradually to here, and it is today.

                                 (Figuring Out How It Is)

Stafford’s weighted vocabulary hovers on the border of metaphysics. Key words (dark, wind, hand, listen, far, to name a few) surface over and over, acquiring special meanings that, after successive appearances, start to become clear. One must be careful not to reduce this vocabulary to a simple series of equations or to attempt to harness it into a system. Still, the poems deepen with this extended, charged usage. The word listen, for example, is equated with a receptivity that generates poetry itself, and any aspect of listening carries with it that extra meaning. Thus, the reader discerns just a bit more than a faltering piano in Practice: Maybe your stumbling / saves you, and that sound in the night is more than the wind.

Some critics (like the one in this poem) have been calling Stafford simple for a long time. It’s too bad they haven’t taken the time to read the body of work and to see how his interlocking images provide a key for reading the poems on several levels at once. Stafford is a major poet—and he has yet to receive proper critical attention. He is stubbornly simple, but not simplistic. This book is ample evidence that this senior figure, of the generation of Lowell and Berryman, has continued to write remarkable poetry. An Oregon Message will surprise any reader who thinks of Stafford as a Northwestern myth-spinner. Despite its title, this is not a book of place, but of imagination. Its language is alive, challenging the reader to enter its many dimensions with mind as well as heart.

Two books with the feel of one—that’s what Heather McHugh has produced over the last year. These are distinct volumes, each with its own integrity, yet one flows easily into the next and they inform each other in important ways. Both spring from the same source and from the same desire for explanation. Even their titles tell us this is a matter of life and death.

To the Quick is concerned with motion, with relativity. McHugh’s physics go beyond the physical into the realm of the emotional (Earth / has our own great ranges / of feeling—). Movement itself causes speculation: . . . the whole night long on the highway, moved, I’ll have // a moon to keep me company, as still / as I am, in the glass, while trees and signs and homes keep racing // toward the past. What’s staying / anyway? What’s going on? . . . Everything is slippery, and the only thing more slippery than love is the language we use to speak it. Wordplay is the norm for McHugh, but the puns, the twists, the double-entendres are all used, in the end, to call attention to the change—and to the very way that naming calls something into question:

We put our signature on everything—we draw the line

at skin for different, at the heart for dead; but now and then

the EKG machine goes on

all by itself. There was a time

we really sang, forgetting differences, and when we did

the air itself would seem alive—but then

we fell back into dream; our definitions froze.

                   (What We Call Living)

What’s dead, here, is love. But it won’t stay dead; it rears its ugly, one-sided head and won’t let go. To the Quick rages against a particular lover, several perverted aspects of love, and the body that harbors unrequited passions, as well as against memory that fixes love, locking it forever into time and place. And yet . . . if you hold this mirror up to see your breath, there it is—proof that you’re alive.

What’s really alive here is language—and a quick mind receptive to its contradictions, aware of all its facets, intrigued by how it holds itself together. Chance is as good as rule:

For a second the word express appears

in an apposition to the word espresso (that’s

what happy is about) and then

the bus is gone from the coffee-house door.

Again you’re in the luckless world,

world without fortune, where you swear to do

something unspeakable

if one more person mentions consciousness.

                                   (Capital)

This is a chance world, where neither love nor life are guaranteed forever. One poem, written in memoriam for poet Mitchell Toney, takes off the veneer of language and asks the question from the heart: What could we say to you / while you died? The answer seems to be—nothing. Silence is the only language that can take in death. Words skitter away, dragging their baggage of meaning, and, in the face of death, will not suffice.

Each section of To the Quick leads off with delicate poems inspired by (and near-translations of) the French poems of Rilke. At once sensuous and wary, these after Rilke poems not only set a tone but also provide a perspective from which McHugh can explore her own world. For example, opening the final section is one of these short poems suggesting how the natural world and the world of love diverge: The fruit is heavier to bear / than flowers seem to be. / But that’s a lover talking, / not a tree. And McHugh’s final poem in the book extends this theme, building on an earlier image—a starfish which the poet has returned to the sea rather than send it to an old lover. Reminiscent of Elizabeth Bishop’s The Fish, McHugh’s The Matte Over gives a careful, detailed description of the starfish before she throws it back to a world the sighted have no rights to. Unlike Bishop’s letting go, however, this is not a joyous act of affirmation, but a resignation.

The second book, Shades, pulls away from obsessive love, struggling with the larger issues of grief and self-definition. The first third of the book moves from the fact of the death of a friend to the accompanying crisis of faith. It’s hard to question a faith in science, but this book starts with the universe and unravels it down to the atom, leaving question after question in its wake. In the end, a sense of self is what is at stake:

     . . . I can’t locate

my old self, young self, you know who—

my one-and-only, be-all-end-all,

my intended and my ex, the one I was

most smitten with . . .

                                 (Round Time)

The middle third of the book tries to reconstruct the self—a self built mostly on words, and its knowledge that the words shed meanings as rapidly as they gain them. It is a slippery, wily self that must be wheedled and willed into existence:

Language wasn’t any

funny money I was playing with,

no toy surprise, no watch or wooden

nickel, not

a nickel nickel either, twice

removed, sign of a sign.

I meant to make

so deep a song

it held no end of love.

         (Inflation)

If the poet is honest—and there is honesty in this play with words—the old love and rage and rage to love must surface. There is a putting-to-rest in Shades, but it is angrier and more knowing than that in To the Quick. Intimate knowledge of death is brought to bear on the dying of love.

The play with words that often unlocks the meaning of the world can also be a way of holding the world at bay. Shades moves into a new phase in its final third; the poems take a good hard look at this world, piling image upon image without the characteristic sheen of language at play. The poems are fascinating, but the balance is precarious. They are dense, descriptive, as though desperate to prove that the five senses can make a larger sense. If there are shades of meaning, they are discovered in juxtaposition of image or in the flow of idea rather than in the quick mind’s skittery relativism:

for now, it’s five AM, before the break

of day, before a soul would even think

to subdivide the sun, and mourning doves are casting old

consoling silvers down from trees, and even last night’s trash is washed

by cool light in the street. In this cafe, unhurried, one can find

a steadiness of commonplaces to be grateful for: the coffee’s

regular (as sure as shit, Maggie would say): the sweetpea

winding back and forth along

the cordwork of a southern window

testifies to minor lights and little luxuries;

the baby has a piece of toast. It’s all her own.

                                        (Forecast)

Whereas To the Quick plays with language in order to release emotion, Shades examines language as the possible source of the problem: Just think of it / and you surround it with // its opposite. Shades opens with a poem about (though the poem itself warns that her poems are not / about about) a plane flight; 20–200 on 747 acknowledges Derridian theory—Just / whose story is this anyway? Out of my mind // whose words emerge? Is there a self the self // surpasses? The book ends on another flight where meaning does, in fact, seem possible—seen from the right perspective:

     . . . Earth’s underlying

nature might be likeness—

likeness everywhere disguised

by wave-length, amplitude and frequency.

(If we go far enough away could we

decipher the design?) . . .

                     (From 20,000 Feet)

Facts, numbers, the world’s natural orderings are all there, only to be incorporated into McHugh’s ironic sense of how small we are—and how endless our longings. By using language to capture the many shapes of experience, Heather McHugh has made it possible for us to see more of the world in all its fragmentary wholeness.

For years now, I have counted on Linda Pastan to alert me to the nuances of common family life. More than any poet I can think of, she chronicles the subtle insights that distinguish our ordinary moments—what she terms the whole riptide of daily life. Often she does this by juxtaposing our dailiness against the world of myth, specifically Eve in her earthly Paradise or Penelope as she waits at home for Odysseus. What Pastan learns as she examines the old, timeworn stories is applied to the present moment, often with a surprising twist that leaves the reader reeling.

The Imperfect Paradise is no exception. We encounter ourselves in recognizable events—a daughter leaving home, a husband and wife reestablishing cycles of birth (a grandchild) and death (a parent). Built into each of these moments is a questioning voice, one that will accept the inevitable only after it makes a kind of haphazard, intuitive sense. This is the voice that most intrigues me, a voice that can confront what many of us pretend is not there:

Sometimes I believe

if I had one thing

in some other way

everything would be fine,

and we would be happy

the way families are

whose innocence goes with them

to the grave . . .

                   (Root Pruning)

So we move another summer closer

to our last summer together—

a time as real and implacable as the sea . . .

         (The Ordinary Weather of Summer)

Out of such a confrontation comes an acceptance of what is temporary—and a knowledge of what is important. It is important to learn to live with imperfection, to love the imperfection that the fact of death underscores. Pastan seems to conclude, like Frost, that earth may be all we will know of Paradise—but not until after she has questioned a creator who would inflict on us the strict contract between love and grief.

Love and grief (and the ways each leads to the other) are at the heart of these poems. The balancing act is made clear in a poem in which Pastan envisions a human acrobatic act consisting of her dying mother, herself, her son, and her newborn grandson. For one precarious moment they inhabit the earth simultaneously—and then time moves remorselessly on. The seasons come and go: dogwoods blossom for one impossibly lovely week in spring, snow offers its consolations, and summer points up the ordinary life by its very cessation. With the death of her mother, the poet feels that her whole childhood is coming apart, / the last stitches / about to be ripped out. She tries on the infinite possibilities of other lives—the one she might have lived in her grandfather’s peasant village if he had stubbornly refused to change, the one she glimpses when she sees her mother’s face in an old photograph, the one she imagines for the beavers who mate for life.

On the underside of the ordinary lived life is the imagined other life. One section, entitled "Rereading The Odyssey in Middle Age, gives Pastan a vehicle for looking at aspects of desire, infidelity, and the traditional roles of male and female within marriage. And middle age provides a new lens through which to view the old themes, just as the imperfect paradise" seen through Eve’s eyes allows Pastan to imagine familiar events as though for the first time. This shadowy imagined life lends some of its passion to the humdrum and the everyday, providing new insights. Using legend and myth against which to measure her own life has been the hallmark of Pastan’s work from Aspects of Eve on. Often, she rescues the myth from stereotype by seeing it through contemporary eyes:

I think of the uses of shroud:

how the night can be shrouded in fog

in places like this one, near the sea;

how leaves in summer shroud each mother