Adjusting Your Vision: The Hurting Kind by Ada Limón, reviewed by Rebecca Samuelson
Ada Limón could teach a masterclass on crafting a deliberate cascading between life and death. In her latest collection, remnants of searching through grief with memory topple over every corner. The Hurting Kind deciphers meaning by documenting ways we survive, memorialize, and recount to shape our perspectives of the world.
The collection is divided into four sections named after the seasons. It seems no coincidence that the text begins with “Spring.” Images and thoughts spring forth to put the reader in a reflective trance. Whether the speaker is observing birds while on vacation or thinking about a fox’s steps, there is always layered meaning. An example of this duplicity of meaning is seen in “In the Shadow” (9):
It is what we do in order to care for things, make them
ourselves, our elders, our beloveds, our unborn. (9-10)
These lines allude to the act of making things “our own” to understand their role in our lives. This complex thought arises in a poem that begins with describing a wild pansy. The longer the speaker discusses the flower, the deeper meaning is created. She shifts from taking note of the flower’s colors to questioning why she can’t just enjoy the flower for what it is.
As the collection continues, the content shifts in a way that remains consistent with Limón’s poetics. Just when you get into a groove of watching the trees blowing in the wind, specific street names are thrown in to alter your geography. Between these ruminations on natural life unfolding around her, she includes capsules of family memories. This documentation never becomes listless due to the variations in form. Limón shifts from prose poems to contained left-justified pieces, which creates different textures. Not only can you separate each family member, but you can visually see their differences on the page. In “Joint Custody” (40), the line breaks help the reader recognize the limitations of hindsight in lines 7-9:
…I cannot reverse it, the record
scratched and stopping to that original
chaotic track…
The speaker develops an appreciation for the two family dynamics without erasing the difficulty that accompanies those memories. She arrives at her own level of understanding that isn’t quite reverent. Her family situation is something many readers can identify with. There is time and space to reflect but these memories shouldn’t prevent you from moving forward. You have to move beyond the record scratches.
Along with shifts in form, Limón also employs alliteration and repetition throughout the collection. This forces you to slow down, which makes the trail of questioning easier to follow. It also heightens specific details and the power of naming. This is made most apparent in “Calling Things What They Are” (47). Even with such a definitive title, the piece still moves throughout multiple memories alluding to the fact that a memory can pop up at any time. The piece starts with observing a bird feeder and how birds were not that interesting to her before. It then shifts into recalling a past relationship and how that relationship left the speaker deflated. The ultimate moment of clarity is achieved at the end of the poem (16-17):
…I thought suffering kept things interesting. How funny
that I called it love and the whole time it was pain.
The drawn out lines moving between images in this prose poem allow this revelation to have tremendous power.
A sense of stillness and introspection is created by the final section “Winter.” By the time you reach the title poem, a genuine connection to society has been created. While taking you on a journey through her memories and grief, Limón arrives at a collective grief. What has unfolded the past few years is apparent in the haziness that covers nearly every single piece. “The Hurting Kind” (78-85) recounts memory and myth in a way that often intertwines when recalling family history. These sections move quickly because of the purposeful use of blank space amidst shifting line lengths. This allows spotlights on strong sections like lines 108-110:
I have always been too sensitive, a weeper
from a long line of weepers.
I am the hurting kind. I keep searching for proof.
The “I” has the most strength in this section because it becomes a mirror for everyone. Whether you physically express your grief or can recognize it in loved ones who have passed away, this act of searching amongst the pain is a common practice.
The book closes with a piece aptly titled “The End of Poetry” (95). There is an emphasis, almost a responsibility, to have altered ways of seeing by the end. Limón points out this combination of hope and exasperation in lines 7-8:
enough of the will to go on and not go on or how
a certain light does a certain thing, enough…
The Hurting Kind as a whole represents a category that we have all seeped into. It demonstrates that we have the power to determine how memory and grief will shape our vision for the future.
The Hurting Kind by Ada Limón, published by Milkweed Editions, May 2022. 120 pages.