So Long

November 10, 2023

Piecing Life Together Through Grief: So Long by Jen Levitt, reviewed by Rebecca Samuelson

When it comes to memory, events are rarely recalled in chronological order. A song can spark a thought from the past, or you can spend an entire afternoon reminiscing about childhood influences. So Long is a collection that uses memory to process difficult concepts, such as the death of a parent, life as a caretaker, and how being a daughter informs all of these roles. Jen Levitt understands that grief is not a linear process, and she employs these poems to show the vulnerability in that acceptance.

Starting with the cover image of an empty chair by Zachary Schomburg, we can already see that a dramatic contemplation on the cyclical nature of life is set in motion. The empty chair depicted in this painting can signify sitting alone with your thoughts, which is something that happens often when you are caretaking. Paired with the implications of the title, time remains a pivotal tool to fully grasping this book. The phrase “so long” usually means goodbye, but in this context, Levitt is able to make this phrase transform into what fits the moment. Sometimes it refers to a drawn out illness, like her father’s cancer diagnosis that feels like it will never end. Other times, it illuminates a string of connection through lifetimes that you desperately try to hold on to. Even before you open the book, the reader is already situated in a reflective state.

This act of looking back is immediately enacted with the first poem. The collection is divided into three numbered sections, but starts with the piece “After” (1) before section one opens. A grief timeline is set up by intentionally choosing to begin the stanzas with words such as “at first”, “then”, and “now”, which can capture days or years in three short stanzas. It seems particularly interesting to begin this poem, which is outside of the numbered order, with a stanza that goes back in time:

At first, it was like trying to live
in a human-sized aquarium, with everyone

watching me come up for air. (1-3)

Feeling like you are on display is something that anyone who has experienced grief can identify with. Whether it’s because others are worried about you, or because you feel suffocated by the situation, these lines continue the thread of thinking about how we view the world after a significant loss.

As the collection continues, Levitt is able to encapsulate family relationships and the progression of a serious illness by utilizing different forms. We shift from a series of justified poems, which feel like standard recollection to quatrains, where the fullness of experience is expressed in four lines. Then we switch to couplets, which feel almost as if they mirror the speaker and her father at times. These shifts, along with intentional line breaks, feel impactful when cascading through time with the speaker.

The shifts culminate in the title poem “So Long” (27–41), which is a multiple section piece that takes up the entire second section of the book. The section starts with a phone call with the speaker’s dad. Hearing her father’s cough instigates the process of contemplating “what’s next” for a parent while trying to navigate daily life. By the time the reader gets to section five (31), the impact on the family is undeniably being felt. From beginning the piece with “All the diners we sit in after doctor’s appointments:” (1) to “The silences, thick, cloudy, only amplify our habits” (9), it’s clear that each family member is impacted by this illness.

Levitt gives a unique perspective as an adult, caretaker, and daughter. She describes the different ways her father depends on her: whether it’s through a desperate phone call, or making sure he is safe on the train while her brother rejoices with him at a baseball game. These poems demonstrate how communication changes when you are seen as a child or a caregiver. It even impacts sibling dynamics, where one is suffering through the hardship while the other only reaps the rewards.

By focusing on her father, she is also able to discover more about herself. This is made apparent in section 13 (39):

On his bureau the leather wallet stuffed with receipts
& the baseball cap he’s always losing. By the fireplace
a monogrammed briefcase he hasn’t used in years,
what time accumulates. I know he’s going to miss all this, (5-8)

Here the speaker is thinking about what all of her father’s belongings represent. From casual store purchases to changes in career paths (due to sickness), she is remembering his life before it ends. However, this examination quickly flips with the closing line:

I got it wrong, above. It’s we who will miss him in it. (14)

Individual belongings become more indicative and meaningful once a person has passed away. The speaker takes the time to realize that this loss will be reminded to her by the pieces her father left behind.

Throughout the collection, the poems seem to operate in a liminal space. At times they capture reflection, then shift to hindsight in an instant. There is a feeling of gratitude while processing the decline of a parent, which appears to only be possible through the organic, stylistic decisions in the poems. Whether it’s punctuation, caesura, or multiple sections at the center of the book, these changes make this act of propelling, while simultaneously rewinding, possible. There is also this intentional attempt to observe life events to avoid getting caught in a grief spiral. This attempt is most felt in “Throw the Rest Back” (55–56), where the speaker depicts the loss of a friendship and the loss of her father. A surprising, extended moment of regret is felt towards the end of the book:

But more, I want to stop tending, like a mother,

my old shames—all the people I could have
been, in all the rooms, if words had left my mouth. (22-24)

There is a regret for what didn’t happen in life, or what can never take place now. The speaker points toward wanting one more conversation with her dad and longing in other areas. Time passing makes this longing feel endless, which ultimately brings the reader full circle back to the title of the book.

So Long is a collection that is as much about life as it is about death. It is able to leave such a lasting impression, because it does not reduce grief to a singular experience. Levitt demonstrates how life directions and feelings can change as time goes on. Although there is no solution provided to end the experiences of loss or incessant review, these poems serve as a reminder that you have to learn to just keep going. No matter how long it takes.

So Long by Jen Levitt, published by Four Way Books, March 2023. 88 pages.

Rebecca Samuelson is a Bay Area poet from Hayward, California who writes from the intersection of caretaking and grief. She received her MFA in creative writing, with a concentration in poetry, from Saint Mary’s College of California. She received a BA in English, with a concentration in creative writing, from San Francisco State University. Her work can be found at rebecca-samuelson.com.

Socials: @originalstatement on Instagram and @ostatement on Twitter

Buffalo Girl

June 23, 2023

The Power of Storytelling: Buffalo Girl by Jessica Q. Stark,

reviewed by Rebecca Samuelson

The stories we grow up hearing, whether they are fairy tales or family folklore, have a hand in shaping our perspective on the world. Buffalo Girl is a collection that is aware of the weight stories, language, and collective histories carry. Jessica Q. Stark employs a hybrid method to peel back the layers of what it means to be a woman of color and the gravity of being able to tell your own story. Sometimes she illuminates this through collages that combine nature and personal photographs and other times it is in the silences thriving in the blank space between poem lines. The mixed media mirror the multiple perspectives and sources used throughout the pieces.

One of the most prominent threads throughout the collection is the use of Little Red Riding Hood in erasure poems. Stark uses multiple translations of the fairy tale and reimagining to highlight the pain and danger that is ever-present for women. This peril that persists in the present moment and in memory. In “Little Red Riding Hood” (22) after Charles Perrault, the final couplet emphasizes this hidden danger:

I say wolf, but there
are various kinds. (13-14)

A wolf taking the form of family members leaving you in jeopardy, strangers lurking in dark corners, or questioning your own identity are a few images that come to mind. Stark utilizes this story to present different facets of existence and exploration. She even provides each translation in the Appendix to show just how inconsistent this childhood staple story actually is.

Stark maintains a measured pace to the collection by having its three sections interspersed with pictures. There is a combination of Red Riding Hood drawings and self-made collages of the author’s mother to show how quickly fiction can turn into fact. These sections are intentionally tumultuous, so the reader is not able to steady themselves. Creating pause with the images allows a new version of a story book to emerge. You have to rethink everything that you are reading and what you’ve been told growing up to see the actual impact. Fables are not harmless, especially when they attempt to erase your family history.

In addition to visual intermissions, Stark also uses a variety of poem shapes. From prose poems to striking caesuras, she knows the importance of shifting the way a poem is presented on the page to keep the reader engaged. Even when she creates a mini series with her “Kleptomania” poems, they vary in length so you are able to easily distinguish them. This variation allows the unknowing connection between theft and women to be seen in “Kleptomania, 1993” (69–71). Stark begins the poem by speaking about stealing and how women:

mostly do it or at least

are more punishable for the

crime of taking what’s

not rightfully theirs… (4-7)

This train of thought is reflected throughout the poem. The speaker recounts their own shoplifting experiences and the theft of innocence for women of color. Stark is able to explore the power dynamic in her parents’ relationship in a way that is expansive enough for readers to also see themselves in. It also gives a face to this impulse and to what is truly being stolen.

Another form that is incredibly effective in this collection is the use of call and response. “Catalogue of Random Acts of Violence” (80) is composed of 21 questions that begin with the pinnacle “Where are you from?” Stark uses questions as a means of diving deeper instead of hindering or creating an uncertainty in the reader. The reader is left at the end of the poem with the unsatisfactory nature that arises whenever you are faced with these questions in reality:

Why didn’t she?

Why can?

Why cannot? (19-21)

These questions, directed at the mother’s actions, impact how the daughter is subsequently perceived. Stark then uses “In Earnest, She Replied:” (81) on the next page to answer with a single repeating definitive “The Woods” as the answer to all of the questions. Bringing the reader full circle to Little Red Riding Hood and the fact that answers require discovery into territory that is often treacherous and unseen.

Once the reader reaches the final section of the collection, the interrogation journey they have been taken on comes to a head in “The Furies” (92–93). Employing singlets, Stark is able to point to the pieces of suffering from a personal place:

That the woods obscure as much as they protect, that at least you can lay there

That there are so few public places to exhibit pain

That the image of the image of my mother in Vietnam is a birth certificate that
doesn’t exist (8-11)

Recounting what is lost and the inability to process these feelings publicly are both feelings the poet is concerned with. These are thoughts that are able to come forward through the reimagining of a vehicle like fairy tales. Venturing through the woods with Red Riding Hood inadvertently allows the reader to collect pieces of their own family histories.

Buffalo Girl is a collection that achieves cohesiveness through a constant unraveling and rethinking. By thinking about the connective tissue of our personal histories differently, it can bring us closer to the parts that have always remained. Stark starts and ends the book with her mother because that is where her story originates. This collection is an attempt to process what it means to be a woman of color through individual perception and the records that get left behind.

Jessica Q. Stark, Buffalo Girl, published by BOA Editions Ltd, April 2023. 136 pages.

Rebecca Samuelson is a Bay Area poet from Hayward, California who writes from the intersection of caretaking and grief. She received her MFA in creative writing, with a concentration in poetry, from Saint Mary’s College of California. She received a BA in English, with a concentration in creative writing, from San Francisco State University. Her work can be found at rebecca-samuelson.com.

Socials: @originalstatement on Instagram and @ostatement on Twitter

Promises of Gold/Promesas de Oro

May 1, 2023

Braiding Love and Life: Promises of Gold/Promesas de Oro by José Olivarez, review by Rebecca Samuelson

Sifting through memory can be an arduous task, involving filling in the gaps to make sense of what is to come. Promises of Gold is a collection centered on processing what memory means at different stages of our lives. It grapples with what the individual remembers and the collective fabric that unites communities. Olivarez crafts poems that are, at one moment, dripping with love, then overflowing with anxiety in the midst of the pandemic in the next.

Everything about this collection is meticulous and intentional. Olivarez’s second book is translated by David Ruano González, creating a journey in English or Spanish, depending on which way you hold the book. There is an added layer of accessibility with the dual language text that feels crucial to many of the experiences Olivarez recounts.

The poems are divided into eleven sections to emphasize the notion that life rarely fits neatly into an equal equation. With this odd number, the reader is left searching at the end of the collection for a reason. This is paired with the feelings associated with the title, Promises of Gold. There is a desire to attain something that might be unreachable or might not exist, but the possibility propels the poet and reader forward. If there is a chance to reach something of value, it seems worth pursuing.

In the beginning, the reader immediately looks at the past, thinking about how tradition functions and relates to specific family dynamics. The poems zoom in and out of personal moments to commentary on society with ease with one of the stand-out examples being “Bulls vs. Suns, 1993” (23). On the surface, this poem could just be about the speaker recalling a basketball game with his father. Sports function as a neutral zone for the speaker, but there is a presentation of emotion with a sense of remove. The poem is intrinsically tied to the heart’s actions, beginning with lines 1-3:

                sitting on your lap watching your eyes
                following the bouncing basketball
                & my heart is a hundred basketballs

All of these observations are gathered around a desire to create a more lasting connection. What starts as a casual basketball game viewing becomes an intimate look at a complex relationship as the poem continues. The reader is confronted with a combination of acts of affection and discipline that are carefully placed between jump shots and layups.

This practice of shifting from the big picture to the individual is also accomplished through setting up different environments throughout the collection. Pieces can be location specific at times, but they still capture universal experiences like love, life, and loss. Contemplating the limitations of hindsight and understanding change after time passes can be seen in a poem recounting the weather. In “Cal City Winter” (53), an act of introspection occurs when thinking about cold mornings at the bus stop:

i needed to believe suffering was honorable.

i needed to believe those February mornings

made July’s sunshine silkier. (5-7)

The brevity of this eleven line poem strikes the reader like a cold morning. It calls us to question what other forms of suffering we believed were necessary to get to the next chapter in our lives. With the use of a lowercase “I,” Olivarez gives the reader permission to place themselves in these thought processes even though he is recalling something that is extremely vivid in his own memory.

Recalling these memories also leads to a dominant thread of distance in the collection. Sometimes, it manifests in physical distance apart from family members during the pandemic, and other times, it presents as metaphorical distance between lifetimes. Death and the idea of healing are concepts Olivarez explores in dynamic ways. In “Poetry Is Not Therapy” (56), the impact of distance is summarized beautifully:

               the distance between me
                & everyone
                i’ve lost grows by miles

& years. (16-19)

Thinking about these measurements happens in real-time for the speaker. These thoughts are not in isolation from current events, which allows them to resonate immediately with the reader.

Olivarez does not shy away from the power in choosing words carefully and creating quick snippets. He achieves this by utilizing distinct forms like text messages, prose blocks, or being in conversation with other voices in certain pieces. There is a sense of authority that is felt no matter the length of the piece. This is seen most clearly in “Authenticity” (67). A self-defined “chicano love poem” that is captured in a couplet:

one of my college crushes used to eat hot Cheetos

so smooth, she never got red dust on her fingers. (2-3)

There is a smoothness in this vivid image being crafted so easily in two lines. It also exemplifies the many definitions of love throughout the collection. A crush representing a certain period of time, an iconic snack food, and the intimacy of hands are all captured in succinct lines.

As the reader reaches the final section of the collection, there is still processing to be done. Olivarez never claims to have all the answers and solidifies this stance in “Let’s Get Married” (135-136). Written for a couple on their wedding, beautiful images cascade freely amongst punctuation to create loving reflection. Set for such an important occasion, Olivarez once again highlights the importance of endless discovery:

… marry me: make me (no, not complete),

but a little more alive than i’ve ever been. (31-32)

One person does not fix everything, but they can be alongside you to wade through memories, personal history, and what love means.

Promises of Gold doesn’t arrive at a shiny final destination where all of the world’s problems have dissipated. It is a collection that is able to recount painful memories, a global pandemic, and a vision for the future because it is centered around relationships. It hinges on figuring out where we derive love from and how we use it to make sense of the world.

Promises of Gold by José Olivarez; with a Spanish translation by David Ruano, published by Henry Holt and Company, February 2023. 320 pages.

Rebecca Samuelson is a Bay Area poet from Hayward, California who writes from the intersection of caretaking and grief. She received her MFA in creative writing, with a concentration in poetry, from Saint Mary’s College of California. She received a BA in English, with a concentration in creative writing, from San Francisco State University. Her work can be found at rebecca-samuelson.com.

Socials: @originalstatement on Instagram and @ostatement on Twitter

Vapor

March 27, 2023

Vapor by Sara Eliza Johnson, reviewed by Rebecca Samuelson

Uncovering What Remains: Vapor by Sara Eliza Johnson

The impact humans have on the planet can be difficult to contemplate. Sara Eliza Johnson takes this rumination a step further by exploring the trails that individuals leave behind as environmental issues engulf society. Vapor is a collection that implores readers to consider the complexity surrounding every decision as well as the choices that people have made before our present time.

The collection is divided into seven sections with multiple poems sharing the same title. By having more than one piece titled “vapor,” many thoughts arise. It pushes the reader to consider that existence consists of temporary moments. The cover art, which depicts physical pink vapor, produces an immediate emphasis on occupying space. Johnson reveals to the reader what this means in terms of species and phenomenon.

Science and physics play an integral role throughout the collection. In the first piece “Planktonic Foraminifera” (1), an image of alien fish becomes magnified once you understand that planktonic foraminifera are single-celled organisms found in the ocean. Concepts like these do not feel like a barrier because they directly address the reader. Johnson encourages you to think about these concepts while observing the movement taking place. The observational tone and intentional pause are set in the very first poem.

To prevent the reader from getting weighed down by structures like amplituhedron or black holes, Johnson employs different shapes of poems. In some cases, this comes in the form of an extended prose poem, or in others it comes as varying lengths of couplets. She intentionally utilizes blank space and caesuras to emphasize specific lines. One of the clearest examples of this is in “Nebula” (26-27) where line 7 is a stark “You float” between stanzas.

She also recalls certain images across poems. There are numerous mentions of a “wound” that appears to encapsulate our experiences as human beings. At times this wound is in the form of changes in the land composition, and then it shifts to hearts beating. “Asteroseismology” (43) is the clearest example of this combination of images. The title means the study of oscillations in stars and this act of swinging back and forth is represented in the poem’s couplets. Line 1 also creates a raw image for the reader:

Like all derelict things, grief devours me.

Being swallowed up by grief or darkness is a concept that pervades the book. Johnson goes between light and darkness by way of stars or shadows unfurling around us. As the poem continues, lines 5–10 get to the heart of the matter:

…But somewhere deep inside
me still comes a light, a molten handful

of uranium that burns a path out,

threatens to eat clean through my chest,

drain from that wound

like an infection.

These lines show the strength of unexpected comparisons. The reader can feel them bursting forth on the page and out of themselves.

As the collection progresses, the reader moves through space and time. Section six has three pieces titled “Titan.” Titan is Saturn’s largest moon and you can feel its vastness through the images in “Titan” (57-58). This poem is about the lake Jingpo Lacus. Amidst images of UV light, crystals, and waves there is a feeling of familiarity wherever you are. The opening couplet captures this beautifully:

This lake holds you as if it knows

your form, has felt you before. (1-2)

There is a sense of unraveling into something that recognizes the reader and this becomes extremely intriguing with all of the combined images. Beginning with a lake and ending with a flood has an incredible impact.

Once the reader reaches the final section, it feels like having engaged with an entire galaxy. There are so many intriguing images that make the reader stop and take notice. “Revelation” (65-66) captures the observational nature present throughout every poem. It shows how humans are able to ponder the connections and relationships with the world, but it still requires additional time to revisit these thoughts to achieve a breakthrough. This essence of still seeking answers is most present in lines 15–17:

…I’d feed my heart

to a snake if it would show me how to change

skins, how to survive as an unlovable thing.

After spending most of the collection directly addressing the reader, it seems important to note that the “I” makes its presence known in the last section of the book.

Johnson’s second book attempts to see through the different vapor that surrounds us. Whether that’s through thinking about migration or combustion, she provides many stops for readers to reflect on what they see. The collection ends with shivering which echoes the importance of continual movement. We have to keep going even when the vapor dissipates.

Vapor by Sara Eliza Johnson, published by Milkweed Editions, August 2022. 96 pages.

Rebecca Samuelson is a Bay Area poet from Hayward, California who writes from the intersection of caretaking and grief. She received her MFA in creative writing, with a concentration in poetry, from Saint Mary’s College of California. She received a BA in English, with a concentration in creative writing, from San Francisco State University. Her work can be found at rebecca-samuelson.com.

Socials: @originalstatement on Instagram and @ostatement on Twitter

The Hurting Kind

February 13, 2023

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.

Rebecca Samuelson is a Bay Area poet from Hayward, California who writes from the intersection of caretaking and grief. She received her MFA in creative writing, with a concentration in poetry, from Saint Mary’s College of California. She received a BA in English, with a concentration in creative writing, from San Francisco State University. Her work can be found at rebecca-samuelson.com.