So Long

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

Now is Not the Time to Panic

Now is Not the Time to Panic, by Kevin Wilson, reviewed by Katy Mitchell-Jones

Despite its title, Now is Not the Time to Panic by Kevin Wilson is not a thriller or suspense. There is no murder mystery, and no jump scares. Instead, it is a short, coming-of-age, social-horror leaning novel that beautifully blends the individualistic teenage mindset with small-town views. Frankie and Zeke, two sixteen-year-old misfits in rural Tennessee, find themselves spending the warm summer months together, sharing the one thing that means the most to them: art. While Frankie works on her novel, Zeke hopes to create a comic book, but they end up working together to create something they can put into the world and which people will take notice of. 

Thus begins the Coalfield Panic of 1996. Frankie’s written words, “The edge is a shantytown filled with gold seekers. We are fugitives, and the law is skinny with hunger for us,” paired with Zeke’s artwork: two skeletal hands hovering over beds filled with children, tangled in sheets. Together, a powerful image and a mysterious message. After they make hundreds upon hundreds of copies and anonymously hang them up around the community, the Coalfield residents take notice and do not understand - is it a threat of some kind? This confusion develops into concern and, eventually, panic. Everyone is paranoid, convinced there is an evil presence, maybe even a cult, threatening their peaceful lives.

The novel opens with a telephone call to Frankie from a New York reporter. The reporter claims she has it all figured out: Frankie was behind the events back in 1996. Frankie, now grown with a husband and small child, is unsettled, hoping this woman does not expose her secret to the world. She thinks back to how it all began and the narrative returns to the summer of 1996. 

Frankie and Zeke meet one balmy day at a public swimming pool. Zeke is new in town and they connect over their deadbeat fathers; Frankie’s father slept with his secretary, moved away with her, and named his new daughter Frances (Frankie’s birth name), while Zeke and his mother moved from Memphis back to Coalfield, where she is originally from, after his father also engaged in multiple infidelities.

Frankie’s mindset is that of a typical teenager, as she feels misunderstood and views her circumstances as black and white. In regards to her parents, she thinks, “You had to choose sides. And you always chose the person who didn’t fuck everything up. You chose the person who was stuck with you” (18). She needs Zeke to understand this advice, to understand he doesn’t have to forgive his father or even speak to him. Neither of their fathers chose them, so they have to side with their mothers. And, perhaps maybe even more importantly, they have to choose each other. 

Their relationship progresses as they share their aspirations: she wants to be a writer and he wishes to be an artist. His goal is “to make something that everyone in the world will see. And they’ll remember it. And they won’t totally understand it” (20). They decide to spend the summer making art together and, through this outlet, Frankie reflects, “I felt like we were making something important. I felt like, I don’t know, I was in control. I was making the decisions. And as long as I was choosing, it was okay” (29). Like many teenagers, Frankie feels desperate to have control over any aspect of her life, as she considers her family unstable and yet, boring at the same time. Her mother and brothers are hardly ever home and her dad is no longer in the picture. Zeke and their poster are the only stable things she has. She wonders, “How did you prevent your life from turning into something so boring that no one wanted to know about it? How did you make yourself special?” (32). While creating this poster does make Frankie feel incredibly special, the reaction from the town greatly worries the two of them. The people Frankie had grown up around do not only not appreciate the artwork, but actively misconstrue the message and make it into an ugly, frightening entity that begins to terrorize the small community. Frankie always felt different from her peers, and this leads to Frankie feeling more misunderstood than ever. 

One of the other main themes from this story is that if one pushes something away into a dark corner and covers it up, it is gone and doesn’t have to be acknowledged again. This is symbolized by the photocopier that Frankie and Zeke use to make copies of their poster. After Frankie’s older brothers originally steal it, the copier had been hidden in the garage and forgotten for a long time. When Frankie and Zeke are done making their copies, it’s pushed back into the corner and covered with a tarp. “If you couldn’t see it, if you pushed it into a dark corner, it didn’t exist” (26). This is how Frankie copes in life after the panic - she never told anyone that she had been the instigator, and she simply hoped it would all go away. Even her relationship with her father and half-sister is pushed to the side, without the slightest attempt to establish communication. 

This is a short novel that packs in a lot of emotion, small town scenery, and teenage angst. Anyone who has ever worried they may not leave a mark on the world will be able to relate to Frankie and Zeke, as they do their best to navigate big decisions when their world feels like it's spinning out of control.

Now is Not the Time to Panic, Kevin Wilson, Ecco. November 2022, 246 pages.

Katy Mitchell-Jones is originally from a small town in Washington state and graduated from the University of Washington in Seattle with her BA and MA. She then headed to Boston to teach high school English but has since returned to her west coast roots. Her favorite authors are Margaret Atwood, David Sedaris, Tana French, and Glendy Vanderah. She has published three short stories with Chipper Press, for middle-grades. You can follow her on Goodreads here.

If I Were In A Cage I'd Reach Out For You

If I Were In A Cage I'd Reach Out For You by Adèle Barclay, reviewed by Mahy Arafa

If you choose to read Canadian author Adèle Barclay’s debut collection, If I Were in a Cage I’d Reach Out for You, prepare yourself for a journey back in time inspired by the supernatural, the occult, witchcraft, tarot cards, and Canadiana and Americana mythology, combined with intimacy, love, desire, and closeness. In her first poem, “Dear Sara,” the poet asks “Where are our time machines?” This question primes the readers for the poems that follow which act as a time machine, jumping through time and space. For instance, in her first two poems she deftly moves from “slick jaws/of Brooklyn” to small-town Ontario, where “a grunge trio’s name/references Alice Munro.” Barclay’s specific references give the reader a sense of familiarity amidst the travels through time and place. Barclay also plays with time within a single poem. For instance, the five parts of “Dear Sara,” span several generations to highlight the struggles of each time period.

In an interview with The Fiddlehead Magazine, Barclay explains, “My approach to tone in prose is heavily influenced by my impulses as a poet: a mood, feeling, or ineffable idea drives me to gather a collection of objects, sensory experiences, and cultural references to circle around it. I need to be able to see and smell and touch the world I'm writing about.” In other words, she writes with the intent to defy her expectations, following instinct and impulse rather than fixed forms and structures. A prime example is the poem “Testament Scratched into a Water Station Barrel by Eduardo C. Corral.” The line breaks are unpredictable and each line makes unintuitive yet fascinating connections. “The faucet/is a siren, the pipes freeze a rusted melody,” followed by “I’ve/turned Saturn/in my mouth/like an olive pit” are great instances in which the reader’s expectations are altered. It's almost as if Barclay is a witch performing magic and revealing to her disciple (reader) the trick step by step (line by line).

The materialistic and sensory elements that inspire Barclay are evident in her collection. In speaking of her writing process with Open Book Magazine, Barclay says: “I don't plan out poems, and I definitely do write from an intuitive place. Sometimes poems swerve in directions I didn't anticipate. And yet I often feel like a lot of these things exist as ideas or even sensations that are percolating or ambiently swirling around in my poet brain. The writing distills them.” This surprising, sensory imagery is especially prominent in “Suburban Sonnet,” a free-verse poem with a frenzied form and a piling of adjectives and comparisons. Barclay’s metaphors are unexpected and beautiful: “drunk as a busted patio umbrella blackberry/barbs the crank of old bike chains up anthills;” “silver creeks swallowed the highway’s shoulder;” and “hive-mind engines hum in the shallow of the night.”

The poem “Dear Sara II” is a remarkable piece in which all of Barclay’s techniques and themes intersect: 

Dear Sara II 

The witches of Bushwick ward off night 

  terrors 

with warming spells, 72 Fahrenheit 

in November. You frown and sleep 

for days in my borrowed room. I circle the 

  bed 

with diatomaceous earth, fill three cups 

with water, 

plait my black hair. We hang at a rabbit 

  hole 

in the West Village, mirror Schiele— 

twisted knuckles seize a dark aura, flecks 

  of silver 

in the skirt. MoMA PS1 makes you hate art 

and give up smoking. Fish heart, bones 

within bones, hangnails and turmeric. 

I wrap my right arm around your belly

and swat our nightmares with my left. 

Sara, nothing like ambition or sanity 

  matters 

because at Saint John the Divine 

phoenixes baptized in rust swoop 

from the cathedral’s ceiling. 

The beasts stopped a whole city block 

for a week last winter. Priests carted scrap 

  metal 

off trucks and hoisted them up, 

engineers determined how to best salvage 

the holy arches from added weight, 

and leashed tigers paraded in to pray 

under the great hall’s open lungs.

With the indented, one word lines, Barclay creates a disrupted form that embodies the chaos of time. That being said, Barclay includes details that help guide the reader through the chaos. The poet speaker mentions MoMA PS1 to indicate a time-lapse and November, to mark the season and create a certain coldness. The one-word poetic lines also serve to usurp the reader's expectations, one of Barclay’s favorite techniques. The themes of religion, witchcraft, and the occult are prevalent throughout this poem with the imagery of cathedrals, baptism, priests, holiness, witches, nightmares, fish hearts, and bones. Barclay’s poetry desperately attempts to connect with the reader over distances while embracing ambiguity and encrypted messages in need of deciphering. Indeed, the young poet confesses to Open Book Magazine, “I'm not too interested in the reader needing to understand the private language of the epistolary mode in order to engage with the poem—just like I'm not concerned about trying to decipher or unlock a poem in general. The mystery is part of the magic. What's compelling to me about the epistolary mode is the heat released with this merging of feeling and form.”  

Though Barclay thrusts the reader into different places and time periods, she grounds each poem with concrete indicators of the geographic location and time in history. The title of the collection, If I Were in a Cage I’d Reach Out for You, informs our reading of these poems: in each distinct setting, the poet speaker is willing to reach out with all their strength to connect to humanity, even if restricted by a cage. The humorous voice of the narrator is relatable and familiar, almost like talking to someone you know well. Through the reverence and mystique of her lively descriptions, Barclay creates the illusion of traveling back in time while diving into themes of millennial anxieties and magic.

If I Were In A Cage I'd Reach Out For You by Adèle Barclay

Nightwood Editions. 2017. 96 pages

Mahy Arafa is a passionate, career-driven individual currently studying at Sheridan College to receive her Bachelor's Degree in Creative Writing and Publishing. She is currently working as a German transcriber for an AI company, and she makes a living as a book reviewer. She has been a passionate and aspiring writer and editor since childhood and possesses a complete portfolio of projects including non-fiction, prose fiction, drama, and poetry. She has worked as a transcriber, blog writer, editor, and content writer, but her lifelong dream is to write a script for a feature film, tv show, or video game, to direct and produce it herself, and to write a successful novel, book, or collection of poems.

In Springtime

In Springtime, by Sarah Blake, reviewed by Trevor Ruth

“If you tell a bird that a heart is like a bird without wings, she will tell you it is broken because it doesn’t have wings.” Such is the poignant and contemplative phrasing of Sarah Blake’s In Springtime, a long-form narrative poem that depicts the struggles of an unnamed human, lost in the exile of the forest with their animal companions. No, this is not The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse. Instead, our dramatis personae for this collection include the person (our main subject), a pregnant horse, the spirit of a dead bird, a mouse, and I think a snake at one point. We interact with the person, the horse, and the dead bird the most, though the mouse tries desperately to be a part of the story too. What exactly is the story? Base survival. The human subject (or rather, you, given that the narrative is written in second person) must determine whether or not they are able to coexist with their animal brethren, or if they are destined to die in the wilderness. Across the span of four days, we are introduced to the mystery and myth of the natural world through the human’s interaction with each of these creatures and their supposed interconnectedness.

As a linear narrative, In Springtime is still rather nonsensical; it does not try to have a plot apart from perhaps the human subject seeing the horse’s pregnancy through. Initially, I wondered if this book wasn’t Blake’s response to Northrop Frye’s green world; a naturalistic space where change is meant to occur in the heart and mind of the character. The elements are all there: at times, it feels as if the story—what story there is—takes place in an ancient atmosphere. The formatting of the poetry and the adherence to the natural world and all of its metaphysical properties, like bathing in a river or creating makeshift graves for the dead with one’s bare hands, give the book a postmodern Romanesque quality; the isolation that the subject goes through is without a doubt self-inflicted and perhaps fugitive in nature: “In the next dream you dig in the same place and find a gun. You’ve shot someone. You weren’t supposed to return to this place where you hid the gun.” The victim of this person’s crime, in my mind, is obviously the bird. Whether that bird is symbolic of someone—or something— else is hard to tell but there is no doubt that its presence acts as the greatest detriment to the person’s struggle, as they are consistently haunted by its presence, and thus haunted by the presence of death.

Even under their originally published titles of “In a Wood, with Clearings, it’s Spring,” I fail to find any semblance of the season presented. Perhaps it relates to the heavy use of the forest setting and the cold, earthy descriptors along with the grimy environment but often Blake’s writing does very little to inspire, with few explanations for its dour voice. “He or she will have the largest eyes of any land mammal./And he or she—foal, baby, dearest—will grow to dread even the starry nights, how they’re caught only in glimpses.” Whether this tonal decision is used to reject the norms of springtime poetry or whether we are supposed to look at life with a kind of anger and fear through the poetry itself is up to the reader. Regardless, nothing inspires hope or rejuvenation in the reading of this poem. I assume this is intentional, given the in-between-ness of our human subject’s existence in what is certainly a kind of limbo. What the human subject (or you) is meant to gain from their experience in the wood is uncertain.

Perhaps the person is feeling guilty for having committed a murder and wants to help the horse see its pregnancy through as a kind of atonement. The sad reality, however, is that the person was completely unnecessary when it came to the actual birth, “You have to look at the nursing foal to have any real sense of well-being.” Again, this is not exactly uplifting (it is not supposed to be), but it is a very realistic outcome. There is something rather heartbreaking though poignant about the person’s attempt to assert its importance to the horse’s offspring; like a parent who tries to be a part of your life after neglecting you for most of your childhood. It’s important to note that while the book emphasizes realism, it isn’t nihilistic. Nor is the tone overly dismal and harsh with its realism, in fact the tone is quite magical at times. How can it not be? There’s a ghost bird who can travel into outer space if it wanted to. I even find the image of the mouse curling itself up into the person’s chest rather romantic. 

As a side note, I applaud the decision to include the illustrations by artist Nicky Arscott in the book’s final pages; there’s a certain ancient quality to them that—like the collection itself—comes off as abstract but sacred, apart from one image of a horse that is more like a lost creepypasta. 

To say that I was changed by In Springtime would be a lie, but there’s a kind of brilliance to its storytelling that is worth revisiting and re-examining, like an old philosophical metaphor that gets lost in the forest of its own imagination. Aplomb with an intellect to rival Ralph Waldo Emerson, Blake continues to prove how naturalism puts us in our place and reminds us of our relevance in the continuous reimagining of the human. 

Sarah Blake, In Springtime, Wesleyan University Press, 2023

Trevor Ruth is a writer originally from Livermore, California. He has been featured in Occam’s Razor, takahe, The Specter Review, The Typeslash Review, Typishly, Wingless Dreamer and Quiet Lightning among other publications. He has a degree from California State University, East Bay and is featured regularly on The Baram House as a Film Reviewer in Residence. He also has a personal blog at https://trevorruthblog.wordpress.com 

Pluviophile

Pluviophile, by Yusuf Saad, reviewed by Mahy Arafa

Yusuf Saadi's Pluviophile, published by prestigious Canadian-based publisher Nightwood, is the author's debut poetry collection. The collection can be described as a symphony of beautiful, harmonious words and lines put together to create an inspiring, nature-influenced masterpiece. Yusuf Saadi has maternal Indian-Arabic roots and resides in Montreal. The collection is divided into three sections and consists dominantly of sonnets and prose poems embracing internal rhymes, imagery, and deep-rooted symbolism.

Each poem is almost musical in its expressions and implementations of recurring themes and words inspired by Saadi's Indian-Arabic heritage. Pluviophile meaning "rain lover," symbolizes the cleanliness, purity, and holiness water creates once it touches the body, which in Islam is a priority. Before every prayer, ablution is mandatory in order to be cleansed before speaking to God. This is one example of the implementation of the poet's culture mentioned above, which gives the collection uniqueness and originality. In this context, each poem cleansed me of dark thoughts and anxiety through impactful, calm, and relaxing language. Rain is also an essential earthly element that plays a role in life, change, and nature. 

Images of space, the moon, nature, and rain are recurring in the collection of sonnets, gazals, and prose poems. He is very skillful with the use of rhyme and masters the language perfectly. For instance, in the poem "Root Canal," the rhymes of "croon" with "paan" and "love" and "home" are elusive and refined but demonstrate Saadi's impressive ability to play with language. The poem's title reflects pain, nostalgia, and loss as the speaker describes his root connection to his mother's tongue and his attachment to his home. These two poetic lines, in particular, read very flowingly and beautifully. "In my mother's tongue I love / you intimates I want you as my home." Most poems play with the language concerning themes of pain, beauty, loss, and nostalgia combined with imagery of nature, art, the moon, or space and time.

"Glossary of Air" is an exceptional poem as the poet manipulates structure and form instead of language:


Never            Perhaps language feels

                   unreal because we hold onto words

                   but    touch them


The blank spaces between the poetic lines create a slow-paced, relaxing experience and dramatic breaks at specific moments. It flows in a frenzy of emotions and powerful harmony. This creates a connection with the reader and a bond between the human consciousness and the poem. 

"Painting a February Sky" is by far the most beautiful and impactful poem. Saadi creates a symphony of beauty, moon, nature, and space, flowing in powerful language, profound imagery, and poetic metaphors.

"On this palette, will mixing black and violet 

uncover the nameless colour 

tipping over the horizon, grief entering 

sky's consciousness, dark-plum wine 

spilled and bleeding from 

the other sides of the canvas?"

My body lured to marvel 

at its secondary colours, to trace 

this page's primary words. When I mix 

this much love with drops of despair, 

do I create heartbreak, inertia? 

Do I arrive at what I'm becoming? Words, 

like colours, have gravity, they exert pull, 

break in each other's wakes.

Isn't all matter subject to gravity? 

Yes, but not like this. The way words pull 

you 

into me, like faith stirred by desire. 

To gather art to its primary source—search 

for what has no name. Look up: mystery, 

distance, beauty mix alchemically 

to unveil this exact shade 

of moon."

This poem explores themes of mystery, ambiguity, the supernatural, and nature. The poem exudes darkness and beauty at the same time while expressing appreciation for the entities of nature and space and how if these specific elements fuse, along with colors and faith, they "unveil a shade of moon." Once again, Saadi connects to his heritage by combining the moon, faith, mystery, and the unknown, all symbols of Islam. Saadi wants the reader to dig deep for interpretation and revisit the poem time after time. Like the mystery and depth of the universe, each time readers read the poem, they discover something new beyond the surface. The interpretations for this poem are spacial and almost infinite, directly correlating with the universe, the supernatural, and nature as an entity. The words "black," "violet," "love," "despair," "heartbreak," "inertia," "faith," "mystery," "distance," "beauty," and finally, "moon" are all italicized which creates a fixation on them deepening the impact of language on the reader. 

The collection creates a certain closeness and bond to the reader through the experiences and ambiguity of events described in each poem. The tone is tender, the language is soft-spoken, and the themes revolve around the universe and all its layers, mysterious and unexplored areas. Simultaneously some of the most powerful emotions are embraced, combined with images of faith, creating the beauty this poetry collection exudes. It fuses the peaceful, tender, and relaxing elements of nature, space, and the moon, with hard-felt feelings of grief, love, desire, and faith through skillful manipulation of language, impactful use of imagery, and masterful metaphors. 

Pluviophile by Yusuf Saadi. Published 2020

Mahy Arafa is a passionate, career-driven individual currently studying at Sheridan College to receive her Bachelor's Degree in Creative Writing and Publishing. She is currently working as a German transcriber for an AI company, and she makes a living as a book reviewer. She has been a passionate and aspiring writer and editor since childhood and possesses a complete portfolio of projects including non-fiction, prose fiction, drama, and poetry. She has worked as a transcriber, blog writer, editor, and content writer, but her lifelong dream is to write a script for a feature film, tv show, or video game, to direct and produce it herself, and to write a successful novel, book, or collection of poems.


Vapor

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

Mixed Frequencies

Mixed Frequencies: New & Selected Poems by Peter Michelson (reviewed by Mark Spitzer)

Peter Michelson’s Posthumous Legacy Nails the Line & Much More.

The collection Mixed Frequencies is a selected overview of a poet whose work can be counted among “three significant efforts to deal with the American West in contemporary poetry: Thomas McGrath’s Letter to an Imaginary Friend, Ed Dorn’s Gunslinger, and Peter Michelson’s Pacific Plainsong” (Anania, vii). Michelson, however, will most likely be remembered as one hell of a teacher, colleague, and character with a big, hardy personality and a robust, ursine physicality. His sense of humor will also be memorialized, and his sense of poetic play (which is when he is at his best) is evident in this diverse collection of mixed frequencies containing styles ranging from prose pantoums (an innovation distinctly Michelsonian) to a mashup take on investigative verse (complete with his own postmodern method of installing parenthetical asides that work for both meter and multiple levels of narration) to voices based in unique erotic and enviro tones with inspirations stemming from Stein (having too much fun with repetition) to Pound (omniscient visionary qualities) to Olson (except Michelson pleasingly closes his parentheticals rather than leaving them dangling open in the air) to forms of Barrymore (ie, “Dakotah Dreamsong”).

Two poems, in particular, combine Michelson’s sense of play and sense of humor, thereby creating a notable alchemy:

The first is “Advertisement,” which kicks off with a tongue-in-cheek reality challenge that “You’re / standing by the pomeshelf / in one—no more than two—of the twenty bookstores that / sell poems across this great / land,” setting the tenor of what to expect. A boldly ludicrous mock-patriotism is then employed for persona purposes as he returns to the second person, placing you (Reader) in mode of deciding who you’re gonna buy: Gary Snyder, Ferlinghetti? Nope! “They are freaks!” who do not love their country,which is why you, Reader, should buy this book and support a “small and dwindling group who / loves our mothers” and “despise drugs.” (93) To pump up the ridiculousness, Michelson then plays an over-the-top, made-in-America card, stating this book was published “for your protection” by “American printers, who will not / print lies, slander or filth” (94) before ending with a quicky statement on Capitalism and some more overblown patriotism.

The second poem that highlights Michelson’s mixing of wordplay and comedy is “The Chair,” which goofs avec pretentious language to comment upon the duties of a genderless administrator. Michelson has a blast playing with this metaphor, which “switches from the catbird to the hot seat” with a disposition that “smacks of Nazis.”* The linguistic carnival continues on, singsonging in a symphonic way, until, finally, the connection is made between the “grand and gorgeously / embellished” position occupied by a “sui generis” generic chair (department head) charged with ruling “unruly factions” in “churlish times” and one charged with electricity: “Nonetheless, we’re proud / we’re free to sit selective culprits in the chair” (10).

What sticks out, though, in this poem and the brunt of the earlier verse compiled herein, is an overkill skill at end-rhyming during a century-plus decrying said crime. One gets the impression that Michelson embraces ye olde scheme as a classical act of protest, which is the direction his poetry eventually takes. That is, in this chronology, you can see the evolution of his corpus go from lyrical laughter of self-amusement to a much more serious free verse that gets real, reflecting on the politics of revolution and the massacrist erasure of Native American cultures, which forged and informed his final voice. In “Preface to The Works of H. H. Bancraft,” “Plainsong at Lapush,” and “Bestride the Mighty and Heretofore Deemed Endless Missouri,” we witness the chrysalises of Michelson’s most empathetic and scholarly voice from the pre-Woke POV of the historically dispossessed (poetics infused with a dire drumbeat instilling the cardinal sin this country is still dealing with, which makes his words burn into consciousness) because this is serious business, People!

Meanwhile, along the way, there are extreme moments of poetic profundity. Ie:

And questions of art are, we say

these days all too unwittingly, questions

of execution. So, we find, are those

of life. Questions of art, then, are questions

of life—matters, that is, of execution (217)

and

Though children call us father we are children

until the ones that we call father die (183)

and

Shit, a place that breeds indigenous queers can’t be all bad (118)

All this to say that there is more than just something worth studying in Mixed Frequencies that can be useful for contemporary poets—because this is the work of a poet’s poet. I would not recommend it for readers in general (they will be amused, but they will not always see the tricks), but I would recommend it for any twenty-first-century versifier who gives a damn about nailing the line with exquisite exactitude to arrive at a series of messages that resonate with elegance in an ever-expanding void of decency and verve.

___________________________________________________________________________

* Btw, rhyming “hot seat” with “Nazis” is not an easy thing to do, but Michelson pulls it off with a craftsman’s flair. His eye for rhyming also goes way beyond the pat practitioner’s knack for hack when he fuses dialectically opposed elements for contrasting tensions such as “Indicate the absence of a ‘Noble Heart’? / Oh circumstance sharper than a pastor’s fart!” (151).

Mixed Frequencies: New & Selected Poems

Peter Michelson, MadHat Press

paperback, 275 pages

Mark Spitzer is the author of 30-plus books, some about "monster fish," another about writing pedagogy, plus novels, memoirs, poetry collections and literary translations. As Editor in Chief of the poetry series Toad Suck Editions (an evolution of the legendary Toad Suck Review), he has been a creative writing professor at the University of Central Arkansas and Truman State University, but now spends the brunt of his time in New York's Hudson Valley walking his dog, hunting wild fungi, and renovating a 322-year-old farm house. More info at sptzr.net.

Joan

Joan by Katherine J. Chen (reviewed my Mica Corson)

The name Joan of Arc is widely known, yet most could not tell you the years she lived, the battles she fought, or almost anything about the historical context of her existence. She is admired and referenced but only through a foggy lens. In Katherine J. Chen’s novel Joan, this shining figure emerges from our vague collective memory as a flesh and blood woman.

Chen fully admits that her fictionalized version of Joan is incredibly personal. She is a vibrant character with a complicated relationship with God, while a soldier first and foremost. Many retellings of Joan of Arc depict her with visions and hallucinations of the archangel Michael. In them, she becomes another example of extreme Christian devotion, often compared to the girls who starved themselves, citing the Holy Spirit as their only sustenance, or like the monk who walked on their hands to praise Mary. However, Chen writes Joan with a distinctly modern view. This Joan is practical. Her motivations go beyond her faith. She is not just a servant of God waving a banner for France but an imposing figure of a woman - tall, strong, and empathetic to the people’s struggles.

Essayist Hilary Mantel writes that Chen made Joan of Arc a “woman for our time.” (Mantel, Cover Copy) While Joan is a work of fiction, Chen researched dozens of biographies of Joan in order to write from what inspired her, thereby creating a relatable and likable character. It explores a young woman’s fascination with war, with heart-pounding battles, shining weapons, and the overwhelming desire to survive.

Written in four parts with brief historical interludes of the events that encompass the novel, this realistic retelling begins in the small French village of Domrémy. In 1422 Joan was a ten-year-old girl known by the villagers as the one who would always lend a helping hand and would never be found in her father’s house. Jacques d’Arc, Joan’s father, is a great speaker and a great swindler who is constantly at odds with his youngest daughter. His abuse toward her was emotional and physical. This tense relationship spurs Joan’s first sincere motivation, which was the goal of leaving her stifling village and of making her own way in life.

Joan’s story begins in earnest during an incident between adolescent boys that results in a young boy’s death. This image of death, of innocence being brutally lost, resonates in her mind throughout her entire life. That childhood trauma solidified not a fear of death, but an all-encompassing resolve to survive, “She makes a promise, whispers it into the dark, imprinting it in the night sky as the boy’s face is imprinted in her memory. The promise is this: If she, Joan, has a choice, then she will choose to be a thrower of rocks. She will live.” (Chen, 25)

After the people of her village are dragged into the war between France and Britain, Joan makes her way to the city of Vaucouleurs with a specific goal. In her mind, she determined that all the pain and suffering that her loved ones have faced is caused by those keeping the countries in perpetual states of war. There were the Kings and Dukes of England and the Dauphin, who was the future king of France. Joan, at sixteen years old, is an impressive figure standing over most men. After several feats of strength, the local powers allow her to train to fight, then arrange for her to be shown to the Dauphin as a potential aid in the current war.

In the Dauphin’s court, Joan’s skills as a warrior and military leader improve rapidly. Rumors about her being a gift from God begin to swirl. They say that she was sent to help the French remove the invading English from their cities. Joan herself is skeptical of God’s role. She is a woman of some faith, but over the course of her life she questions God’s intervention. Her allies full-heartedly support the claims, and they go so far as to cite biblical prophecies, including references from legends of Merlin about a young virgin girl who will free them from war. In fact, her allies use these claims to their advantage, “A poor, unlearned woman who has run away from home with no family to protect her. What is she? Nothing? But everyone will listen to an interment of God.” (Chen, 179) Her gains in battle solidified those claims in the eyes of nobility and common people. However, Joan does not let these ideas of her define or distract her. She fights because she is good at it and sees the good in what she does. For the first time, she truly finds herself when she is a soldier, “My sword was no longer just a sword. I did not sense either the weight or the heft of it, for it was as though I were holding my own soul.” (Chen, 206)

Chen’s writing is beautiful, descriptive, and moving. Although the story describes battles, the narrative is not packed with action; rather, it is often meditative. It encapsulates the events’ intensity and richly imagines the characters. There are times when it becomes frustratingly clear how deeply rooted the misogyny of the era is, but Chen balances these moments with Joan’s practical and modern personality, establishing her odds with the sexist cultures and her perceptions on gender, “For a man cannot see anything in the world without wishing to wear it like a trophy on his back, to call himself master over it. To her, this is what it means to be a man.” (Chen, 221)

Most know the end of Joan’s story from history or perhaps the vague mention in popular culture, and there is no twist at the end of this one. But Chen embeds this character with so much life and perseverance that we can look at her short life with admiration. She is a figure remembered longer than any of the nobility that supported or abandoned her, and she was even sainted nearly five hundred years after her death. Katherine Chen’s Joan is an excellent example of history reimagined, showing us a very human portrayal of Joan of Arc with determination and an uncompromising sense of self.

Joan by Katherine J. Chen, published in 2022 by Random House. 350 pages.

Mica Corson is an avid reader and aspiring writer residing in the Pacific Northwest. She recently graduated from Central Washington University with a Professional and Creative Writing degree.

The Department of Rare Books and Special Collections

The Department of Rare Books and Special Collections by Eva Jurczyk (review by Katy Mitchell-Jones)

At an unnamed Toronto university, Liesl, the middle-aged protagonist, tries to fill the shoes of her boss who is on medical leave. After the disorganized but well-loved library director Christopher suffers a stroke and lies unconscious in a hospital, Liesl steps in, much to the disappointment of her colleagues. Despite her hard work over the years, Liesl has taken a quiet back seat approach to her work, while Christopher reaped the rewards. The story begins with Liesl attempting to open a safe in Christopher’s office, while the university president nervously stands by, hoping to confirm that the newest acquisition to the library’s collection is indeed safe. 

Upon finally opening the vault, she sees it is empty, and the acquisition is missing. Was it stolen? Or simply misshelved? No matter what happened to it, everyone gives her a hard time, and everyone, including the university president, urges her not to go to the police. The police would, she is told, bring bad press and they would lose donor money if they are perceived as irresponsible. This novel subtly illustrates the bureaucracy of big institutions, and how little people in leadership positions actually have very little power. Like many of us, Liesl finds herself in a situation with responsibilities that she simply does not know how to begin or even process, which causes her to think twice about who she trusts. 

To add to Liesl’s stress, one of her colleagues goes missing shortly thereafter. Did this colleague have anything to do with the disappearance of the very expensive acquisition? Or is someone just trying to make it appear this way? Liesl doubts there was any foul-play, and suspects her colleague simply requested time off prior to her tenancy as interim director, and that Christopher did not note it down. However, as readers, we know that something is out of place, and we must wait until Liesl and her colleagues uncover the truth.

It is impossible not to consider which employee is behind the theft and disappearance. Was it Mariam, who acts oddly and avoids spending time with Liesl? Or Francis, her best friend at work, who urges her not to involve the police? Her husband even agrees she should not call, and it should be reported to the university president first. Or was it Christopher’s wife, the one who provided the safe’s combination? Perhaps it was the ex-priest, who was banished from his church after his involvement with stealing church money? The list of suspects is not short, and no one is immune to being on it. 

Though these disappearances are the main focus of the story, there is another plotline about a newly hired math professor, who wants to carbon date a famous bible the library houses. Liesl is apprehensive of this request, as she has other things on her mind and doesn't want any damage inflicted on the text. Liesl’s relationship with this professor begins on uncertain terms, as she doesn’t know who she can trust not only with expensive library artifacts, but with her own thoughts. She must constantly think about what Christopher would do in these situations and deal with the reactions of her colleagues, who seem disappointed no matter what she decides. As the story progresses, we see Liesl come into her own, as she begins to have more confidence in her decision making ability. 

Her relationships outside of work are also portrayed as somewhat rocky; her husband suffers from depression and though he has been in good moods lately, Liesl knows this can change any day. A prior affair with a colleague is also alluded to more than once, and as readers, we are uncertain about the specifics of what her husband knows. Additionally, though she has a good relationship with her daughter Hannah, Hannah spends less and less time around the house and seems to take her father’s side on anything that comes up. 

Some of the best moments in this read come from the dry humor that Jurczyk uses in Liesl’s thoughts and observations. Liesl comments she would enjoy the campus more if there were not so many undergraduates around, and that she worries when a young English professor waves a croissant too close to a Shakespeare first folio. Additionally, the university president, who carries his bike helmet in the opening chapter, is in the process of training for a marathon and consistently complains about sore muscles while snacking on trail mix. This inner commentary offers some comedic relief, but is also very relatable for the reader, as they come naturally and are quick quips. 

Overall this novel portrayed a believable and authentic voice of a protagonist who is close to retirement age. This book will be a five-star read to those of us who enjoy libraries, academia, and slow-medium paced reads with dry humor. While this book is not necessarily a suspense-filled thriller, you will become determined to figure out what happened to the missing text and in the lives of the characters.

published in 2022 by Poisoned Pen Press. 352 pages.

Katy Mitchell-Jones is originally from a small town in Washington state and graduated from the University of Washington in Seattle with her BA and MA. She then headed to Boston to teach high school English but has since returned to her west coast roots. Her favorite authors are Margaret Atwood, David Sedaris, Tana French, and Glendy Vanderah. She has published three short stories with Chipper Press, for middle-grades. You can follow her on Goodreads here.

Sisters

Sisters by Daisy Johnson (review by Mica Corson)

September and July are ten months apart but share the same birthday. They are inseparable siblings dealing with the severity of adolescence and are bound together by promises that one will never let the other forget. In Sisters, author Daisy Johnson explores the dynamic web tying two girls together and the bonds of envy and impulse that develop over their young lives.   

This tense and unsettling novel begins with sisters September and July returning in their teens to the house where they were born - the Settle House. Johnson’s prose has strong poetic elements, relying heavily on rhythm and repetition. It is overflowing with visceral images that mark the dread and unease surrounding their new home. Much like the image of a fractured face that makes up the cover of this contemporary fiction novel, the prose is a mix of short and fractured sentences that create an almost fervent pace, heightening the tension of the ominous unknown event that led the sisters and their mother to the Settle House.

July, the younger sister, acts as our narrator, providing the audience with vulnerable and candid confessions in a first-person perspective as she explores the Settle House, a decaying seaside cottage in Yorkshire. Through the novel’s three parts, we are also given third-person perspectives from September and the girls’ mother, Sheela.  

September is the leader, the caretaker, and the manipulator. Her mother finds her stubborn and obstinate and far too capable of cruelty. However, to her younger sister, she is an idol. September is a confident and all-encompassing presence. “Yes. I think then, as I have so many times, she is the person I have always wanted to be. I am a shape cut out of the universe, tinged with ever-dying stars-and she is the creature to fill the gap I leave in the world.” (Johnson, 91) July views herself as an extension of September, following her words only. Where September goes, so does she, following in her shadow. July is the peacemaker, the introvert, and the only one to soften September’s harsh edge, creating a pair so connected they would not even let their mother have an intimate role in their lives. 

Their mother, Sheela, had long struggled before returning to the house. As a writer, mother, and woman, she has dealt with depression, borderline abusive relationships, and a growing fear for her isolated daughters. “They always seemed to be telling some great secret, some truth only they could know. The look in their eyes when she came across them, the sudden silence that she could not quite break into.” (Johnson, 106) Moving to the Settle house after an ominously vague “what had happened,” Sheela’s mental health is low, leaving July to rely even more on September.

From its first page to the last, this novel contains no dialogue. The format of dialogue remains, propelling short conversations primarily between the sisters. Nevertheless, its absence is striking, keeping the narrative internal and philosophical. An eerie, unsettling nature comes to the Settle House with the sisters as their behavior becomes more erratic in their isolation. The external plot is slow-moving, intersected with details from the sisters’ early life and the incident that brought them to the Settle House. Instead, the riveting and twisting relationship between September and July creates a profoundly moving story. 

Sisters by Daisy Johnson, published in 2020 by Riverhead Books. 210 pages

Mica Corson is an avid reader and aspiring writer residing in the Pacific Northwest. She recently graduated from Central Washington University with a Professional and Creative Writing degree.




Time Is A Mother

Time Is A Mother by Ocean Vuong (reviewed by Alex Russell)

It can be very difficult, when evaluating a piece of art — in this case, Ocean Vuong’s sophomore poetry collection, Time is a Mother — not to make comparisons to other, related works. It is almost a compulsion; having to connect the thing you are talking about to something else just to explain it better.

Connection, successfully or unsuccessfully, pleasantly or with disastrous aftermath, is a major theme in Vuong’s work; something that he evaluates with ease, though, never bogging the narrative imagery down. He does it earnestly and with alarming certitude. As a writer reading another writer’s stone-cold brilliance is envy-inducing and inspiring. As a reader, it takes me out of myself to reconnect me with some of my missing pieces.

Vuong’s sharp and powerful command over his chosen method of communication with the outside world is exemplified through his control of pacing and rhythm.

“The Bull,” an introductory piece, is a crystal clear, unflinching realization centering on physical as well as emotional touch. It’s also a very gorgeous, near-sublime poem about understanding yourself through the help of something (or someone) else.

Most if not all of the poems in Time is a Mother are gorgeous. Many of them seek to provide context for the painful, and sometimes unexplainable things, in life.

It may be difficult for readers unfamiliar with confessional poetry — developed and brought to cultural and academic acknowledgement by many brilliant writers such as Sylvia Plath, Robert Lowell, and Allen Ginsberg — to feel comfortable with Vuong’s words. That is okay.

The occasionally jagged edges of his stanzas (visually) and the occasionally robust, economical, or jarring word-choice (for example: “fuck he said/oh fuck you’re so much/like my little brother,” from the poem “Dear Peter”), are intentional in their bluntness without shining a big glaring spotlight on themselves. Being human can be a brutal experience; Vuong’s work, in its careful and empathetic approach to life and people, provides a series of images that ring with honesty and a simple goal of saying, here it is.

There are signs and symbols one might not expect in Time is a Mother. The image of a Colt factory, or a plate of “triple stack…jumbo pancakes at Denny’s after top surgery.” 

“New England’s endless/leaves. Maybe I saw a boy/in a black apron crying in a Nissan/the size of a monster’s coffin.” These pictures feel all the more real because Vuong does not shy away from an intimate and painstakingly real point of view.

Some of these scenes almost ooze with palpable isolation, like the “backyard, so dark,” evoking, at least in my mind, the great painting Cape Cod Evening by Edward Hopper.

There are voices from other rooms and other eras peeking through as well. They appear like visitors or guides to provide commentary or elucidation. They are not necessarily foreign to Vuong; they are rhythms and sounds he might have picked up on his way.

“I know the room you’ve been crying in/is called America,” from “Beautiful Short Loser,” sounds like something from a piece of prose out of a Jack Kerouac novel. Yet it also feels indigenous to Vuong’s experience as a writer and as a person. The two are inseparable if you do it for long enough.

The prose-poem “Nothing,” near the middle of the book, is reminiscent in form and style to Dennis Cooper’s poetry. Violence and homosexuality and deep, passionate love are all characteristics of Vuong’s verse, just as they are of Cooper’s. Perhaps this is another junction where their poetry meets — however temporarily. The further one reads, the more obvious it becomes: Vuong’s voice and syntax are entirely his own. 

A segment from “Nothing” reads, “But to live like a bullet, to touch people with such intention. To be born going one way, toward everything alive.” This is how Vuong’s poems found me with his first poetry book, Night Sky with Exit Wounds and this is how it finds me now, with Time is a Mother.

Of Vietnamese heritage, Vuong paints surrealistic scenes of the war in Vietnam in both collections. In this book, however, unlike in his first, surrealism becomes almost an end and not just a means. Sometimes horrible things cannot be explained, but their debilitating effects can be weakened through deconstruction. 

“On the wall, the shadows of their erections fall, then rise./We are rare in goodness, and rarer still in joy./Their clothes/return to them, like crumpled laws./He walks backwards as the soldier walks backward. They/smile at each other until both are out of sight. The night/returns to itself, less whole. The Maybelle Auto marquee a/beacon in the fog.” Thus ends one of his poems, “Künstlerroman.” It appears near the end.

Violence, war, tragedy, love, sex, death, spatial emptiness, emotional emptiness, terrains of all kinds, and the colors of nature and of night, among many other things, make up the ingredients of Vuong’s work. He finds a balance for everything wrong and right in the world.

Time is a Mother succeeds because it doesn’t play games with the reader or with itself. There is a deep search for justice, a cry like a voice out of the forest on the edge of town, that cuts into the air and holds. Where there is no justice found, Vuong’s poetry sticks around to remind the reader that justice is a stepping stone on the way to love — and that love makes us and unmakes us, over and over.

Time Is A Mother by Ocean Vuong, published in 2022 by Penguin Press. 114 pages.

Alex Russell earned a Bachelor of Arts degree from George Mason University and now works in the field of journalism and publishing. He has contributed poetry to a variety of literary magazines and art journals, such as The Elevation Review, 300 Days of Sun, and The Ignatian Literary Magazine. His contributions to the Falls Church News-Press, a locally owned newspaper in the Washington, DC area, can be found online at fcnp.com.