The Spring/Summer issue of The Atlanta Review focuses its international section on Scotland. Of The Scotland poems, let me start with “Life’s Work,” by Angus-Peter Campbell (Anglicized spelling). “If I could bring my father / back to life / I’d ask him / to build me a house…” a beautiful, short lamentation of the cost of loss. “he was the finest joiner / in the whole world.” A comment of multiple resonances, for this joiner is forever gone, leaving the narrator with unanswerable questions, and only a daydream for comfort.
These poems seem more than usually tied to the soil. In “Ever decreasing circles,” by Christine De Luca, “The old dog knows the way: leads us / along narrow paths through forest, over / ice-scratched granite.” I felt the kick of that last image particularly. This is not a poem of alienation from the world, and I love it for that. “Everything about her breathes / what it means to belong.” Such power in such a simple line. Then near the end, a turn to the poet’s mother gives a satisfying depth to the work.
Poem after poem works its magic. In “Pathway,” by Carol Ann Duffy, “I saw my father walking in my garden / and where he walked, / the garden lengthened…” Again this poem approaches loss so delicately. “I heard the rosaries of birds. / The trees, huge doors, swung open and I knelt.” With such powerful imagery, I can relax, trusting the poet to bring me to a worthwhile place, and am not disappointed. “though my father wept, he could not leave…” Powerful work.
And personally, I love to linger over the poems written in dialect, savoring the sounds and working out the meanings. “Sang (After A Hungarian Folksong)” by W.N. Herbert allows this pleasure. “A totie wee birdie fae yestreen’s meh guest” Totie wee meaning especially small, we are told. My fav line in this poem might be, “Laive ma hert tae strachil in the middie mirk o nicht…” for which we are given hints: strachil means struggle, mirk o nicht is dark of night. Great stuff.
Of the non-Scots poems, I enjoyed several. “First & Best,” by Scott T. Hutchinson, is about a kid working hard in the field, who gets an unexpected gift from some guys in a pickup. “You’re thirteen, and you’re employed / cutting grass for the summer.” A story poem, and a fun one.
“The Lovely Miss McKendry, Librarian,” by William Jolliff, is another fun story poem (maybe I have a weakness for these?) “She had the look of cash about her, so / How she landed in our school is hard to say.” But the encounter does not go as the reader might expect. “Maybe it was the romance of the blacklist…” And it’s better for that.
The last poem I’ll mention is “Under Florida,” by Dorothy Howe Brooks. “A river like the Styx flows under Florida.” An unsettling thought, especially in this poet’s hands. “In 1999, Lake Jackson disappeared, / drained down a single hole // into that nether world…” The turn is to the narrator, as more and more things disappear into that subterranean place. The poem is disjointed, fragmentary, and ends in a most disconcerting manner. I liked it.
Peace in poetry,
P M F Johnson
My eBook of poems, Against The Night, a sweet, rueful look at love in a long marriage, is available on Amazon, and at other fine e-retailers.
Related blog posts:
Convergence Online Journal – Spring 2018