Here counting counting. Waiting looks different. Responsibility is a fault line. Casualties are like clouds, they're around. Think the barn burned down. Think a bank got built. Disaster has a different design here. Think theft and the thoughts that might follow and fall with it. Falling falls farther here. Fall like forgetting. Intimate instructions. Important falls. Fall like failing and placing and simply breathing. Fall like that’s a corner. The translation needs an operation. And the fall is a little funny. The fall like a proposal. The fall is the woods. Construction is a recognized objective. Think the woods are getting worked on. Instead of skipping stones, think skipping maps. Maps on water making ripples. Now measure measure. Measure the robber's thought. Think tender. Take away a hand. Safe think safe. Now say something not safe.
Michelle Taransky’s poems are explorations of paradox.
another reason why/you feel anxious when you mean timber
Paradox is the human condition. Intuition constantly defied. And this is good and this is bad. And this is why emotion feels like motion. The motion of emotion is what one most feels, sees, and hears in Taransky’s poems.
it is time to acknowledge a problem/is capable of being a victory
Paradox is potential. Michelle Taransky’s poems are interested in potential. Taransky’s ideas will move your ideas. And then move them back. And then to the side. And then steal them and put them to bed. Then they’ll be somewhere else. They’ll be over there. Your ideas will be doing that over there. And then these poems will move them somewhere else. These poems will move your ideas somewhere else. Move you somewhere else.
it is time/to say you are a question in the collapse
Keep questioning the business. Say something about business. Michelle Taransky’s poems are saying something about business. This is business. Necessary business is happening in our heads here and you will have to be a detective. Detective. Woodsman.
How many things can one person look out for, lament, honor, and ward off, and how often?
All the time. All at once.
It is hard work, exhausting, to be awake through the night, devoting oneself to everything. But it must be done, (reading “All Night Vigil,” a chant of some length at the center of Natalie Lyalin’s new book of poems, Pink & Hot Pink Habitat).
The Oxford English Dictionary tells us that “vigil” comes from the Anglo-French and the Old French and before that from the Latin, vigilia, meaning watch, watchfulness, wakefulness. The modern definitions of the word also describe Lyalin’s poem just fine:
“an occasion of devotional watching”
“prayers said or sung at a nocturnal service, spec. for the dead”
“a wake. obs.”
“a watch kept during the natural time for sleep”
An occasion, a vigil is not something for all the time, nor can one usually keep many vigils at once. Even the monks in their cloisters cannot maintain continuously over time and across experience a heightened state of awareness and devotion.
Lyalin’s poem is sad and anxious and magnanimous and beautiful because: there are just so many vigils:
“All night vigil for not returning / to that continent. All night vigil for / a church that turned into a gymnasium, / complete with swimming pool. / I keep an all night vigil for the Kunstkammer, / which keeps an all night vigil / for the deformed skeletons it houses, / and I keep an all night vigil for them too.”
There is a great beautiful anxious sense of responsibility in this poem, like saying Hail Marys, lighting a yahrzeit candle, like obsessively checking that the coffee pot is unplugged,
“Another vigil for my drunken neighbor, / as she hollered government conspiracy… All night vigil for Mrs. Emily Bossin / and spelling tests, green sweaters and parts / of New Jersey, Boston, and Atlanta.”
as vigils must be kept for everything helpless and helpful one can remember.
The poem acknowledges the impossibility of the job, but insists that one must try,
“I ask forgiveness for not keeping an all night vigil / when the bombs keep a greenish vigil of their own”
Lewis Freedman’s poems are necessary toys, jungle gyms of the mind, small machines all the parts of which are words. They are jointed objects, which ask their readers to animate them. They are recombinant, a resistance to ordinary, linear thought.
They do the work that poems have to do, and they do it admirably well. As creatures of language, we are creatures of habit. Poems, good poems, place themselves in the ruts of the roads we travel and overturn the horse-carts of our minds. Until we come across a poem, we go about making grocery lists and talking to bus drivers and reading the news. What we don’t know, what we can’t name, where we haven’t been—the uncertainty raises our hackles. Few among us approach it with grace.
And that’s where Lewis Freedman comes in. When confronting the undefined, grace, kind and patient and brilliant, is his specialty. His poems are a challenge, yes. They are documentation of a brain on the move, working fast through open fields of sense, self, intellectual history. But Lewis’s poems do what they do so gently, with such tenderness and faith in language. They encourage—even quietly require—active reading, a three-dimensional movement of the reader’s mind, made in tandem with the poet. Other people’s poems maybe take you on a trip through some caves in a miniature train. Those poems move as much as a train can, squeaking around the corners, all hitched up on itself. When you’re in the care of Lewis’s poems, there’s no seat to sit in. You are on your own reconnaissance. Lewis writes about “the faculties of yes”: you possess them. You have a chance to recover that absorption in play that you had as a child. You can stake your claim on a new homestead of language. You can take these poems apart and find your every impulse validated. You can put yourself back together in a new way.
Hearing Lewis Freedman read is a treat: congratulations, you.