Hello Reader!
I’ve just realized that I’m writing these posts more as essay fragments than as a newsletter. I was so excited to get started that I didn’t think about who I’d be talking to. Going forward I’ll assume that you are one of my dearest friends and someone who loves to talk and think about literature, or that you’re related to me and simply want to know what we are up to, or that you’re a curious bystander who happens to be drawn to poetry right now and wants some encouragement and recommendations to develop your own poetry practice. Everyone is welcome of course.
Today I picked up Anne Carson’s first book of poetry, Short Talks. I’ve been a ride or die fan of Anne Carson since I read her short story 1=1 in the New Yorker. It awed me the way seeing a card trick for the first time did. I didn’t know you could do that with writing!
I started reading her other work. I loved Autobiography of Red, the first verse novel I’d ever read (or heard of), based on a Greek myth and something I was certain would be over my head. It wasn’t—her writing speaks. I bought a copy of Short Talks without browsing, certain that this woman had a talent for reaching out to her readers, specifically me.
It was a bust. I flipped through it a dozen times over the past five years, reading a few pages before deciding that this one is indeed over my head, and setting it down.
But this morning it called to me again, so I read it aloud as Maya industriously pulled books off of her bookshelf. If I don’t get it now, I’m giving up, I thought.
Each page is a “Short talk on…”, with a flow of questions and ideas, sometimes a story, fit neatly within a rectangular block of text. It’s lovely, the kind of poem I would like to read during breakfast before a morning of gardening. Like the short story, it prods at my idea of what constitutes a poem, but is irrefutably a poem—it creates an experience for the reader using language.
Some examples:
From Short Talk on Ovid:
……………………………He sits down at the table; people in exile write so many letters. Now Ovid is weeping. Each night about this time he puts on sadness like a garment and goes on writing. In his spare time he is teaching himself the local language (Getic) in order to compose in it an epic poem no one will ever read.
This mini-biography on Ovid tells me more about this man than a book or an essay, because I can see him, this man in exile, can sense his grief and his devotion.
Short Talk on Van Gogh
The reason I drink is to understand the yel-
low sky the great yellow sky, said Van Gogh.
When he looked at the world he saw the nails
that attach colours to things and he saw that
the nails were in pain.
Here she’s offered a glimpse into what it might feel like to be tortured by your mind, and for painting to be the only escape, to experience an urgent need to paint sunflowers.
There are about 45 talks/poems, on subjects such as Waterproofing, Vicuñas, the Youth at Night, Autism, Defloration, and Sunday Dinner with Father. I could only read a few pages before Maya was ready to move on, ready for a nap or a meal or perhaps to explore the bathroom again. She discovered how to flush the toilet today—where is that in the list of milestones?
Sorry, no photos today! I’m still figuring out the schedule but want to be sure to get both posts out this week. Thanks for reading!
With love,
Chloe
P.S. Dear Reader Friend- if you are local to the Bay Area and want to borrow anything I’m writing about, I’m happy to share!