Coniferous forests of hard thinking

When your child takes a summer internship in Siberia, you think, hmm, THAT’s a long way for a teenager to go to escape parental interference. Maybe you made the normal adolescent struggle for independence a little difficult?

Parents can follow their kids now through multiple technologies and social media platforms, and I do. With trust, and love!–but it doesn’t give a twenty-year-old a ton of room. I went to college only an hour from home, but without cellphones or email or Facebook or any other mode of mutual visibility, just a payphone at the end of the hall that, occasionally, someone would pick up after twenty rings. That could be hard, but also a huge relief.

I’m not saying M. went to Siberia BECAUSE the word is synonymous for “as far away as possible.” She’s long been fascinated by all things Russian, studying the history, literature, and politics. But my eldest has finally, ingeniously escaped my range!

So I’ve been sending my thoughts so far east it’s west again, in between revising mss, organizing submissions and queries, recovering from an annoying back injury (totally unrelated, I’m sure, to stress over packing my child off to the Altai Mountains for six weeks), and building up new research for an August conference in Amsterdam, which has involved the usual leaps and dead ends, excitement and wailing. You know–the coniferous forest of hard thinking, prowled by tigers of self-doubt. The tundra of isolated work, wondering when you’ll find a settlement. Supply your own ridiculous poet-parent Siberian metaphor here.

altai kraiI’m also watching my phone for updates from the countryside south of Novosibirsk, but trying not to appear desperate for them. I’m happy to report that a twenty-first-century voyager can text even from Siberia, and that, from what I can judge, my daughter is having a fabulous adventure. She’s teaching English to kids and working hard to learn as much Russian as possible (from a teacher with a Kazakh accent). The locals are friendly and her fellow interns are a cheerful group of Brits from Bristol Uni (though most of them leave soon, with a couple of new interns coming from other countries). The lowlands have been balmy and beautiful, and they’re heading towards a new camp, higher in the mountains (have you seen The Eagle Huntress?). The stresses are sleep deprivation–it’s light all the time–and food, but neither is dire. M. has become a connoisseur of kasha, preferring the barley-millet version served at lunchtime, with its tantalizing flavor of “burnt electrical cord,” over the less describable breakfast variety. What she can’t get behind, not surprisingly, is the meat–“myaso,” I think, in my alphabet. (“What kind of meat?” Blank looks: “Just myaso.” Ah, mysteries.) I wish I’d insisted on packing another bag of almonds.

From the present wilderness, here are a couple of new reviews, a micro of Niall Cambell’s First Nights up at the Kenyon Review, and a longer one of Athena Kildegaard’s Ventriloquy at Valparaiso Poetry ReviewBoth collections are very much worth your time.

For now, back to the quiet life. Well, quiet on the outside. Here’s a glimpse of the current menage, with Chris helping me rearrange a poetry ms, the still-at-home child eating American food in a Doctor Who shirt, and Poe making sure no recyclable grocery bags wing off to Russia, or the next room.

summer 2017

 

Women on the radio

english books

Broadcast, by Zayneb Allak

It’s about loneliness.
A woman from Birmingham tells us
about the time she was lonely.

When I left Birmingham
the Bull Ring was still ashen.
I remember it in the slush:

a lady in a pink and gold sari
with a grey anorak over the top
dragged blue and white plastic bags.

Nothing sounds more hangdog
than a lonely Brummie, I think,
no vowels could be droopier.

My dad used to mimic them,
I’m from Birmingham I am.
We’d tell him he was way off.

The woman on the radio says
the time she was lonely was bad,
she actually literally wilted.

Her cadences announce
what I least expect: home
how I might miss it.

The Rialto 82, Winter’s End 2015, page 50, reprinted by the author’s permission

I’ve been meaning to post this lovely poem for a while. When in England this past June and July, I picked up a bunch of books and magazines–Carrie Etter, Sarah Jackson, Rory Waterman, and other poets publishing there now are pretty great. I’ve also put myself on a catch-up reading course in 21st century verse from the British Isles, although in the haphazard way of a curious person rather than in the urgent way of a professor preparing a syllabus (I’m on sabbatical–have I gloated enough about that yet? Of course not!). I took out the few recent volumes our little library owns that I’d never read (how is Selima Hill new to me?). I also ordered books based on selections I liked in a couple of anthologies (Niall Campbell’s Moontide is magical–there’s a podcast by him here). And the new Irish-themed issue of Poetry just arrived, so more self-education awaits. Even on an endless sabbatical I couldn’t read all the published contemporary poetry in English, of course, but it’s fun to try.

Zayneb Allak doesn’t have a book yet–she’s finishing a creative dissertation at Nottingham Trent University. One of her critical chapters concerns my book Heterotopiaa Liverpool-themed collection she found by accident but that resonated with her own complicated experiences of place. She grew up partly in Liverpool, partly in Iran, and her family now lives in Birmingham, as “Broadcast” suggests. I love the lines “Nothing sounds more more hangdog/ than a lonely Brummie,” and I also love that her home-longing is triggered by sound, an accent heard over the radio. Given that my next book, Radioland, uses broadcast as a motif, it sounds like our obsessions continue to harmonize.

New Jersey and New York accents, hated as they are by many, sound homey enough to make my heart skip a beat. So do Liverpudlian voices. My mom doesn’t have a strong Liverpool accent; she grew up in that city but was mostly schooled out of scouse intonations, which carry strong negative connotations over there (but not in the U.S., where everyone thinks “Beatles!”). I had assumed this prejudice was past-tense until I sat with an English couple while traveling a couple of years ago; they were very friendly until they found out where my mother was from, after which they shut up firmly and kept their eyes downcast. I know the bias concerns class and probably politics. I’m too much of an outsider to understand the nuances, but I think of Liverpool when I hear people express prejudice against the varieties of drawl associated with the southeast U.S. The unfair cliche is that a southern accent sounds stupid, uneducated. I know many southerners who code-switch, dialing up the twang for local friends and muting it in, say, academic circles. I personally mourn the loss to the soundscape, but I’m sure I would code-switch too–and probably did alter my own accent unconsciously at some early age. My sister, for example, sounds more New Jersey than I do. And my mother says I had a British accent before I started school.

Zayneb, a generous, capable sort of person, arranged some events for me in Nottingham and Liverpool. It was wonderful to meet her and I’m rooting for lots more poems with complicated accents under her byline in future. For the moment, here’s a picture of her near Nottingham Castle–I wish I could post a recording!english zayneb

And hey, speaking of little magazines doing good work in amplifying poetry’s signal: thanks to One for featuring my eccentrically-titled “Postlapsarian Salsa Verde” in their new issue. They’re looking for submissions for the next one…