Sooner
by Margaret Christakos
Coach House, 2005
Reviewed by Janine Armin
After six acclaimed poetry collections and one novel, Margaret
Christakos has brought us a remarkable book of poems, Sooner. In this collection she shows us a deep understanding
of the way in which people approach language. Her poetry doesn’t call
for us to painfully wrestle from it a meaning. The lyricism of daily
events and other furniture of life is as crisp as stationary. Her
initial meditations endure throughout the book, eliminating unease. This
immaculate collection is perfectly read at this time of year, fuel for
the gloomy months of squeaky snow pants to come.
While sentimental reconnaissance is felt throughout, these poems are
appropriate for any urban no-bullshit phobic. Whether read with odious
chores rocking you out of any attempt to reflect, or with the evil
acuity of an academic, these poems will enrich experience. No matter how
subliminal, you will self-actualise. Because each poem applies to the
reader. Though Christakos recounts the events of an individual, these
are Everyman poems.
The barrier between indoor and outdoor is broken down through the
intimacy of her perceptions. She recalls outdoor experience, and imbues
it with a secretive quality that is generally reserved for indoor
moments. By breaking these restrictions, aggravations encountered in
life are given a fluidity, which enables them to dissipate from interior
to exterior. She develops an overtly sensuous form of therapy.
"Grass" follows a person who would much rather deal with
"the swishing tapestry of flora" than the death of a child.
The minutae of life sometimes fail to protect us from fatality, but she
valiantly shows us their beauty nonetheless. In "Lucent" the
subheading declares that "better is always walking." As we
move through her text we are healed, she touches objects making their
implicit charm explicit to the reader: "Around him, people hunched
into their bellies, pulling from / the public gaze all the intensity
they had invited over/ the afternoon in their offices." (25) The
level of identification vibrates at the prenatal stage. These emotions
have always existed, but cubicles tame them.
Christakos understands how we will read her poetry, because she is so
exceptional at writing it. Poetry is a vessel that solves our problems
as much as problems can be solved. It makes them glamorous things, makes
us feel enamoured by every inch of life. And able to see that in order
to appreciate, we must see both dark and light sides of existence.
"The / rope tying him to the rest of poetry was a / ribbon wound
in concentric hulas, and he’d learned to swing." Christakos
evolves this concept in her own poetry, with her seemingly inadvertent
wandering through fields of perfectly plucked words. Her poetry could
just as easily be prose, if prose allowed more threads to form in
irregular connections. There is a sonambulitic quality, made sweet with
every syntactic step. She schools us on "actual bodies suffering
events of the people" (49) taking apart the words, she teaches us
how to digest them slowly.
you were a
fraid of the proba
ble… (51)
Probable becomes a probing word. We see more exactly the alliterative
mechanics of language.
Her poetry is also anatomical. Everything inflates and deflates. She
offers us cures:
Pardon me if I think I know the only
Cure for you is love that will not quit
The premise of its origins. (65)
"The Problem" is a hilariously derisive synopsis of what
can go wrong in a relationship. This poetry is so wonderfully honed.
Like Ashberry’s ease mixed with Sexton’s passion and a touch of the
Bissett phonetic play.
In "Grief" Christakos says "My heart is about as big /
as a car It goes fucking / nowhere" (72). Grief and death are
rolled into one. There are so many sanguine unities drawn between the
sorrowful and the joyous. In giving great attention to the private:
"A work this personal has been greatly admired," (79)
Christakos lets us into her magnanimous perspective with a highly
evolved knack of knowing just what to say.
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