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October 2022

Not From Nothing

Gregory Luce | Scene4 Magazine

Gregory Luce

 

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"Finally we all arise from seed celestial,

Because the same sky overhead is father of us all…

From him our nurturing mother, Earth…

And that which was sent down to earth from heaven's ethereal shore

Is taken up again into quarters of the sky."

The above passage from Lucretius, one of several that introduce each section of the book, provides an appropriate introduction to Sara Burnett's magnificent collection Seed Celestial.

Burnett weaves poems about motherhood, daughterhood, art, immigrant forbearers into a complex and beautiful tapestry.

The book begins strong:

"so not from nothing, my yolk

and hatchling, pomegranate jewel

set in membrane, clot and thread,

honey of the hive. I didn't know you,

one of seven million chances

hibernating in a fluid sac

waiting for the signal to implant

yourself." ("Ab Ovo")

The rich language and telling details are typical of the collection's poems. This poem also introduces the realization that contingency plays a large role in human life, as exemplified in the poem that follows, "Theory of Probability":

"If the refrigerator hadn't broken

if the train had come on time

if it had been snowing harder

and slick ice paved the black lacquered road

if the loud drunk crowd pushed us down

if I hadn't gone for a walk

while the window was unlocked—

I count it a blessing."

Thus a relationship begins.

A past relationship is wryly recalled in a witty poem that combines ekphrasis with clear-eyed recollection:

"You should've been there

at the Degas-Cassatt exhibit.

You would've hated it….

Don't you wish you could've been there—

I mean, when they were painting?..."

("After Viewing Cassatt's Little Girl in a Blue Armchair

without My Ex")

The poet even finds a point of identification with the female artist:

"Evident also is Degas's hand in the corner

of the room beyond the chairs—quick, sharp

signature strokes of grayish, silvery brown paint

not found elsewhere, but certainly, his.

What did Cassatt think of it?

And though it's hardly the same at all,

I recall that mosaic pencil holder I made

(the one you said was a fourth grade art project)

and how I did it wrong, the flat shiny glass

should've been facing the front, the rough backside

should cling to the grout you said…."

Evidently even the great Degas was occasionally given to mansplaining.

Burnett returns to Cassatt in "After Viewing Cassatt's The Oval Mirror with my

Daughter Sleeping Next to Me," a poem which also deftly and touchingly weaves in the recurrent theme of motherhood:

"O the possibilities

of objects and desires

waiting to be named….

—my own daughter

demanding more of myself

to fill desires she doesn't

have words for yet….

When Degas quipped to Cassatt

'it has all your qualities

and all your faults'

he didn't know

how right he was

about mothers.

O the possibilities

of the lips

that form a hole

to make desire

first a sound, then

a word—

how it knows nothing

about surrendering.

Just ask the child."

Another subject that winds movingly through the book is immigration, or rather immigrants, inspired in large part by her mother's experience of coming to the U.S. from Cuba at age 9 with her family. In "Pupusas at St. Camillus Church, Maryland," we meet Salvadoran women selling the Central American delicacy to departing churchgoers.

"They seal pupusas in Tupperware containers,

portable tabernacles, and set aside extras

on dinner plates for children and husbands,

the same men I might pass during the week

as I drive to work—men standing in parking

lot after parking lot waiting for jobs

many of us haven't done, wouldn't do,

and may never, not for that money….

if I speak Spanish, will she stare in disbelief

at my accent, my paler skin, wonder why I'm here,

though we share this tongue, though we both came

to church unsure we'd get what we came for."

The experience becomes deeper and more personal still in "Abuelo Míó:"

"You're over a hundred now. You must be so tired.

Help me understand what I see when I see you now.

Let me not mistake you for shadow or crow.

Don't let me pass you on the street

and not know that I belong to you. Wear your face

and your body for me, sing to me slow."

And a visit to Hemingway's home in Key West reveals that Burnett's abuela once met Hemingway in Cuba. The visit to his Key West home interests the grandmother mostly for the furnishings reminiscent of her native country. In the end

"Cuba lies ninety miles away, give or take,

a floating mirage in a humid haze, cresting and collapsing with the waves.

I remember Abuela's eyes anchored on the horizon as she inched closer to the precipice,

as she said this is the closest we'll get to home to no one in particular,

as if the wind and the water had a face, had a name before they took her voice away."

One final motif that needs to be mentioned is the myth of Demeter, which both particularizes and universalizes Burnett's experience of motherhood. See, e.g., "Demeter's Remorse" (quoted here in full):

"All the days, she was mine

alone. That second before

a cut bleeds clean

through a white bandage

red. That summer, we canned

pears. I still haven't opened them."

Or this from "Demeter's Wager":

"At some point, we're all deceived.

Some days I hear her voice

in the kitchen, other days

only my echo. Call it grief

or despair—it doesn't matter;

every day I kneel down and feed it.

Bless this rash of fires, this flooded city,

this cracked, parched earth,

so all the water, all the salt,

all the spoils of this world

hear me say: I am your daughter too."

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These observations only suggest some of the richness and beauty of Burnett's work. This collection is one of the most important—and best—of 2022.

I was interested to learn more about Sara Burnett and her work and she was kind enough to answer a few questions.

 

Thank you for taking the time to talk about your work.

How did you get started writing poetry? Was there one defining moment or did it come gradually?

I've always read a lot of poetry, particularly the British Romantic poets. I probably never even read a living poet until an introductory undergraduate course. I wrote my MA thesis on Keats and Wordsworth, and for a while, I thought I would continue on that academic track. I never thought I could write poetry though until someone I was close to got into a terrible accident where I ended up being a primary caregiver in my mid 20s. I was seeing a wonderful therapist and she prompted me to "write about it." I thought I couldn't possibly write about the experience, but then she reminded me that after all I taught high school English and had a MA in English Literature, so yes, indeed I could write about it. So, always a good student, I did what was asked, and out came a poem. Then every week I would have an "assignment" for her and it was a
poem. This went on for some time. I was living in Vermont then and I joined a community of women writers (Women Writing for (a) Change). I kept writing more and more poetry. I got the courage to apply for an MFA to allow myself that time to write and make a major shift. To answer your question, it was both a defining moment and a gradual coming to it. I'm so glad I did. Poetry was soul -saving for me and it has proved to be that more than once.

What drew you to the myth of Demeter?

Picture me as a fourth grader toting an oversized, gorgeously illustrated book of D'Aulaires' Book of Greek Myths and that will give you a sense of how long that story has remained in me. If you think about it, the story of Demeter losing her daughter, Persephone, to Hades, the god of the underworld who abducted her, is a perfect vehicle for contextualizing the ecological grief associated with climate change. In ancient times, the myth of Demeter and Persephone provided the rationale, the story, for why we have seasons. A mother's grief over the loss of her daughter was so immense that she neglected her duties to the earth that she was also caring for, and thus brought about the bitter cold of winter. For an earth which had never seen a winter, this would amount in my imagination to a climate catastrophe. And, of course, because it's the fault of the mother, it's richly complicated. Once I gave myself permission to write in persona, those poems came fairly easily and quickly and I think add a depth to the book that wouldn't be there without them.

You have a number of poems concerning the Cuban part of your heritage. Could you fill us in about that? Aside from providing subjects for poems, what effect has this heritage had on your work as a whole? Do you want to visit Cuba?

As I wrote in the poem "English II," my mother immigrated from Cuba with her family in 1960 when Castro came to power. She was 9 years old and while she had the benefit of knowing some English when she came to the U.S., she was the first "Hispanic" in her class in Miami-Dade public schools. It must have been very hard. I grew up in New Jersey, far away from Miami and far away from Cuba, but all throughout my childhood, I heard these fantastical stories of hiding china in fake ceilings, a mansion with luminesce Baccara chandeliers, slaughtering a pig and hiding it underneath a car seat while approaching a military checkpoint after Castro gained control, packing everything you could in a suitcase, leaving loved ones behind, and flying on an airplane all the while knowing that this very act was lucky. And, of course, there was always the expectation that the stay in the U.S. was temporary, that someday there would be a return to Cuba, which in my mind exists as almost a fantasy. All of these stories are like legends passed down, and you can imagine how when I heard them growing up at the kitchen table or when visiting my grandparents in Miami over a game of dominoes, I was riveted. These stories, much like the myth of Demeter, are deeply engrained in me. It's also gifted me a rich and complex understanding of race, ethnicity and privilege that I believe is conveyed in this collection. It's not always easy to write about, but I'm always glad I do.

I would like to visit Cuba. I came very close to visiting once, but I was pregnant with my daughter, the summer that the Zika virus first became a threat to pregnant women, so we cancelled our plans. Someday I hope to go, and write about it, of course.

What poets and/or other writers have influenced your work? Who do you return to again and again?

There are so many poets that have influenced my work. I will name some that I return to, and say this is not an exhaustive list and in no particular order: Natasha Tretheway, Sharon Olds, Tyehimba Jess, John Keats, William Blake, Naomi Shihab Nye, Erika Meitner, Terrence Hayes, Laura Kasischke, Ada Limón, Gwendolyn Brooks, Louise Glück, Lucille Clifton.

What's your next project? Is there another book in the works?

I am continuing to write more poems as always. I also write children's books and I'm going to start sending out some manuscripts soon. I am also planning a community event bringing children and their caregivers together to imagine what a sustainable future looks through visual art, poetry and activism.  Stay tuned…

 

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Gregory Luce | Scene4 Magazine

Gregory Luce is a Senior Writer and columnist for Scene4.
He is the author of five books of poetry, has published widely in print and online and is the 2014 Larry Neal Award winner for adult poetry, given by the DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities. Retired from National Geographic, he is a volunteer writing tutor/mentor for 826DC, and lives in Arlington, VA. More at: https://dctexpoet.wordpress.com/
For his other columns and articles in Scene4
check the Archives
.

©2022 Gregory Luce
©2022 Publication Scene4 Magazine

 

 

 

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