July, 2024

July, and fresh from the ring light of Sunday afternoon’s Zoom session with Suzanne Lummis’s Deep Poetry Knowledge group, I find myself reflecting this evening on her students’ questions. Thoughtful and often quite specific, they made for a lively colloquy, in which I think, though circumstances conspired to prevent me from any real preparation, I didn’t falter too badly until… one not especially thoughtful or specific query but which I should have seen coming: Who is your favorite poet? Ah, right. Hem. Haw. Transtromer, Cortazar, Ruefle, Cynthia Cruz, Simic, Angie Estes… I almost stammered. But, somehow, no. Until at last, as sometimes in old films a great-coated spy holds a match under a grocery list or bus ticket from which, written in invisible ink, a revelatory name emerges: in this case, Jean Follain,

(Of course. Hadn’t I read him for nearly half a century, always admiring his ineffable associative powers, his elegant rusticity? Who was it who observed, The more profound the truth the greater the surprise to its speaker?)

Anyway, so it was, unlike my imaginary Dr. Mabuse, I found myself happily spelling out F-O-L-L-A-I-N, while my temporary tutees typed in the chat box, followed by links to Merwin’s marvelous translation, Transparence of the World, and Canisy, and even A World Rich in Anniversaries.

All of which brings me to one of this month’s contributors, Mark Irwin, who shares my veneration of Follain, and presents us with his translation of the poet’s “La Vie” —to which I will add a favorite of my own here, “The Students’ Dog” —

The students play at breaking the ice
on a path
near the railroad
they have been wrapped up warm
in old dark woolens
and belted in with bossed leather
the dog that follows them
no longer has a bowl for his late meals
he is old
their age.

All right, then. Let’s turn now to Joseph Campana’s thoughts as to how “summer always seems  to point to its end” and  Linda Gregerson’s astonishing “Deciduous”.

May slides into June slides into July–flower moon, strawberry moon, buck moon. Summer’s heating up but it’s felt like November for months. I’m referring, of course, to political climates. Elections everywhere but little sense of promise. I’ve been trying to understand what it means to think of this as an especially pronounced moment of choice even as options seem scarce.

Choice is at the heart of Linda Gregerson’s “Deciduous,” the opening poem from Canopy (2022), her lush and often-arboreal collection of poems. “Dulce lignum,” reads the epigraph, a quote from an early Latin hymn meaning “sweet is the wood.” Certainly it is, among other things.

But to come back to the question of election, it might be fair to say that so many of the poems of Canopy suggest “decision” trees. Start with a phrase by Cormac McCarthy and see where the word “like” can go. Or, in another poem, what can you do with the potent but diminutive “if.” And what if every tree is a decision tree and what if every decision tree is actually a tree?

“Deciduous” will remind us, by the end, that the same word for a certain kind of tree shares its roots with “decide.” Why? Because, one might say, all things fall into place–be it in the form of a choice with a conclusion or in the form of a leaf that eventually falls to the ground.

Falling, the fall–summer always seems to point to its end just as choices begin in potential and end if not in certainty then at least in conclusion. So much rests in understanding the options, which is perhaps why the poem begins with the request (or is it a command?) “to speak plainly.” But the speaker isn’t the poet behind the poem but “November” who tells “the maples” and therefore is also telling them to drop their leaves. Is this plainness or a veiled threat or merely the inevitable?

“Deciduous” insistently crosses from language tree–”summer’s lush declensions” or the maples’ “branched articulations”–reminding us how often trees and humans share a common language in their very bodies.

Perhaps this is why, late in the poem, after the trees and the seasons make the most of their use of language, a solitary human emerges

the child who learned perspective from the
stand of you, nearer and nearer
knowing you were permanent, is counting
the years to extinction now.

In politics, results land with a sad thud. Judicial decisions drop like so many pieces of falling sky. Portentous as such things may seem, bigger decisions lurk at the root of things, where humans are–as they were believed to be in Shakespeare’s time–part tree. To realize that is to realize “the bright intelligence that courses through the body.”

Maybe the right decision can “call us back to order before /  we altogether lose our way.” Because after choice come the consequences. After the fall comes the crashing to earth.

Deciduous

Speak plainly, said November to the maples, say
what you mean now, now
that summer’s lush declensions lie like the lies
they were at your feet. Haven’t
we praised you? Haven’t we summer after summer
put our faith in augmentation.
But look at these leavings of not-enough-light:
it’s time for sterner counsel now.
It’s time, we know you’re good at this, we’ve
seen the way your branched
articulations keep faith with the whole, it’s time
to call us back to order before
we altogether lose our way.                 Speak
brightly, said the cold months, speak
with a mouth of snow. The scaffolding is
clear now, we thank you, the moon
can measure its course by you. Instruct us,
while the divisions of light
are starkest, before the murmurs of con-
solation resume, instruct us in
the harder course of mindfulness.
Speak                 truly, said April. Not just
what you think we’re hoping to hear, speak
so we believe you.
The child who learned perspective from the
stand of you, near and nearer,
knowing you were permanent, is counting
the years to extinction now. Teach her
to teach us the disciplines of do-less-harm. We’re
capable of learning, We’ve glimpsed
the bright intelligence that courses through the body
that contains us.                 De +
cidere, say the maples, has another face.
It also means decide.

For a biography of Linda Gregerson see the Academy of American Poets page here.

As usual, a smart, beautifully composed take on one of our best.

And now an announcement about which I am both saddened and very pleased indeed. Of the former, I speak of the departure of long-time Associate Editor-at-Large Leeya Mehta. Leeya has been with Plume for some years now, always providing fascinating Featured Selections  as well as her own poetry to our little journal. You can find her pieces in our Archives here. But, her life – among others pursuits she is the director of the Alan Cheuse International Writers Center in Washington, DC – has finally become too crowded: something had to give. Unfortunately, that was Plume – though I understand completely. Thank you, Leeya – you will be missed more than we can say.

Of the latter, I am over the moon to report that the poet, writer and scholar Ramón García will be joining Plume’s staff as Associate Editor beginning this month. You can find Ramón’s impressive biography note here. He will be working on Featured Selection interviews and various compendia, essays, and – I hope – offering his own poetry every now and then. We are very fortunate to have him aboard, as I am sure you will soon discover yourselves, dear readers. Welcome, Ramón!

Penultimately, from the Department of It Bears Repeating One Last Time, I Swear: As you may have noted, Plume’s Spring Reading Period has concluded – an..,estimable number of submissions in two weeks. Our staff will be busy weighing and re-weighing each I assure you before we make our final selections, so it might take a while for us to get back to you. Please be patient. And know, too, that we are grateful – more than we can say — for the work you send us.

Finally, our habitual nod to a few of our contributors who have books recently published, soon-to-be, or fresh acceptances.

Jeff Friedman                Broken Signals    and Ashes in Paradise

Paisley Rekdal              Real Toads, Imaginary Gardens

David Kirby                   The Winter Dance Party: Poems 1983 – 2023

Victoria Chang              With My Back to the world

Michelle Bitting             Dummy Ventriloquist

Nicole Cooley               Mother  Water  Ash   Poems

Joan Larkin                   Old Strangers: Poems

Rae Armantrout            Go Figure

That’s it for now – be well — as always, I hope you enjoy the issue!

Daniel Lawless
Editor, Plume