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BEFORE
IT'S LIGHT
by
LynLifshin
The 1997
Black Sparrow publication of Lyn Lifshin's selected poems, Cold
Comfort, brought to national attention, as Small Press reviewer
Len Fulton put it, "a poet of substance, range and invention," one
who "everywhere roots for that stripped piece of a life -- usually
her own -- that yields the bare emotional atom."
The direct,
spare, largely autobiographical poems in this generous new collecton
evoke memories of an unlovely girlhood ("longing to be what every
man / would rush to take the gum out of / his mouth to whistle for");
a stormy marriage ("each separation I lost 7-10 pounds "); self-unsparing
love affairs ("we were / like drunks, dying / a little more / every
time"); the pain of losing a mother ("holding her while / she moans
my hands are / cold, my hair a whip"); the struggle to regain self-sufficiency
after bad relationships ("some of / us need to regrow claws, survive
/ on prey, give up safeness").
And as
always, Lifshin's poetry trawls deep waters of submerged passion
beneath the surface of everyday life, coming up with a teeming glistening
catch.
Moving
By Touch
that
afternoon an
unreal
amber
light
4 o'clock the
quietness
of
oil
February blue
bowls
full of
oranges
we were
spreading
honey, butter
on
new bread our
skin
nearly touching
Even
the dark wood glowed
But
Instead Has Gone Underground
A
woman goes into the subway,
and
for what reason
disappears
behind rails
and
is never heard from again.
We
don't understand this.
She
could have gone to the museum,
had
cappuccino with a lover.
But
instead has gone down the
escalator,
without i.d., or
even
a ticket and not
for
clothes or flowers. It was
a
grey humid day,
very
much like today.
It
was today. Now you might
imagine
I'm that woman, it
seems
there are reasons.
But
listen, I don't live
anywhere
near that metro stop
and
who I am is already
camouflaged
behind
velvet
and leather
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