The River Is Blind by Allison
Grayhurst
A Web Of Holes by Shannon Maguire
Both titles published by
above/ground press, December 2012.
“He
came. He is what everyone needs
But
the pavement is thick
the
ground beneath is rich
saturated
with worms,
moving
thick
with
worm motion
moving
at
worm speed.”
This stanza,
snipped from the tail-end of “In the Thighs”, illustrates an existential
curiosity that courses through Allison Grayhurst’s latest collection. We’ll get
to the “He” part in a minute. But first, it’s Grayhurst’s physical constraints
that comfort us: a box sitting at the top of the stairs, housecats in states of
wakefulness and sleep, the “snails and moss” that preoccupy her. Indeed, The
River Is Blind situates itself firmly in the familial but imbues those
relationships and domestic touchstones with a disembodied calm. Ambition and
disenchantment linger along the fences of Grayhurst’s property but she remains candidly
in the present: embracing “the
comfort of sweaters and knitted socks” for “First Snow of Winter”, “the child
sitting and staring and waiting for the coin” in “Wallpaper Stars”.
In lesser
hands, muses such as these might’ve resulted in verses of weak-kneed
contentedness. But Grayhurst’s voice remains one of detachment, webbing daily
pleasures into greater meditations on love and God – the “He” that churns The
River Is Blind’s family soil. Through spiritual lens, poems like “Everything
Happens” and “Flies” counteract steadfast faith with insights on the material
world, a separate world; a place where people grind flowers for honey. From
“Flies”:
“What
faith was plucked with the flowers
as
all their little tongues reached out to pocket
the
short-term scent?”
Naturally it’s a tad intimidating
when the first word of a first poem has you running for the nearest
dictionary. But “epoché”,
meaning to suspend our understanding of the external world in order to relate to
phenomena on a purely conscious level, proves more an ideological gateway for
Shannon Maguire than a term reserved for Greek philosophy. In A Web Of Holes,
epoché operates
as a palette-cleanser, an italicized provocation plopped down as if to ready us
for enlightenment, however fleeting.
The delight
of Maguire’s long verse doesn’t lie at the heart of some mystic truth but in
the trail of crumbs by which we readers become seekers. Ringing true to my
newfound understanding of epoché, her language prefers a disorienting narrative, one that repeatedly
suspends our ability to find grounded context amid visceral and scholarly hurdles.
“external
acoustic crunch
undulating
forms wet with
reflex
yard
line dirt around her waist
dodecahedron
kiss
in
with clock and guests
climbing
desire
elongated,
erect seconds”
Besides
illustrating her palette for abstract sensuality and Greek imagery, this
excerpt identifies A Web Of Holes as acrostic; E, U, R, Y, D, I, C, and E
trafficking the bulk of Maguire’s verses in honour of Eurydice, wife of
Orpheus. This opens up some juicy parallels between ancient lore and Maguire’s
sharp insights on the ownership of femininity. A temperamental breakdown in
syntax midway through introduces a conflict in reinterpreting Eurydice’s tale;
a commentary on the myth-making roots of Greek literature, perhaps.
You may wish
to keep that dictionary handy but A Web Of Holes wouldn’t be nearly as exciting
without its obfuscations which, with a bit of a learning curve, unveil ephemeral
gems of raw, almost carnal, beauty. To close, here’s an example of Maguire’s
hard-fought harmony:
“Evening’s
gaze, the limit of voice
Unison
of suspension
Ritenuto.
You
watch them
Dying
It
is a bright and chilly morning
Collapse,
there are still not
Enough
independent girls
Eglinton
at five am, floating
Ukiyoe
Rebuilt
from a country road
You
watch them dreaming
Date
the world from those Cordova Street cherry blossoms
Ink
brushes against her forehead
Cassanation
of gossiping motors
Eviction
notice floating, floating”
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