{"id":353,"date":"2009-12-20T03:15:00","date_gmt":"2009-12-20T03:15:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.somewhereinnj.com\/?p=353"},"modified":"2014-10-01T03:09:06","modified_gmt":"2014-10-01T03:09:06","slug":"review-a-walk-through-the-memory-palace","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.somewhereinnj.com\/?p=353","title":{"rendered":"Review: A Walk Through the Memory Palace"},"content":{"rendered":"
<\/a><\/div>\n

Poetry is something, I think, that just happens.<\/p>\n

(and this isn’t properly a review… more just some personal reactions to a bunch of poems) <\/p>\n

A moment that moves or inspires; a shared experience or perception gifted between poet and reader.<\/p>\n

I’m always slightly on my guard whenever reading a new poet… sizing up the words before me to assess what, exactly, I’m getting myself into. <\/p>\n

Do you approach poetry that way, too?  Still?  Like a poem is something you need to puzzle over in order to pass 8th-grade English?<\/p>\n

\ud83d\ude09<\/p>\n

A certain amount of ambiguity will lure me into the poet’s hand, but I’ve no need of sitting for a half hour sweating over the meaning of any particular poem to try and understand it or enjoy it.<\/p>\n

If a poem works for me, I’ll know it pretty quickly.<\/p>\n

On my first reading of the ten poems in Pamela Johnson Parker’s A Walk Through the Memory Palace, I was most taken by the first:<\/p>\n

— – — – — – — – — – — – —<\/p>\n

78 RPM<\/p>\n

Dusk and three minutes
Of fading light,
Pale as moonflowers,<\/p>\n

Muted trumpets now,
Drawn up tight as those
Parasols propped in<\/p>\n

The corner of your aunt\u2019s
Screened-in side porch, which
She calls veranda<\/i>, where<\/p>\n

White wicker bites
Through your white cotton
Shift, as she lifts a disk<\/p>\n

Of black scratchy \u201cwax,\u201d
Places it on the Victrola,
Says, I\u2019ll be back in<\/i><\/p>\n

A shake, you two<\/i>, and
Disappears inside.
As the heavy arm angles<\/p>\n

From left to right, as
The stylus traces
Its sapphire finger<\/p>\n

Down the record\u2019s groove,
As he skates a single
Finger along the sun-<\/p>\n

Bleached down of your
Arm, and as you
Start to shake,<\/p>\n

Heart rising and
Falling like Billie\u2019s
Song, cool water poured<\/p>\n

To the top, brimming,
Then spilling silver
Notes, and his lips<\/p>\n

On yours for \u2014
The stylus bumps
Its paste-paper<\/p>\n

Center; you hear
The screen door\u2019s
Thump against its<\/p>\n

Frame, hear Aunt\u2019s
High heels tick
Across the porch.<\/p>\n

Here\u2019s something
For this heat<\/i>,
She says, handing you<\/p>\n

Each iced tea: beaded
Glass, mint and a
Paper umbrella<\/p>\n

Blooming, a drink he
Grasps quickly and gulps.
You\u2019ll have to keep your<\/p>\n

Knees pressed tight together.
As the light dims.
As the record changes.<\/p>\n

— – — – — – — – — – — – —<\/p>\n

I loved the way those opening lines invited me in and left me waiting for whatever might happen… waiting for the knowing smile I came to by the poem’s end.<\/p>\n

Did you smile there too, at the very end?<\/p>\n

There are other poems in the chapbook that touched me, through subsequent readings, but I don’t want to give them all away. I would suggest only that you find a friend who’s willing to read them aloud to you… poems are better shared that way.<\/p>\n

(That’s how I best enjoyed them anyway.)<\/p>\n

Incongruous as it is, this poem will always recall for me a sweet chili set at a slow simmer, a practised voice pausing in all the right places while I cooked, and the *necessary* translation of the German phrases (cause, you know, my mother’s maiden name wasn’t Von Oesen or anything similar.)<\/p>\n

\ud83d\ude09 <\/p>\n

— – — – — – — – — – — – —<\/p>\n

Some Yellow Tulips<\/p>\n

Old Mrs. Sonnenkratz, there in her yard
Bent over like a bulb herself, works hard<\/p>\n

To edge her sidewalks, salt the slugs, and spray
The aphids from her roses. Every day<\/p>\n

She\u2019s pruning, pulling, plucking, weeding out
The strays that might be festering. No doubt<\/p>\n

She loves her lawn, loves order, symmetry
Of seedlings, herbal borders; she would be<\/p>\n

Ruthless to seeds gone volunteer, to Queen
Anne\u2019s livid bruise, half-hidden in its green-<\/p>\n

White froth of lace. Today, her turban slants
Askew over her blue-rinsed hair; her plants,<\/p>\n

Once straight as soldiers on her patio,
Are blitzkrieged<\/i> out of order, the yellow<\/p>\n

Tulips (three days blossoming in a vase
Atop her wrought-iron table) don\u2019t erase<\/p>\n

Her frown, her sloppy slippers, or the brown
Age spots (about the size of dimes around)<\/p>\n

She often hides with gloves. A jagged scar
Runs up her forearm, where the numbers are.<\/p>\n

The tulips, like her, blowsy, need to go;
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik\u2019s<\/i> on her radio.<\/p>\n

She thinks, Acht nicht, acht nicht, nacht musik\u2026<\/i>
Their leaves are lances, and they slant, oblique.<\/p>\n

The tulips stems outlast their showy flowers;
For years she plants by day and, at night, cowers.<\/p>\n

The yellow of the petals starts to burn;
Perhaps the worst of absence is return.<\/p>\n

She smokes and shakes and smokes. Each flowerbed\u2019s
As neat as graves. She stubs out ash. The heads<\/p>\n

Of these tulips wore bright turbans, tight-wrapped
And now unwrapping. In Berlin, she was slapped:<\/p>\n

Sie ist ein Jude\u2026<\/i> Dry-eyed in Dachau, how
She\u2019s crying over bulbs bloomed too far now.<\/p>\n

In a world of absence, presence leaves a scar.
Each tulip\u2019s ravelled to a six-point star.<\/p>\n

(for Lilo Mueller<\/i>)<\/p>\n

— – — – — – — – — – — – —<\/p>\n

“Now that’s a good poem!”<\/p>\n

\ud83d\ude09<\/p>\n

Many thanks to Dave<\/a> and qarrtsiluni<\/a> for the opportunity to review this, their first-ever, chapbook contest winner.  The book is available for purchase at the Walk Through the Memory Palace website,<\/a> but you can also read the poems or hear them read by the author at that link. Do have a listen… especially to this one… Engendering: For Two Voices<\/a>… another favorite read by the poet and her husband.<\/p>\n

Let me know what you think? Any *work* for you, too?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Poetry is something, I think, that just happens. (and this isn’t properly a review… more just some personal reactions to a bunch of poems) A moment that moves or inspires; a shared experience or perception gifted between poet and reader. I’m always slightly on my guard whenever reading a new poet… sizing up the words … Continue reading Review: A Walk Through the Memory Palace<\/span> →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2376,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[12,20],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.somewhereinnj.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/353"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.somewhereinnj.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.somewhereinnj.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.somewhereinnj.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.somewhereinnj.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=353"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.somewhereinnj.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/353\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.somewhereinnj.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/2376"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.somewhereinnj.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=353"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.somewhereinnj.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=353"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.somewhereinnj.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=353"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}