Opening any new book begins an adventure. It may turn out to be an adventure of the Disneyland type—mechanical rides, overpriced nutrition-free snacks, sweaty adolescents in cartoon character costumes (you know: the whole Post-Modern funhouse)—or one of those voyages “buoy’d on the dense marine“: Leaves of Grass, Neruda’s Fin de Mundo, Ammons’s Sphere. Of course, most books fall in between these extremes. But I confess to a preference for those that offer the sensation of “waves breaking just over the hill,” a salt fragrance of depths and distances. Both the books discussed here deliver those qualities, but in every different ways.
William Michaelian seems to be an indefatigable writer—a poet, fiction writer, essayist, diarist, and daily blogger who behaves (online at least) with honesty and gentle good humor. His most recent print publication is The Painting of You, the first volume in his Author’s Press Series. It is a disarmingly humane account of caring for his Alzheimer’s-afflicted mother. It’s the sort of fraught situation that might inspire lesser writers to overdramatize, overanalyze—in short, to overwrite. Michaelian appears to be a naturally modest and reticent man, though, and this mixture of reflective prose and in-the-moment poetry is all the more forceful because of his tact. The effect is something like that of Bashō’s famous travel book Back Roads to Far Towns (a.k.a. Narrow Road to the Interior or Narrow Road to the Deep North), but contemporary and American in its emotional openness. Unlike Bashō, Michaelian knows from the outset that his mother’s journey has just one destination, and that the nature of her condition means that he can share only so much of it with her. Over time the progress of his mother’s disease diminishes her sense of connection with him, and Michaelian, as any son would, works very hard to reestablish the connection each time it fades. But in the end the impulse to connect can flourish only in his writing itself. Every word in this book is uttered out of love, but (as William Stafford put it) “the saying of it is a lonely thing.”
But I’m making The Painting of You sound excessively bleak. It’s not, oddly enough. Because Michaelian’s writing is saturated with love—and because his tact is respectful, not repressive—the book is a joy to read. Here is a taste or two:
Observation
With each passing day,I am less my mother’s sonand more her medicine.
She clings as any addict would,and swallows without thinking.
The more of me she takes,the more of me she needs.
The more she needs,the less powerful I become.
Dose by dose, her will is gone,but her mind is still demanding.
Stand up, it says,count the wearyand the dead;do not rest until youhave spoken all their names.
June 24, 2006
*
The Secretary
Shortly before three this morning, I was awakened by my mother talking loudly and rapidly in her sleep. It was impossible to understand what she was saying. Then she started calling my name and asking urgently, “Where are you?”Her bedside light came on. I got up and opened her door. She was leaning on her elbow, trying to read the clock on the table at the opposite side of the bed. When I told her gently that she was dreaming, she said, “No I’m not. I’m typing.”My mother—once a legal secretary, a church secretary, and the secretary to the superintendent of our local school district—was typing.“It’s three in the morning,” I said.She looked at me as if I were crazy. “No it isn’t.”When I told her again that she had been dreaming, and that she should lie down and go back to sleep, she gave this priceless answer: “Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll continue with what I was doing.”She rolled back and let her head rest on the pillow. I closed the door and returned to bed. A few minutes later, after several vocal sighs and some random, aimless speech, she turned off her light.My mother hasn’t used a typewriter in many years. These days, she would have a hard time putting in a piece of paper. I would be surprised if she were able to type a single sentence. And yet somewhere in that brain of hers, she is still capable of typing seventy words a minute, of taking short hand, of solving problems on the telephone. The only problem she can’t solve is her own.Sisters dying, old friends falling by the wayside.Enough dish soap to fill three bathtubs.Did you have lunch yet? I don’t know.I ate something. And I know it was good.
June 5, 2007
Rachel Barbe won the 3rd Annual Hotmetalpress Chapbook Contest this year for her chapbook Addressing 30: A Timeline. The “30” in the title refers to the poet’s age—so she stands are the beginning of her poetic career. Having seen this collection develop up close (full disclosure: this sequence formed the core of Ms. Barbe’s creative thesis at the University of Denver’s University College, where I served as her advisor), I believe she has the talent to make any kind of poetry that serves her needs. In Addressing 30 the need is to take that first long look back on one’s life, and the result is an autobiographical sequence full of youthful energy, illuminations small and large, moments vivid and intensely felt alternating with moments of sober reflection. What unites it all, of course, is the meandering course of Barbe’s life, which has been marked by frequent family moves. These moves are reflected in the timeline of the title, which appears as a graphic at the end of each poem:
The white diamond is Barbe herself, and her location as she approaches age 30 is duly noted with each advance along the timeline. This is more than a device: it helps the reader place each poem in a context of growth, which is the unifying theme of her collection. That she is able to find a strong form for each stage of her evolving self is remarkable, and watching her transform her voice as the book goes along is one of the book’s many readerly pleasures. Here two of my favorite moments:
Inheritance
There was just one bathroomin the tiny apartment on Colerain.The sink hung bare on the wall—a knot of gray pies exposed below.Dad said Don’t lean on the sink, girls.We brushed our teeth and leaned,washed small hands and leaned,stretched up to the high shelf and leaned.One night before bed, mid-wash,the porcelain sink came loose from the wall.My eight-year-old arms clung to its white bulk,eight-year-old lungs puffed out in panic,a cry for the only one who could hold up the old weightpassed from grandfather to father to daughternow come loose in my arms.
*
My Chalice
“The noises of life converged into a single sensation
of life for me: I imagined I carried my chalice safely
through a throng of foes.” —James Joyce, “Araby”
There was one time when he strolled by and I thought I loved him. I always think I love them.These stories get poured into an empty pitcher like Kool-Aid powder and two liters of water drown them until I’m not sure what’s lemonade and what’s diluted truth.I could tell you about Shawn who gave me his necklace in the fourth grade and we were going together. Or Gabe who kissed me on the cheek at church camp and held my hand (that was better). But they just strolled by and I thought I loved them.You know how it is when the sun is low and you drive by trees. The light beats like a heart, your eyelids throb with the sun.It’s those little bruises that get to me.Like poetry on buses. And those two—singing together, swimming in something glorious that eludes me. Megan and Mike sitting in front of me in class, bumping feet under the table. Riding in the back of Joey’s pickup, battling wind, sunshine in my hair. The pearly teeth underneath Chris’s quick smile.These knock me to the ground. Tears wash the red places, the raw places.It wasn’t a head over feet sort of thing this time. There were no words for this, but you know. When the thick brown curls get tangled in the fingers of your memory, you know.
***
Need I add that either or both of these books would be a wonderful choice for holiday gifts?
Need I add that either or both of these books would be a wonderful choice for holiday gifts?
Joseph Hutchison, Colorado Poet Laureate 2014-2019, has published 20 collections of poems and edited or co-edited three poetry anthologies. He currently directs two master’s-level programs for University College at the University of Denver: Professional Creative Writing and Arts & Culture Management. Joe lives with his wife, Melody Madonna, in the mountains southwest of Denver, Colorado, the city where he was born. 
