Emily Skaja, Black Lake: poems

 

I let rain trample me flat
as a cluster of ditch lilies
while I breathe in
the recommended exhaust. 

Anesthesia sloughs off my skin
so a forge of white heat
can shine up my skeleton,
making me new. 

As that fucker Ezra Pound insisted. (“Make It New”)

The second full-length collection from Memphis-based poet Emily Skaja, following Brute (Minneapolis MN: Graywolf Press, 2019), is Black Lake: poems (Graywolf Press, 2026), a book-length suite that works through the spectrum of grief through the loss of a child. “You lived & died in one long summer.” she writes, to open the poem “Future Fig,” a poem that also offers, a bit further on: “I once killed three summers of tomato plants / before I found, to my surprise, / a whole uninvited cucumber / shoved up out of a crack in the concrete. // This is the kind of thing, in my era / of grieving, that passes for parable.” Organized across five numbered section-clusters of first-person lyrics, Skaja composes poems almost as short scenes or thought narratives, the collection as a whole providing a narrative through-line of enough grief that one could get entirely lost within it. And yet, she does not, finding the only way past grief is through. As the poem “Black lake, black boat,” early on in the collection, begins: “black fog I can’t find my way / through. Black trees, black / moon. I once knew the sky / from the water. This course / I remember, its narrowing. / How I crept my way down / the ladder like clutching / the gluey rungs of a throat.”

Set in five numbered section-clusters of lyrics, there’s a clear-eyed precision to Skaja’s articulations on and around grief, articulated best, perhaps, through this section of the three-page poem “What’ll It Be, Hon,” that reads: “It wasn’t a black hole of depression / so much as an all-night diner of depression / & I’d been going there as a regular // for months—eating the icebox pie, drinking / the hot-dog coffee, calling everyone Rita— / when suddenly a whole crowd of people // joined me in my spot. It turned out, / depression was on trend.” These poems work through the lengthy and difficult trajectory through grief, a relationship that can’t help but change, over time, and articulated very different than the work of, say, South Bend, Indiana poet Joyelle McSweeney [see my review of her latest here], who has also written extensively across the grief of losing a child. Sometimes the worst part of grief, as she articulates moving through election day, the Bible Belt, poetry and spring, is that it occurs during and across normal life, both seemingly unaffected by the other. Or there is Skaja’s poem “Poetry Makes Nothing Happen,” referencing W.H. Auden’s infamous line from his 1939 poem “In Memory of W.B. Yeats.” As Skaja’s poem reads, in full:

Black lake of sorrow, unholy excess,
to you I confess my shame—I wanted
to draw a line around the violence
of the world, contain it in language,
let cruelty take someone else’s hand
& turn my back on it to save
this single square of tenderness
for myself. For that to be possible.
Such important work, this little art
of divining omens in the fire
only after it swallows everything.
Turning to no one to say, Look—
when I point to blood in a black puddle,
at the way it reflects the stars.

Joyelle McSweeney, Death Styles

My review of South Bend, Indiana poet Joyelle McSweeney’s Death Styles (New York NY: Nightboat Books, 2024) is now online at periodicities: a journal of poetry and poetics. See my 2009 "12 or 20 questions" interview with her here.

London (Ontario) Calling : report from Greg Curnoe's studio, Doctor Who + Antler River Poetry,

In case you hadn't heard, I took a VIA train nearly two weeks ago to London, Ontario for the sake of a reading I was doing through Antler River Poetry, which is pretty exciting. Given the length of the train (five hours to Toronto; an hour's wait; two-plus hours into London), the series was good enough to provide me with two nights of hotel, so I didn't have to worry about reading on a travel-day. I wandered leisurely across a Tuesday west along lakeshore, into, through, and beyond Toronto suburbs and into the wilds of Southwestern Ontario. The new Joyelle McSweeney title (which lands properly in April), I should have you know, is astounding.

I can't even remember the last time I did a reading in London, Ontario (and I seem not to have done notes about such, although I know I read there circa 1998 or so) [but you saw my report on my prior reading, when I ventured in Toronto for Art Bar, yes?]. I spent the train ride there sketching out edits on my book-length genealogical essay (you are following along with posted excerpts of this work-in-progress via my substack, yes?), and the train ride home sketching out edits on short stories, along with moving through a small handful of previously-unread books as I stared out the window. Oh, the cold. Oh, the minus fourteen of London, Ontario.

Once there, I slipped and slid the two blocks from train station to hotel (which was chilly, admittedly, once inside), and had considered venturing out for proper food and a drink or two until I caught that the hotel had a CLASSIC DOCTOR WHO CHANNEL. How was I expected to leave the hotel after discovering that? I'd already been moving the past few weeks through the Tom Baker period, and managed to move further through Baker and into the Peter Davidson run. Some stellar stuff there. Interesting to see earlier stories that are later referenced in the reboot era (my knowledge of Doctor Who began with the 2005 reboot; I was vaguely aware of it as a youth, but I never quite managed to get into it then).

Wednesday morning I sat for an hour or so with coffee, bags and a notebook at a small place on the corner (working on drafts of short stories), and saw a car run a red light, which seemed stunning. Again, minus fourteen. Downtown London has an enormous amount of smoke shops, and businesses you need to ring into, and reminded me of downtown Winnipeg, or Vanier, with nicer/older buildings. I managed a couple of used bookstores, and even found copies of books by myself and Christine (and a copy of Jean McKay's Gone to Grass, which I finished reading while in hospital awaiting Aoife's birth); should I have picked them up? Cheaper than perhaps I paid for my author copies, most of them. Instead, I floated through the historical titles and picked up a couple of guidebooks from Upper Canada Village, hoping there might be some information there I require for my genealogical researches. I ended up at Moxies for lunch, which felt like nonsense, but most of the more interesting places looked a bit dodgy (including a pizza place that hadn't any windows, which is always a bit of a red flag). Stupid Moxies. The food was tolerable, and the televisions were relentless (Moxies requires a safe space, naturally, to allow no distractions while your soul slowly leaves your body). And then, I saw another car run a red light. Um, what?

I had mentioned to Penn Kemp a week or so prior that I'd made a pilgrimage to the late Greg Curnoe's house at the end of July [see my note on such here], not wishing to bother his widow, Sheila, by what would have been a random stranger ringing her doorbell. I lingered on the street for a bit, which I was content enough with, at the time. Kemp (who had been Curnoe's assistant during a brief period in her teens: if you want to know more about that, I recommend James King's 2017 biography, THE WAY IT IS: The Life of Greg Curnoe, although the writing is a bit dry, which was surprising for such a lively subject and subject matter) was kind enough to respond by arranging a visit to the house, and Sheila and Penn picked me up at the hotel mid-afternoon (and we saw another car run a red light: that's three I saw on that day alone doing such). Sheila was such a delightful, generous host, and we sat and chatted the three of us in the Curnoe kitchen for a while before she took me into the studio, where Greg Curnoe (1936-1992) produced some twenty-plus years of artwork before his untimely death. I was there for a couple of hours, and it was completely glorious. We chatted, gossiped a bit (ahem), and Sheila was gracious enough to offer me copies of the original "big little" duo The Great Canadian Sonnet (Coach House Press, 1970) by David McFadden, that Curnoe did all the artwork for (a single reprint edition was produced through Coach House Books more recently; you should find a copy if you can).

And, oh, this absolutely beautiful dollhouse Curnoe made for their daughter when she was young. Completely the kind of dollhouse that could only be produced by Greg Curnoe. Oh, Sheila Curnoe and Penn Kemp, thank you again for this kindness, this gift, of being allowed into this space. Pilgrimage, indeed. So very very cool. (I was abuzz most of the rest of the day, as you might imagine).

After being dropped back at the hotel for a quick bite (and further Doctor Who), one of the organizers collected me from the hotel DURING WHICH WE LITERALLY SAW ANOTHER CAR RUN A RED LIGHT; THAT IS FOUR TIMES I SAW CARS RUN RED LIGHTS IN A SINGLE DAY IN DOWNTOWN LONDON, ONTARIO. THIS IS CLEARLY A LAWLESS PLACE. The reading itself opened with "local opener" poets Sunday Ajak reading a couple of poems, followed by Katie Jeresky and Penn Kemp, who each read from their contributions to the three-poet chapbook (the third being Jessica Lee McMillan) Intent on Flowering (Rose Garden Press, 2024). Poet Kit Roffey was scheduled to be there to read from their recent 845 Press poetry debut, Civilian of Dirt (2023) [see my review of such here], but was under the weather, so publisher Aaron Schneider read in their stead (it is a really good chapbook debut, I should say). It was very good, also, to hear Karen Schindler read from her chapbook debut (I was startled to realize it was only her debut!) from Gaspereau Press, THE SAD TRUTH (2023) [see my review of such here]. And Tom Cull was there! Very good to meet him. And Jason Dickson! And Sarah Marie! And Tom Prime! It was a solid crowd, honestly.

And then I read!

photo of myself reading, by Misha Bower / Antler River Poetry

There was even a bit of a conversation after, during which host and moderator David Barrick asked a couple of us publisher-sorts (being Karen and myself as features, the evening had been framed as a small press event) about submitting, publishing and other sorts of things: Karen, myself, Aaron and the two Michelles (whom I had not previously met) from Rose Garden Press (I had a chapbook with them a while back; remember?).

After the reading, I convinced Aaron that we should head out for drinks, which was an awful lot of fun; he says we originally met at a pub once in Kingston, but I couldn't think of a time I was in Kingston out for drinks without doing a reading (he says there wasn't a reading; if there had been, he would have been there), so I have no idea when that would have been. Otherwise, it was good to spend time with him and get a better sense of him, his writing, his press, etcetera. I'm curious to see where 845 Press, and, for that matter, The Temz Review, goes next. He's doing some solid work.

And then it was back to the hotel for some more Doctor Who, which began again with first light. Peter Davidson!

And the train again, around 10am. Making notes and reading an interesting collection of collected writings by American poet and critic Susan Gevirtz, among other items. Back to Toronto, briefly. Back to Ottawa. All in all a glorious trip. Have you thought of heading out towards London?

Yi Sang: Selected Works, ed. Don Mee Choi

 

MOVEMENT

I climb up above the first floor to the second floor to the third floor to the rooftop garden and look to the south and there is nothing there and look to the north and there is nothing there and so I go down from the rooftop garden to the third floor to the second floor to the first floor and the sun that rose in the east has set in the west rose from the east and set in the west and rose from the east and set in the west and rose from the east and it is in the middle of the sky and I take out my watch and look and see that it has stopped although it is the correct time but the watch is younger than I am or rather I am older than the watch is and it can’t be helped that that is what they will think of me because that is probably the case and so I threw away the watch. (translated from the Japanese by Sawako Nakayasu)

There is some absolutely fascinating reading in the new collection Yi Sang: Selected Works, edited by Don Mee Choi (Seattle WA/New York NY: Wave Books, 2020) and translated by Jack Jung, Sawako Nakayasu, Don Mee Choi and Joyelle McSweeney. Yi Sang: Selected Works is a collection of poems, essays and short fiction by Korean poet Yang Sang (1910-1937), a writer well-known in and around Korea, but most likely almost completely unknown to an English-language readership. It is interesting to see how this book is organized, both in terms of sections and translators, as the book opens with a collection’s worth of poems translated from the Korean by Jack Jung, before a further selection of poems translated from the Japanese by Sawako Nakayasu, a selection of essays translated from the Korean by Jack Jung, and a selection of stories translated from the Korean by Don Mee Choi and Joyelle McSweeney. In small ways, his shifts between language of composition speak to the cultural complications in Korea during the short span of Yi Sang’s life, as Nakayasu writes as part of the introduction to her section of translations: “Yang Sing is now an established figure in Korea’s modernist canon, but he was not as well known during his brief life, which took place entirely under Japanese rule.” Later on, she offers:

            Yi Sang’s poems are conversant with those of the Japanese modernists, but through them he also repurposes the tools of the avant-garde as instruments of rebellion. As Japanese poets sought to break from their own traditions, it is possible that Yi Sang was also seeking ways to push against the loss, erasure, and invisibility of colonial circumstances. While it is often said that translation stretches the target language by virtue of accommodating a new text, here Yi Sang was stretching Japanese to make it accommodate his position as a colonial subject. In that sense, avant-garde aesthetics may have provided the perfect cover for his subversive distortion of Japanese language conventions.

Through a short but remarkably vibrant artistic life, Yi Sang was able to subvert conventions of Japanese language and writing from the perspective of simultaneous insider and perpetual outsider, allowing him a unique vantage-point from which to write and respond. The individual offerings—whether afterword or introduction or timeline—included by these multiple translators is something I appreciated, as a new reader of Yi Sang’s work, to more fully understand the shifts in his thinking, his writing and his considerations. McSweeney’s “Afterword: Thirteen for Yi Sang, for Arachne,” writes: “So much that I know about translation I have learned from the working relationship of Don Mee Choi and Kim Hyesoon, of whom Kim Hyesoon has written, ‘It is like someone who is very much like me.’ To translate is to enter a web of likenesses and unlikeness, the uncertain, proliferating zone of the text. So it has been a thrilling adventure to join hands with Don Mee Choi and peer with her into the mirror of Yi Sang, sisterly and nonidentical, to become Spider&Spider&Spider&—such weird mimicry.” As part of “Yi Sang: A Timeline” that opens the collection, Jack Jung includes this as part of the entry for 1931: “Japanese invasion of Manchuria began in September. The war would continue into 1932 and end with Japanese victory. The annexation of Manchuria lasted until the end of World War II. Yi Sang’s poems such as ‘Poem No. 12’ of ‘Crow’s Eye View’ and ‘Street Outside Street’ can be read as elliptical responses to the military violence of his time.” Translated into English by Jung, the poem “Street Outside Street,” originally dated March 1936, ends with:

I go. A train car carrying Sun Tzu avoids my room. A note written in shorthand is laid out on my desk. There is also a cheap dish, and on the dish is a boiled egg—my fork bursts the egg’s yolk. A bird, a detal, flies out—a wind from the bird’s flapping wings tears up the grid. A flock of prophetic documents dances wildly on a field of ice. My blood wets a cigarette. The red-light district burns through the night. Fake angels begin to breed, flying every direction, covering up the entire sky. However, everything I have put here in my room is heating up, clamoring all at once. The vast room rots from within. The wallpaper gets itchy. The trash wildly sticks to my walls.