By
JP Reese
Cervena
Barva Press
Somerville,
MA
33
Pages
$7.00
Review
by Dennis Daly
I
shuddered off the first poem of profound sadness, set in an abortion clinic,
then scanned the second poem of damaged childhood, then glimpsed at the third
poem of spousal estrangement, then passed over the fourth poem of lost
innocence, then, moving through other equally painful-looking pieces, I found and
quickly shunned the poem of famous suicides. Not my cup of tea, I thought,
starting to put aside this poetic collection entitled Deadletters by JP Reese.
But… in fairness I returned to the opening poem, Orphelia, and read it in its
entirety. It was damnably good and floored me with its complex profundity,
perfect pitch, and intelligence. So here’s my review.
Reese’s
poem Ophelia intimates deeper background knowledge of Shakespeare’s play Hamlet
than most of us have. Connecting Ophelia to abortion is not as outlandish as it
sounds. In Hamlet, Ophelia says to her brother, Laertes, “There’s rue for you,
and here’s some for me,” shortly before her death by drowning. Rue means
regret, of course, but also is a poisonous herb with abortive powers. Reese’s poem
continues this line of thinking and feeling with Ophelia taking her own life. Here
are some of Reese’s beautifully done, yet gut-wrenching lines,
Another
infant girl or boy unknown.
The
nurse hovers, lowers her gown, says,
“All
that could have been is undone.”
It is a good saying, she thinks, it is true.
In
the evening as the sun fades to brown,
Orphelia
invites her friends and her friend’s friends
to
wash the color from her hands,
some
with whiskey, some with wine.
She
lingers beside the river, feet bare on rocks,
anxious
to touch the water, to return. God
is
not in his heaven…
In
the poem Father the poet’s persona exhibits compassion, understanding, and
overall admiration for her father, who, without book-learning or lucky breaks
or wealth, makes his way in life despite life. The poet, speaking of her
father’s photograph, says,
Here,
washed in sepia, is the younger face of one
who
never concedes to roots sprung from poverty
or
speaks ill of a mother who tithed to the Jesus of Catholicism
over
the rumblings of her children’s empty bellies.
Here,
too, blow the bitter winters of Madison,
deep
hunger leading you over ice-bound lanes to find work
—never
a pause to warm your hands at the fire,
No
time to read…
Unrequited
love rises from the poet’s essence in the piece entitled Touch. Her love exudes,
in turn, eroticism and religiosity. Make
no mistake, her lover does not exist in the flesh but that does not seem to
dissuade the poet. By will alone she demands his existence. The poem sings its incantation,
its passion to the heavens. The poet opens the piece this way,
If
you are,
then
find me,
drowning,
underwater,
sluice
wasted time
away.
Find
me
reading
shadows
rocking
astride
empty
words
and
neverhours.
If
you breathe
then
breathe me
away
from night…
Reese
delves into her feelings of mortality in a poem entitled Autumn. The poem’s
protagonist imagines her dead lover as a boy facing the eternal sunlight of
summer. The whole world is “just coming on.” There is acceptance here and
something resembling hope. The poet opens the poem with an autumn’s brisk
chilliness,
The
field lies stubbled.
Its
carapace brittles
under
November’s drowsy
song.
My hands chill,
and
I warm them
beneath
my arms.
I
stand on the edge
of
this empty earth.
The
jacket I chose
doesn’t
ease the shivering,
but
I stay because
I
have come here
to
understand…
Resurrections
appear out of the fertile earth of Reese’s poem On the Third Day. Ernest Hemingway
who shot himself, John Berryman who jumped off a bridge, Harte Crane who jumped
off a boat, Anne Sexton, who suffocated herself with auto exhaust, and Sylvia
Plath who suffocated herself with gas are all brought back to life to no avail.
They simply continue as their art continues. The bridge between oblivion and
art appears to be two-way—at least in our universe. Reese uses black humor to
release an overflow of tension. Consider these lines,
Sexton
could reduce her carbon footprint, wait
for
a newer model, one in candy apple red with doll’s eyes
winking
from the radio dials while Plath entwines
with
Otto in the back seat. The three could move east,
race
to beat the rising sun, anxious to be the first
to
see the angel roll back the stone.
The
poet finds relief and pleasure in the present as she compartmentalizes,
shutting off the scars of the past and the uncertainty of future in her poem
Now. There is hope here and there is an expanding space. The poet says,
The
thought is heavy;
it
staggers under its own heft.
Stay
with me tonight and dance,
safe
from the ruin
beyond
these bolted doors.
Reese’s
poems, in spite of their dark subject matter, do not descend into despair.
Strongly rooted and elegantly composed they offer the green shoots of a new
world’s first life.
