Bird
in the Hand
Poems
by Lianne Spidel
Dos
Madres Press
Loveland,
Ohio
ISBN:
978-1-939929-09-9
69
Pages
Review
by Dennis Daly
A
luscious elegance secrets itself in the mnemonic tableaux of Lianne Spidel. She
lays out her poetry collection, Bird in the Hand, in easily accessible
compositions that belie curiously colored insights into the human condition.
Not only does Spidel contemplate the complexities of what she knows best, but
she seems to imbue everyday events and connections with numinous significance.
These poems narrate ordinary lives into being again and again, while reveling
in individual value. The word “uplifting” comes to mind.
Before
There Were Barbies, Spidel’s paean to long ago childhood innocence, opens the
book by establishing the Cinderella bona fides of the poet’s persona. Dolls
were at the bottom of the hand-me-down chain, but prized nevertheless. Society
allowed little girls to be little girls during the World War II era, at least
on the home front, safe from the world’s insanity. Spidel describes those
comforting times this way,
…
our hems were turned down twice
before
our mothers cut up our dresses
for
doll clothes. Somehow
there
was always a doll for a birthday
or
Christmas, certain as a ration book
or
a terrifying newsreel at a Saturday matinee.
While
faraway children starved
and
the faraway world blew up and fell apart,
our
grandmothers knitted miniature sweaters.
Even
now we cannot part
with
our childhood dolls, loved so tenderly
within
our years of being safe
In
the poem Godspeed, written in homage to John Glenn, the astronaut and later
politician, and his wife Annie, the poet provides the reader with a commentary
on love and the human need to pioneer, to push the envelope. The juxtaposition
of daring on the world stage and the quiet adventure of domestic life work
together quite nicely. It’s worth noting that Annie, a hero in her own right,
engaged the public in support of her husband in spite of a difficult battle
with a speech impediment. Spidel’s
persona speaks of her own son in this context,
…
my black-haired son
bundled
in his cart, caught up
in
the first of wordless dreams
he
would never learn to compromise,
while
an Ohio-born traveler
circled
our adventure with his own.
When
we met him years later,
stumping
Ohio in the seventies,
he
crinkled his eyes and said
I
looked like Annie. She told me
they
ate by candlelight every night,
even
if it was only hot dogs.
Not
all the poems in this collection are narrative. One of my favorites is a lyric
entitled River Song for the Grandmother I Never Knew. Both a celebration of
life and meditation on family connection, the poem draws the reader into life’s
daring, its dance toward forever. Spidel internalizes an Irish river and launches
her piece magically,
Full
of salmon and the music of mad fiddles,
the
Corrib River churns, rushing the tide,
defying
the margins of its banks
with
wild rhythms of forgotten songs.
The
Corrib River churns, rushing the tide.
When
it leaps to crescendo
with
wild rhythms of forgotten songs,
Echoes
of dancing feet ring along the waves.
When
it leaps to crescendo,
fiddles
crowd and clash, racing over stones.
Echoes
of dancing feet ring along the waves,
beating
out loss and sorrow, fury and joy.
Fiddles
crowd and clash, racing over stones.
My
grandmother’s feet come flying…
Mortality’s
moment very rarely mimics the sparking of great souls. Spidel describes the
deathbed scene of a woman known to her persona in a piece entitled Comh Bhron
Dhuith (Gaelic for Rest in Peace). Due to the family’s attention everything
seems appropriate, arranged just so. The food sits prepared. The table ready to
be set. The plants watered. Arrangements had been made to dress the woman in a
white dress and paint her nails clear before burial. The poet considers another,
more dramatic, scenario,
I
wanted them to bury you upright
in
a sandpit like a Celtic queen,
spear
in hand, facing the enemy
wearing
your good gold rings, a cross
set
with jewels on your mutilated
breast,
your hair still growing,
displacing
sand tendril by tendril
red
flames spilling the heat
of
your living at the core of the earth.
Penultimate
poems have a certain transitory charm. So does Snowfall at Solstice, a lovely
sestina by Spidel that brings heaven’s landscape to earth along with
recognizable angelic company. It’s as if the footfalls of poetic craft are
absorbed in life’s snowpack and the resulting silence spreads effortlessly
outward. Consider these lines,
…you
learned
ski trails curving into night
up
the Gatineau, and every path wound
its
way through some adventure, wound
magically
toward one who would shepherd
you
through cities on starless nights,
whose
homecoming you awaited at windows,
who
carried your furred boots for you
through
seventy winters of snow.
He
will find his way in winging snow,
white-haired,
a woolen scarf wound
at
the neck, coming from darkness to you
stooped
but sure-footed as a shepherd,
an
overcoated angel reflected in the window,
stamping
from his shoes the snow, the night.
Alexander
Pope once said, “True wit is nature to advantage dress’d/ What oft was thought,
but ne’er so well express’d. Lianne Spidel apparently got the message. Her
poems delight.