Many - most - of the poems in this wonderful collection feel to me like an arrow, travelling forward with momentum and arriving at an end that carries resolution. I don't know how much of that is Ó Tuama's tastes, and how much an element of contemporary style; most of these 50 poems were written and published in the last few years, and nearly all in this century (and out of a range of cultures, and from poets ranging from the extremely established to the seemingly emerging). And they're accessible - neither obscure nor difficult - and made more so by Ó Tuama's short, unfailingly illuminating analyses of each.
Of course, some I liked more than others, but there were none that didn't speak to me at all - which reflects that accessibility, yes, but also a generosity in the selection and in the individual poems. In several cases I was moved. Kei Miller, "Book of Genesis" (about the word let); Zaffar Kunial, "The Word" ('Whatever is matter, / must enjoy the life'); Ali Cobby Eckermann, "Kulila" (hearts can't make it up), Kathleen Flenniken, "Married Love" (this one has a classicism that reminded me of Philip Larkin). And many more.
***
Phase One
Dilruba Ahmed
For leaving the fridge open
last night, I forgive you.
For conjuring white curtains
instead of living your life.
For the seedlings that wilt, now,
in tiny pots, I forgive you.
For saying no first
but yes as an afterthought.
I forgive you for hideous visions
after childbirth, brought on by loss
of sleep. And when the baby woke
repeatedly, for your silent rebuke
in the dark, 'What's your beef?'
I forgive you for letting vines
overtake the garden. For fearing
your own propensity to love.
For losing, again, your bag
en route from San Francisco;
for the equally heedless drive back
on the caffeine-fueled return.
I forgive you for leaving
windows open in rain
and soaking library books
again. For putting forth
only revisions of yourself,
with punctuation worked over,
instead of the disordered truth,
I forgive you. For singing mostly
when the shower drowns
your voice. For so admiring
the drummer you failed to hear
the drum. In forgotten tin cans,
may forgiveness gather. Pooling
in gutters. Gushing from pipes.
A great steady rain of olives
from branches, relieved
of cruelty and petty meanness.
With it, a flurry of wings, thirteen
gray pigeons. Ointment reserved
for healers and prophets. I forgive you.
I forgive you. For feeling awkward
and nervous without reason.
For bearing Keats' empty vessel
with such calm you worried
you had, perhaps, no moral
center at all. For treating your mother
with contempt when she deserved
compassion. I forgive you. I forgive
you. I forgive you. For growing
a capacity for love that is great
but matched only, perhaps,
by your loneliness. For being unable
to forgive yourself first so you
could then forgive others and
at last find a way to become
the love that you want in this world.
