A Deed to the Light (Jeanne Murray Walker)

Genre: Poetry
Year Published: 2004

Although I read a good deal of poetry (and write a good deal as well), poetry often seems like a chore to me. I usually approach an unfamiliar volume of poetry with my trusty mechanical pencil in hand, ready to underline phrases or bracket passages that jump out at me. Because it can be so dense and confusing, some of the joy is often lost for me -- W.S. Merwin's The Second Four Book of Poems, which I still have not yet managed to struggle all the way through, is an excellent example of this.

I sat down with A Deed to the Light several nights ago, ready to go at it with my pencil, and found after a few pages that it was completely unnecessary. It is not that her poetry is simplistic; rather, it is that she paints her images and metaphors with such clarity that I didn't need the academic concentration to get through it. For the first time in a long time, I found myself simply enjoying a book of poetry, taking it in, empathizing with the poet, all without the intense scrutiny that so much poetry requires.

Some people may not enjoy her clear, concise, autobiographical style. There are many poets and readers of poetry who prefer poetry that is as far removed from prose as possible. I myself choose accessibility over opacity any day. Walker's style is the sort of style I aspire to as a poet.

A lot of her poems struck a chord with me, but this is the one that resonated most strongly as I read (probably because of the New Year's party I recently attended).

Dinner Party

We lounge amid the wreckage of this lovely evening,
next to little pelts of scooped-out cantaloupe
on blue Spanish plates, while Billie Holliday
drifts through us like fog through trees.
We have almost made it together inside loneliness,
almost reached that perfect shadowy place
where it doesn't matter what we say, the others
grasp it. We are chords in a new progression
into stillness, a new rendition of "All of Me,"
though none of us, if asked, could tell
what taught us such love was possible.

And then suddenly we're back in history,
as if a gust of gravity had swept in. Or
the rubber band snapped. And we're pulling on
our coats, reaching for polite good-bye phrases
like rain hats, remembering there's happiness
at home, too, and a Posturepedic mattress
and a dog to walk. We look plain again,
standing around like extras in a movie.
What happened among us may be true and secret.
It may be everything. But the night won't talk,
and none of us can find the word to loosen
its tongue. It was fun, we say later. It was fun.

Recommended? Yes. If you haven't made the leap as a reader into modern poetry, make this book your training wheels.