At the beginning of October I took a vacation, spending some days in a cabin surrounded by redwoods with someone I dearly love. Afterwards came two weeks of catching up with my ordinary life, organising birthday parties and baking for a fundraiser and spending far too many hours daydreaming about being back at that cabin. But here upon this last Monday of October I am starting to find my rhythm again, and so I have more poetry by Diana Chang, whose collection What Matisse is After came from the library while I was gone. It is a beautiful collection, one of those books which is a pleasure to hold; my photo does not do justice to the cover, that boldness of the black and red upon the pale matte grey, nor does the texture come through, the paper not quite smooth to the touch. Inside, with the poems, there are drawings; I have even fewer words for visual art than I do for poetry, but they are simple, black and white and grey, seeming to me about the lines themselves, the size and shape and angles of them, experiments in form, perhaps. Whatever the words for them, I like them.
As always when reading a collection, I find the poems themselves to be a mix; some that do not work for me at all, some which come close but not quite, and some which are very good. Chang’s best poems do not, for me, reach the level of Mark Strand or Jane Hirshfield, but the why of it eludes me; I do not know if they are objectively weaker in some way I might eventually learn to define, or simply less the sort of thing I appreciate. Still, there are some which linger. This is one:
Because it is white we call it snow
The dark side of things is true to names, too
Geese scribbling across the sky
are having their say indefinitely
The wind of time drops
We will be a lasting quiet
By surprise, deer are fastened to a field
Cameras also try their desperate stilling
we find, in any case,
what we gave away is called years.
I like some of the language of this one for itself, the geese having their say indefinitely, and also the concept of it, the naming of things, holding things still through naming; it is a poem which unfolds itself a little in my mind with the reading, but only a little, not largely.
I like this one as well, the title poem:
What Matisse is After
The straight in a curve
is what Matisse is after
one veering in,
an invitation to
the rest of space,
a long gourd
out of bone
an arm sings
that its reach
into a heave
the line of a thigh
on its departure
in the teeth
of our dying
He exhales paint we need
Simple in that way that takes much craft, and flowing, and it captures a little of the looking at a painting’s line and form in the way the words move.
My very favourite poem in this collection is quite long, so I am going to save it for tomorrow.