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A
Review of What Feeds Us by Diane Lockward
(Wind Publications, 2006)
Diane
Lockward's second book, “What Feeds Us” (winner of the
Quentin R. Howard Poetry Prize), is chock full of tasty
poems; fresh, delectable poems; poems that drip blue
juice that runs alluringly down your chin as you read.
What
feeds us here is desire: desire for love, for a lover,
for a lost child, for a lost parent, all this desire
projected onto objects that one can sink their teeth
into: a singular artichoke that grew against all odds;
blueberry pancakes; a pear; an avocado. Each of these
edible objects represent something to the speaker: a
father walking out on the family; a mother lost and
found and lost again; the redolence of reticence; the
persistence -- no, insistence -- of self, and self-reliance.
The
opening poem, “What Feeds Us”, a poem in seven sections,
effectively sets up the major themes of this collection:
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I brought the things I really need -- |
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two books I love, a laptop, |
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clean
white paper, a radio |
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in
case I get lonely. |
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I
packed two issues of the Hungry Mind Review |
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and
just enough clothes. |
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Vitamins,
ginger tea, a Gauguin cup. |
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I
carried three almond croissants, |
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one
of which I have already eaten. |
The
speaker, in indicating that she has brought only the
things she needs, has deliberately distanced herself,
and it is this distance that enables her to find a way
back in to her tender subjects. In the second section
of the poem, she walks into a deli and spots a cookie:
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...
and right away I start thinking about Joe |
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and the story he told about Darlene, |
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the one girl he really could have loved back |
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in
high school, Darlene with the long yummy legs, |
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when
Joe was a short, fat-assed kid |
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with
zits. He'd sit in the cafeteria |
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and
watch luscious Darlene nibble |
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a cookie, and he'd dream that one day |
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she'd
sashay to his table, |
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hold our her cookie like a valentine, |
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and
he'd take that cookie, and Darlene's lips |
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would
be all over it. |
The
other sections of this poem present us with an abusive
father, a return to the imagined love affair between
Joe and Darlene, and, in a nod to Lockward's first book,
Eve's Red Dress, a walk with Eve out of the garden,
who carries an apple with her because “(s)he didn't
know where she was going / but she knew she'd need something
to eat.”
Fruit
is returned to again and again throughout this collection.
The noteworthy poem “Organic Fruit”, a shaped poem in
praise of the avocado -- a “strict individualist” --
describes its subject as “schmoo-shaped”. Schmoo, satirical
comic book characters created by Al Capp for the Lil'
Abner cartoon series, purportedly reproduce asexually
and require no sustenance.
Though
not all of the poems include food as an ingredient,
many of them do, employing food as a metaphor in surprising
ways. In looking up the etymological beginnings of the
oh-so-edible avocado, this reviewer found that it arises
from the word testicle, finding reciprocity
in “The History of Vanilla”, a sort of lullaby which
reveals the evolution of the word vanilla as having
its roots in the Latin vagina.
In
the very fun “The Best Words” Lockward explores the
tantalizingly forbidden encapsulated within ordinary
everyday words “...that put a finger to the flame but
don't burn. / Words like asinine, poppycock, titmouse,
tit for tat, / woodpecker, pecorino, poop deck, and
beaver.” These are sensual poems; ripe, verdant.
The
poem, “Meditation on Green” begins:
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It
comes to me as a commandment: |
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Thou
shalt meditate on green, |
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And
because I am obedient |
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my
thoughts turn to grass, blades |
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crushed
under my feet, tiny green |
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grasshopper
grinding his broken song. |
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Thence
to the lime for it is a tart |
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fruit
and hangs from trees without |
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causing
any woman to fall. Green |
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for
the novice, the inexperienced, |
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the
not-knowing-any-better. |
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The
pickle, repeatedly tempting me |
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to
devour its green obscene shape. |
This
poem – beginning with a simple meditation on the
color green – becomes more and more substantial
with each turn of the line. Food may be the jumping
off point, but these poems have depth. These are mature
poems dealing with mature subjects, even tackling formal
verse, as in “Love Test: A Ghazal”:
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“The
sign on the wall read: Test on love |
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coming
soon. “My God,” I thought, “a test on love!” |
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I
felt the familiar panic, |
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the
tightening in my chest. On love |
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I'd be lucky if I pulled a C-. |
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I've
always made a mess of love. |
Occasionally
the poems rely on insects as metaphor, as in “Fear”,
where they are “...wasps / poised over your head, abuzz
/ while you sleep, or don't sleep”. A mother's hatred
and loathing for anything that threatens her child invoked
in “Invective Against the Bumblebee”:
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I
despise you for you have swooped down |
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on my baby boy, harmless on a blanket of lawn, |
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his
belly plumping through his orange stretch suit, |
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yellow
hat over the fuzz of his head. |
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Though
you mistook him for a sunflower, |
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I
do not exonerate you. |
In
yet another, the speaker finds herself amazed at her
friend's ability to charm a bee from her lunch bag without
getting stung, while in the “The Bee Charmer” a lover
succeeds in convincing her of the necessity of bees,
and, by extension, acknowledges the necessity of adversity
in our lives, if only to provide contrast for the sweet.
“What
Feeds Us” is a feast: frequently messy, but always delicious.
You may be tempted, but you cannot eat this book.
You
will want to read it again.
*Cati
Porter is editor of Poemeleon: A Journal of Poetry and
contributing editor for Babel. Her poetry is forthcoming
in the anthologies: White Ink: An Anthology on Mothers
and Motherhood (Demeter Press), Bedside Guide to No
Tell Motel – Second Floor (No Tell Books), and in a
collection of contemporary women's poetry (Red Hen Press).
More of her book reviews can be read in past issues
of Poetry Southeast and Galatea Resurrects.
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