The Two Yvonnes
Poems
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- $11.99
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- $11.99
Publisher Description
This is the second collection from a Brooklyn poet whose work many readers will know from the New Yorker. Jessica Greenbaum's narrative poems, in which objects and metaphor share highest honors, attempt revelation through close observation of the everyday. Written in "plain American that cats and dogs can read," as Marianne Moore phrased it, these contemporary lyrics bring forward the challenges of Wisława Szymborska, the reportage of Yehuda Amichai, and the formal forays of Marilyn Hacker. The book asks at heart: how does life present itself to us, and how do we create value from our delights and losses? Riding on Kenneth Koch's instruction to "find one true feeling and hang on," The Two Yvonnes overtakes the present with candor, meditation, and the classic aspiration to shape lyric into a lasting force.
Moving from 1960s Long Island, to 1980s Houston, to today's Brooklyn, the poems range in subject from the pages of the Talmud to a squirrel trapped in a kitchen. One tells the story of young lovers "warmed by the rays / Their pelvic bones sent over the horizon of their belts," while another describes the Bronx Zoo in winter, where the giraffes pad about "like nurses walking quietly / outside a sick room." Another poem defines the speaker via a "packing slip" of her parts--"brown eyes, brown hair, from hirsute tribes in Poland and Russia." The title poem, in which the speaker and friends stumble through a series of flawed memories about each other, unearths the human vulnerabilities that shape so much of the collection.
From The Two Yvonnes:
WHEN MY DAUGHTER GOT SICK
Her cries impersonated all the world;
The fountain's bubbling speech was just a trick
But still I turned and looked, as she implored,
Or leaned toward muffled noises through the bricks:
Just radio, whose waves might be her wav-
ering, whose pitch might be her quavering,
I turned toward, where, the sirens might be "Save
Me," "Help me," "Mommy, Mommy"—everything
She, too, had said, since sloughing off the world.
She took to bed, and now her voice stays fused
To air like outlines of a bygone girl;
The streets, the lake, the room—just places bruised
Without her form, the way your sheets still hold
Rough echoes of the risen sleeper, cold.
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
Most of a life takes place between the covers of this second book from Greenbaum (Inventing Difficulty). With fluent free verse broken up by sonnets, an abecedary and a pantoun, in allegories, comic anecdotes, and pivotal, confessional memories, Greenbaum lets us travel along with her as she grows from too-patient girl to agitated student, from the mother of a sick young child to "all the sensations of being alive" after the child (to judge by the poems) has moved out. Always eloquent, Greenbaum can seem sentimental. Most of the time, though (as with Carl Dennis), her great intelligence, skill with abstraction, humor, and talent for endings raise her poems far above the mundane. Greenbaum deals especially well with the tricky, clich -ridden subject of joy. "Gratitude's Anniversary" connects a childhood "place of thrill and peacefulness" (and solitude) to her happiest moments as an adult. "No Ideas but in Things" follows a squirrel that the poet can't chase from her house, though it seems really to be about empty nesters and about missing the people you love: "We name life/ in relation to whatever we step out from when we/ open the door, and whatever comes back in on its own."