While Andrea Gibson's first poetry collection is obviously superior, their second collection The Madness Vase is still superb. They still deal with hard hitting issues such as the consequences of war on veterans, their families, and the people we fight against ( Sleeping ), suicide (Piano), and violence against the LGBT community (Ashes). Gibson does not pull any punches, and they approach their subjects with raw honesty and rich emotion. Nothing in their work is contrived or forced. Maybe it's because they started out in poetry slams and spoken word, but Gibson's writing never feels stiff. They are not only honest but also funny. Not laugh out loud funny but a nudge-in-the-ribs and a sly smirk kind of funny. More poetry should be like theirs.
Perhaps the best poem in the collection is the title poem The Madness Vase. I love this poem because it gets to the core of why people write poetry. We write it so that we can breathe again, so that we can be okay. I have problems with anxiety and am not ashamed to admit I take medication for it, but sometimes writing a poem helps me more than those pills ever could. It feels like a weight is lifted off my chest. When I read The Madness Vase, I thought, "Somebody understands." Because I love this poem, here it is in full text (and my favorite part in bold).
“The nutritionist said I should eat root vegetables.
Said if I could get down thirteen turnips a day
I would be grounded, rooted.
Said my head would not keep flying away
to where the darkness lives.
The psychic told me my heart carries too much weight.
Said for twenty dollars she’d tell me what to do.
I handed her the twenty. She said, “Stop worrying, darling.
You will find a good man soon.”
The first psycho therapist told me to spend
three hours each day sitting in a dark closet
with my eyes closed and ears plugged.
I tried it once but couldn’t stop thinking
about how gay it was to be sitting in the closet.
The yogi told me to stretch everything but the truth.
Said to focus on the out breath. Said everyone finds happiness
when they care more about what they give
than what they get.
The pharmacist said, “Lexapro, Lamicatl, Lithium, Xanax.”
The doctor said an anti-psychotic might help me
forget what the trauma said.
The trauma said, “Don’t write these poems.
Nobody wants to hear you cry
about the grief inside your bones.”
But my bones said, “Tyler Clementi jumped
from the George Washington Bridge
into the Hudson River convinced
he was entirely alone.”
My bones said, “Write the poems.”