Should You Lose All Reason

by Justine Chan

At times scorching, at times brimming with awe and desire, this debut book of poems resonates with a brilliant new voice. When Justine Chan worked as a park ranger at Zion National Park, she chose to retell a Southern Paiute folktale for her weekly evening program on coyotes. The more that long, hot summer unfolded, the more time she spent alone in the desert, the more she retold the story, the more the story became her life. And in that space, she began to write. Should You Lose All Reason(s) is unafraid of looking hard– back, down, towards, around, forward, at the stories we tell, at herself, at the desert, at the sun, at everything. In conversation with the Southern Paiute folktale, she weaves together a triptych of poems, poems both always on the move and stuck, in exile, in wilderness. Drawing from her experiences serving in AmeriCorps, working as a park ranger, and traveling across the United States, she explores race, loneliness, stories, hauntings, family, landscapes and cityscapes, climate change, survival, music, resilience, the West, and America itself.

Genres: Poetry

108 pages, Paperback

Published April 11, 2023

About the author

Writer, poet, and singer-songwriter based in Seattle, Washington.

Reviews

[Dana Martin · Rating 5 out of 5]

Justine Chan’s Should You Lose All Reason(s) is based on the poet's experience of a Southern Paiute myth she told over and over when she was working as a park ranger in Zion National Park, which is just a few minutes from our Utah home. I found the collection in the Springdale, Utah, library the day Jon and I drove out that way.

Chan lives in Washington state, where we lived for about a decade. Somehow, that makes her work resonate even more deeply for me. I’ve always felt a connection between Eastern Washington and Southern Utah. Where the land is concerned, I mean. The wildlands and the wildlife and how human consciousness is informed by both in ways they might not be elsewhere.

These poems are enveloping. They’re somehow a deep dive that feels like wading slowly into a welcoming body of water. Some parts remind me of Woman and Nature by Susan Griffin. Others remind me of a pillow book, namely the poems Rebecca Lindenberg has written in that spirit.

These poems speak to place, to identity, to what it means to live in a larger, natural world—or to live away from nature. Of who we are and how we become and how we continue. The speaker, I mean. The speaker, but also all of us. Also me, as a reader. (And maybe you if you choose to read this collection.)

Chan writes this place, Southern Utah, in ways that are image- and sound-driven without sacrificing authenticity, vulnerability, or accuracy:

You will get used to never seeing the full red sun as it rises or sets. You will see peregrine falcons and turkey vultures circling overheard, but never the condors.

None of the pictures you take will be quite right. Not in focus. Or the light’s not right. Or there is just too much.

You will bask. You will burn.

The bark of the spruce on the rim will always smell sweet and fresh in between its flaky scales.

The people will forget there was ever blanket poisoning of the public lands. That there are bounties for pairs of hacked off ears. That less, to rescind, must mean more.

Most of Chan’s lines are impressively long, like someone trying to stretch their arms as wide as the mouth of a canyon. The book is actually much wider than it is long to accommodate those lines. (It’s designed to look like an oversized postcard.) Her approach is somewhat experimental: at times bivocal, at times hugging the right margin or drifting cloudlike down the page, at times interspersed with dates and facts, and frequently breaking into song. (She quotes lyrics from sixteen songs throughout the book.)

I hope folks take the time to read this collection. Because. Just because.

Because the air is so hot, full of rasping. The land so full of landmarks and stories you can’t even begin to know.

Because you feel some part of you was / is / will always be secret.

Because the crickets are madness, a roar that fades to silence / if you forget / to listen

[Soph Tang · Rating 3 out of 5]

rating pieces like this is difficult for me, because on one hand, i feel grossly unqualified to review it. on the other hand, i think it's important to say that. so here we go:

this poetry book has the potential to be profoundly meaningful, or obscenely opaque.

^ this comment, on its very premise, is absurd to make. it's an empty, meaningless remark that could be made about any book, poetry or no. but it's how i feel, regardless, having read the last page and put the book down.

Justine has a beautiful way of writing, of speaking, of memorializing her experiences. her writing style is also–as a casual reader who doesn't tend to read very literary works–completely unreadable at times. it's alienating in a bizarre way, where i can understand enough to parse vibes and basically nothing else. like having someone speak a foreign language to you and you can only interpret their inflection, their gestures, but none of the actual content of what they're trying to say.

i feel like there was, perhaps, a tremendous amount of meaning to be lifted from these delicate, carefully crafted pages. i also felt like i was a plastic ball drifting along its currents, and once i was removed from it, nothing stuck.

it made me feel dumb and confused. like i had walked into a conversation where i didn't belong, realizing suddenly that i didn't belong at the event altogether; that i knew nobody, understood nothing, and wondered whether i should just go home. had i even been invited to the event? was i there by mistake? was i the +1 of someone who could actually understand these conversations? make sense of what people were saying?

was i the only person here who didn't get it?

it's a weird way for a book to make you feel, and i can only attribute that to my own lack of comprehension. maybe, at the end of the day, i really am just too dumb to read this book.

in terms of whether or not i would recommend this, it's hard for me to say. my guess is that if this poetry book is for you, then you already know that and you don't need my input on the matter. and if not, but it sounds interesting... give it a shot? maybe you'll find more within its pages than i did.

[Keegan · Rating 5 out of 5]

An excellent debut book of poetry that for me reads like one epic or long form poem, but with plenty of places to break and countless images to experience. There is an emotional and structural momentum that propels the work and makes it quite enjoyable to read through continuously.

The book is in conversation with and responding to a Southern Paiute coyote story that Chan reflects and refracts through her own experiences of cities and family and food, and she does this with a touching attentiveness to the tragic parts of relationships and the searing quality of joy that can shine through them nonetheless.

Lots to digest, and easy to revisit!

[Hana · Rating 5 out of 5]

Spellbinding, utterly engrossing set of poems that work beautifully together. Highly recommend.

[John Burroughs · Rating 5 out of 5]

Highly recommended.

[Jacqueline Gordon · Rating 5 out of 5]

This was such a beautifully intimate collection. I loved the way it weaved between stories and allusions, all while tying back to the central subject of the coyote.

[Zo Murphy · Rating 5 out of 5]

i read the first few pages in the book store and almost burst into tears. on page 16 i set the book down in a state of shock at how incredible it is. everyone in the world should read it.
edit: just reread some of it and i just feel like someone took this book straight out of my brain. so incredible