Thanks to NetGalley and W.W. Norton for the ARC!
Steven Duong’s At the End of the World There Is a Pond charts a gentle but intentional path through the shuddering aftermath of crisis.
If you haven’t been paying attention, the world is in a pretty dire state. We must live with grief, but we must also choose whether we will be unmade or animated by it. Duong insists upon the latter.
So many poetry collections reckon with destruction—a desire to reach a conclusion and start a new sentence, a hope to be free from our obligation to outmoded syntax. The problem is that while it’s very easy to imagine the end, it’s very difficult to imagine a beginning.
Fitting comfortably alongside Franny Choi’s The World Keeps Ending, and the World Goes On and Diana Khoi Nguyen’s Root Fractures, Duong’s poems constantly look past the feeling of finality. Nihilism is a privilege, and it’s one that isn’t afforded to the speaker here.
More importantly, it’s also a waste.
Readers are constantly led to the tranquility of the titular pond when chaos might be more comfortable. These poems aren’t afraid of violence, as seen in the aching “Ordnance” and its depiction of war's blunt stupidity, but they also refuse to stagnate there. As one might expect from the book’s title and cover, fish are a recurrent motif, and they offer a fitting image and set of poetics for the work—there’s something primordial about fish, almost alien in the way they slip shapelessly through water. Similarly, these poems are delightfully amorphous, moving through shifting forms and themes, addressing racism and Rico Nasty without so much as a ripple. Duong writes with such an intuitive hand that every line feels inevitable, but what makes the collection so special is that each poem also feels like an argument for intentionality.
One highlight is “The Living,” which is a gorgeous depiction of persistence as resistance, a reminder of how life holds beauty and ugliness in such close proximity that it’s impossible to imagine one without the other. It’s a succinct representation of the book as a whole—for hope to carry meaning, it must first accept the full weight of how horrible things actually are.
The end is here. What’s next?