Poetry. In a clear-cut voice "as simple as ink," Mathias Svalina's THE WINE-DARK SEA vocalizes the urge to write oneself alive. Through this lyric journal of taut poems, each titled The Wine-Dark Sea, Svalina breathes life into overlooked places: the driveway a car turns into at the end of a workday, how a tree holds the dirt, the edge of a page on which "I'd always assumed / I'd die alone." Every poem is a baffled drop, a pulse trying not to be dead, and beneath the spine of each sentence, Svalina hides, carrying us, seeking an exit. It is impossible not to be stained by THE WINE-DARK SEA.
At the heart of the book, I can hear a symbolic logic at work describing this very painful event or span of time or simply being for the poet. It is sad to think of the biography that informs the poems. And, in particular, the body as stone, and the paradox a situation like this represents, presents this direct view. If the body is stone, then it makes sense a person would want to be freed of that stone. But what if the person has always identified with the body as stone, or the idea of a body vacated of stone is disorienting and unnerving. Is the language borne of stone? And would that language be lost, then? It's troubling.
But I think the iterative and serial method in the book (each poem titled, "The Wine-Dark Sea") is not providing adequate space to explore this symbolic logic. The other two books I've read by Svalina have taken advantage of this method. I mean, Wastoid is like cup after cup of tea, and I'm not really a drinker of tea, so maybe I should say concoction. Wastoid as a concoction of ambiguous love or devotion. With each poem setting itself up as another try and another try. What a continuous delight! But these "The Wine-Dark Sea" poems reach out to other poems like they should connect. And there shouldn't be the interruption of a title as I move from one page to the next. I am looking for the "sea" aspect, especially as the book leans into the sea.
on a scale i’d say aight/9. i catch glimpse of this sea i find more pill-coloured than wine at favourable moments. at times other it’s like i’m reading someone write poetry.