Desire & the page felt it. I told myself, something is happening. You could make weather happen then. Dear not only in dream life, dear never until storm.
I've been in a mood for months where I have not been interested in other people's stories. Sick of what authors want to share with me. I thought maybe this was due to being overwhelmed with narrative in the news, or I had ruined my brain on social media or sugar. But, now I know I just needed to read something like this...intelligent, honest, spare, indulgent, written like she doesn't care if you are reading (but cares, addresses you (not you, someone? You're listening in?)).
The structure of Darst's poems is strange: there are notes in the margins, titles of books to read, and quotations from other authors. I honestly wouldn't have been a bit surprised to see a grocery list pop up.
Tangerines, iceberg lettuce, coffee, yogurt, and more fucking grapes.
And yet, there are some beautiful bits and pieces here.
I-40 (news on) barrels around invisible Raleigh, exit for Lake Wheeler Road -- fog lifts over the mill, little cemetery next door to a trampoline . . . then the strawberry farm --
blank plastic hills in February, a green fuzz in March, but by April when my last maybe has failed the final ripens a pint of berries to take home.
And this one broke my heart:
Be honest: it makes me ashamed that I'm halfway to seventy & I can't earn enough to have a child -- maternity care isn't covered on my current insurance
My gut's saying two stars, but I'll add one more since maybe I just didn't get these.
4.0 Not easy. Not hard. Just. Here are some phrases that spoke to me...
Keep the cat happy and the door shut tight. Don’t forget sight is not the same as a path
On Nicollet Avenue the lamps come on gingkos’ lichened, lime-dappled trunks, primeval.
Do you keep a journal why / why not Keep one now keep me in it
Distant thunder burns through the dead window.
I’m always seeking a haunting
I know it’s not polite to stare but love you look like you’ve been walking in this rain a hundred years.
Hold hands with the cold front coming in.
...and if you think you’re teaching, you’re merely avoiding learning.
Okay—let silence happen then.
I started this with another heart.
It’s a matter of this: make what you can’t forget.
Find out what you want as reader or traveler.
A storm, the power’s out—thank god.
If I can’t reshape my experience for good is that a failure on my part?
Then a conversation that degrades into knee contact & a shared sigh (clouds unseen) but why is the weather here?
Pollen comes off pine trees in a ghost.
He had a headache, then a tumor. It’s pretty hard to understand, but when you remove part of a person’s brain, dark blotty ashy. Put a point there. Dreams through which time has dripped, erosion, text warped with honey, leaves stuck together, a letter transferred.
Return it to the dark fold of the lung where everything waits to be said.
I am bored. There were maybe 5 good lines. I beg of authors to get a journal and just write out their thoughts and NOT label it poetry. Please. Please. Please just get a diary.
There were some great bits in here. But it feels a bit messy and jumbled. It doesn't really feel like she's saying anything because things are sort of lost in the shuffle.