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The Frayed Edge of Memory
a week ago we soared through the sky
with all parts intact and fully functional.
I didn't need to look out deep, endless windows
we will never have the biology to fly, no matter
our construction, no matter the fantasy of the air-
and the air is a fantasy you breathe easy and pure
descend slowly on telephone lines beyond reach
to know what I am made of will never be enough.
About the author:
James Croal Jackson is a writer, filmmaker, and musician born in Akron, Ohio. He rediscovered his love for poetry while working in the film and television industry in Los Angeles. He is the winner of the 2016 William Redding Memorial Poetry Prize via The Poetry Forum in his current city of Columbus, Ohio. This is his first chapbook. Visit him at jimjakk.com.
with all parts intact and fully functional.
I didn't need to look out deep, endless windows
we will never have the biology to fly, no matter
our construction, no matter the fantasy of the air-
and the air is a fantasy you breathe easy and pure
descend slowly on telephone lines beyond reach
to know what I am made of will never be enough.
About the author:
James Croal Jackson is a writer, filmmaker, and musician born in Akron, Ohio. He rediscovered his love for poetry while working in the film and television industry in Los Angeles. He is the winner of the 2016 William Redding Memorial Poetry Prize via The Poetry Forum in his current city of Columbus, Ohio. This is his first chapbook. Visit him at jimjakk.com.
44 pages, Paperback
First published May 10, 2017
2 people want to read
About the author
James Croal Jackson
18 books15 followersJames Croal Jackson (he/him/his) was born in Akron, Ohio. After graduating from Baldwin Wallace University with degrees in Film Studies and Creative Writing, he moved to Los Angeles, where he worked in the film and television industry. Living in his Ford Fiesta near the ocean, James rediscovered his love for poetry, and has since been published in hundreds of literary magazines including The Bitter Oleander, Rust+Moth, Columbia Journal, and FLAPPERHOUSE. He won the 2016 William Redding Memorial Poetry Prize, sponsored by The Poetry Forum (Columbus). His first book, The Frayed Edge of Memory, was published through Writing Knights Press. His second and third books are Our Past Leaves (Kelsay Books, 2021) and Count Seeds with Me (Ethel, 2022). He founded the journal The Mantle Poetry in 2017. He has returned to working in film production in Pittsburgh, PA. Find out more at his website.
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
January 16, 2019
I have been reading James Croal Jackson’s work since he submitted poetry to the Volume 1, Issue 2 of The Magnolia Review. I’m thrilled that his work is also in Volume 3, Issue 2 and Volume 4, Issue 2. It is exciting to read his collection The Frayed Edge of Memory and share with you a selection of my favorite lines, though really I would share the entire collection.
In “All the Bulbs are Burning Out,” the speaker begins, “I am scared to death / of death. // Not just the big death / but tiny deaths, too. // All the bulbs are burning out / in my house one by one. // In living, we accrue small darknesses. // Mirror to mirror: void / where my eyes should be” (6). Jackson’s language is strong as he builds his images. The build up to the line “we accrue small darknesses” is just one of those hooks of truth that you immediately recognize when you read it. Small darknesses! Yes, that is what that is!
His short poems are as powerful as the longer poems. One of the short poems in the collection, “Freckles,” connects counting sheep in order to sleep with music: “Your freckles / count more easily / than make-believe sheep // I count in / quarter-note trills // remnants // between loneliness / and / sleep” (8).
Fog recurs throughout the collection. In “Foggy Mornings,” the speaker says, “When mirrors were our only reflections, / our pasts—behind / doors rusted, opened only to / reveal slow decisions— / lovers like mud / in shallow potholes” (9).
Jackson’s language in “Utah Sandstone” propels forward through the lines, “I run from exceptional red. / Distance. Majestic arches. Loop- / de-loop of common want. Canyons, / or peace of mind. Say Zen. Say / Zion. Watch as wind-up forests / spiral from sand. Leaves whisper” (15).
The collection’s title comes from “Skeletons of New Year’s Eve” where “…hope is like a kaleidoscope, a conjecture. / Each dying wave returns, even at the frayed edge // of memory, how the dead are lavish with flowers / and stories. Still, we press on to uncork // our champagne future: drafts of breath in each / new year, dead waves haunting the mortal tide // with no specific beginning, no obvious end” (16). A poem often shares a title with the collection. However, the title of this collection comes from a line in “Skeletons of New Year’s Eve,” and that is refreshing, especially since the strength of “frayed edge // of memory” with the line break is powerful in the poem.
I hope you enjoy this collection, and I look forward to reading more of Jackson’s work in the future.
In “All the Bulbs are Burning Out,” the speaker begins, “I am scared to death / of death. // Not just the big death / but tiny deaths, too. // All the bulbs are burning out / in my house one by one. // In living, we accrue small darknesses. // Mirror to mirror: void / where my eyes should be” (6). Jackson’s language is strong as he builds his images. The build up to the line “we accrue small darknesses” is just one of those hooks of truth that you immediately recognize when you read it. Small darknesses! Yes, that is what that is!
His short poems are as powerful as the longer poems. One of the short poems in the collection, “Freckles,” connects counting sheep in order to sleep with music: “Your freckles / count more easily / than make-believe sheep // I count in / quarter-note trills // remnants // between loneliness / and / sleep” (8).
Fog recurs throughout the collection. In “Foggy Mornings,” the speaker says, “When mirrors were our only reflections, / our pasts—behind / doors rusted, opened only to / reveal slow decisions— / lovers like mud / in shallow potholes” (9).
Jackson’s language in “Utah Sandstone” propels forward through the lines, “I run from exceptional red. / Distance. Majestic arches. Loop- / de-loop of common want. Canyons, / or peace of mind. Say Zen. Say / Zion. Watch as wind-up forests / spiral from sand. Leaves whisper” (15).
The collection’s title comes from “Skeletons of New Year’s Eve” where “…hope is like a kaleidoscope, a conjecture. / Each dying wave returns, even at the frayed edge // of memory, how the dead are lavish with flowers / and stories. Still, we press on to uncork // our champagne future: drafts of breath in each / new year, dead waves haunting the mortal tide // with no specific beginning, no obvious end” (16). A poem often shares a title with the collection. However, the title of this collection comes from a line in “Skeletons of New Year’s Eve,” and that is refreshing, especially since the strength of “frayed edge // of memory” with the line break is powerful in the poem.
I hope you enjoy this collection, and I look forward to reading more of Jackson’s work in the future.
Displaying 1 of 1 review