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Field Notes for the Self
Field Notes for the Self is a series of dark spiritual exercises in which the poem becomes a forensics of the soul
The poems converse with Patrick Lane, John Thompson, and Charles Wright, but their closest cousins may be Arvo Pärt’s tintinnabulations―overlapping structures in which notes or images are rung slowly and repeatedly like bells. The goal is freedom from illusion, freedom from memory, from “the same old stories” of Lundy’s violent past; and freedom, too, from the unreachable memories of the violence done to his Indigenous ancestors, which, Lundy tells us, seem to haunt his cellular biology. Rooted in exquisitely modulated observations of the natural world, the singular achievement of these poems is mind itself, suspended before interior vision like a bit of crystal twisting in the light.
Praise for Randy
“Here is a poet of whom one can say―quietly, simply, with gratitude―that highest of the real thing.” ―Jane Hirshfield, author of The Beauty
“Randy Lundy has entered the place where the masters reside…” ―Patrick Lane, author of Washita
The poems converse with Patrick Lane, John Thompson, and Charles Wright, but their closest cousins may be Arvo Pärt’s tintinnabulations―overlapping structures in which notes or images are rung slowly and repeatedly like bells. The goal is freedom from illusion, freedom from memory, from “the same old stories” of Lundy’s violent past; and freedom, too, from the unreachable memories of the violence done to his Indigenous ancestors, which, Lundy tells us, seem to haunt his cellular biology. Rooted in exquisitely modulated observations of the natural world, the singular achievement of these poems is mind itself, suspended before interior vision like a bit of crystal twisting in the light.
Praise for Randy
“Here is a poet of whom one can say―quietly, simply, with gratitude―that highest of the real thing.” ―Jane Hirshfield, author of The Beauty
“Randy Lundy has entered the place where the masters reside…” ―Patrick Lane, author of Washita
- GenresPoetryIndigenous
128 pages, Paperback
First published March 28, 2020
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
January 3, 2021
I found these two selections quite moving.
Ceremony
Last night, a grey owl in the cottonwood across the street. This
morning, seven rock doves clap their wings and glide through the mist-
grey light of dawn.
The dead do not come in the form of birds, and if the birds come from
another world, with their beaks and scaled legs and feet, they do not
know it and neither do you.
Beneath the snow, the stones have grown tired of singing the old
songs and take their seasonal rest, and beneath the ice-covered pond,
salamanders consume their winter flesh.
A man should not dream of what is dead, or he might never wake; he
might walk that path like a vein of silent, silver ore, winding its way
among the dark roots of trees.
In your dream, you looked everywhere, but there was no finding
her ⎯ she was not in your mouth, not in your clavicle, not in the hollow
between shoulder and neck.
Dare you check in the airless rooms of memory, search the stagnant
chambers of your heart? You know that you almost know, and you know
that is as close as you will get.
Memory? A child splits kindling in the cold shed at dawn. A young man
weaves grouse feathers in a young woman’s hair. An old woman asks the
wolf-willow leaves to witness her passing.
In the spring, you bear in your hands the shorn, braided hair to
bury in the prairie soil. This morning, seven rock doves glide through
the mist-grey light of dawn.
And the wind forgets and forgets
without mercy.
*****
from Easter Weekend, with Full Moon
"Life begins, and suddenly it is mid-life and you are walking on a barren
road, empty hands and pockets ⎯ nothing to guide you but the story of
where you have been. Where does the mind go when it seems there is
no way to find the way?"
Ceremony
Last night, a grey owl in the cottonwood across the street. This
morning, seven rock doves clap their wings and glide through the mist-
grey light of dawn.
The dead do not come in the form of birds, and if the birds come from
another world, with their beaks and scaled legs and feet, they do not
know it and neither do you.
Beneath the snow, the stones have grown tired of singing the old
songs and take their seasonal rest, and beneath the ice-covered pond,
salamanders consume their winter flesh.
A man should not dream of what is dead, or he might never wake; he
might walk that path like a vein of silent, silver ore, winding its way
among the dark roots of trees.
In your dream, you looked everywhere, but there was no finding
her ⎯ she was not in your mouth, not in your clavicle, not in the hollow
between shoulder and neck.
Dare you check in the airless rooms of memory, search the stagnant
chambers of your heart? You know that you almost know, and you know
that is as close as you will get.
Memory? A child splits kindling in the cold shed at dawn. A young man
weaves grouse feathers in a young woman’s hair. An old woman asks the
wolf-willow leaves to witness her passing.
In the spring, you bear in your hands the shorn, braided hair to
bury in the prairie soil. This morning, seven rock doves glide through
the mist-grey light of dawn.
And the wind forgets and forgets
without mercy.
*****
from Easter Weekend, with Full Moon
"Life begins, and suddenly it is mid-life and you are walking on a barren
road, empty hands and pockets ⎯ nothing to guide you but the story of
where you have been. Where does the mind go when it seems there is
no way to find the way?"
July 5, 2020
Dusty loner poems, not showy but plain and patient in the way they cover Lundy's varied terrain: being in nature, outliving memory, studying mindfulness, raising dogs, and drinking tea. Fair treatment of the darker bits. Contemplative but approachably so (not overbearing), and at their best inspiring a pleasant spirit of awe and humility. As such, maybe not universal; but ... universal? In this economy? Either way, you could say that they worked for me at this point.
August 13, 2024
Beautiful long and patient meditations on the self, through the observation of often wintery nature. Can't believe I've never heard of Randy Lundy before. Only found this book by finding it randomly at the library.
May 28, 2022
one of (if not the most) striking poetry collections i have ever read, i wish I could give this more than 5 stars
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews