A book of poetry, dreams and speculative talks, collected from the psychic detritus of living in the US-Mexico borderlands. Part coping mechanism, part magical act, Hydra Medusa was composed while Brandon Shimoda was working five jobs and raising a child—during bus commutes, before bed, at sunrise. Encountering the ghosts of Japanese American ancestors, friends, children and bodies of water, it what is the desert but a site where people have died, are dying; are buried, unburied, memorialized, erased. Where they are trying, against and within the energy of it all, to contend with our inherited present—and to live.
For me, Shimoda's book was the perfect union of two of his previous books The Desert and The Grave on the Wall. In content, of course, as one of the primary juxtapositions for Hydra Medusa is Shimoda's grandfather's murder in a Japanese internment camp beside the desert landscape. But, for me, the union involves what I found to be the open-ended qualities of both those previous books. It's an open-endedness I struggle with in Shimoda's work. In the poetry, "open-ended" comes across as a gesture to wide imaginative fields where the poems might take place. Like The Desert. Conceptually, it makes sense, but there is something in the poet's stance, something I mainly feel on the poem level, that doesn't match the book's vision with the poet's position. I'm sure it's just my reading.
I honestly don't understand why I read his work in this place. If I compare another of Shimoda's previous books, Portuguese: Poems, I feel that remarkable combination between vision and poetic stance. Is it the subject matter? Do Shimoda's books benefit from thematic consistency?
I would like the answer to that to be No, because I see Shimoda's work in light of the poetic moment, where poetry is a vocation, and his perspective on the world, his account of the world, how it enters his language, everything is deeply woven into his life, which is poetry. And maybe what I appreciate are those thematic notes to contextualize this poetic moment. And in Hydra Medusa, when the open ended note of The Desert is lined up to the open-ended quality of The Grave on the Wall, it proposes a deeply meaningful definition for "ancestor."
And I would like to go into the meaningful ways ancestor reverberates through the collection, whether it's echoing through the desert, or it's a companion to the poems involving his family, but I already feel like I've already revealed too much about the book. When he refigures "ancestor," and I'm left to consider the implications of his definition, all I want is to get closer to the book.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
A collection of dreams, poems, and essays--three genres that blended and became hallucinatory as I read. A notebook quality, a notebook written by a deeply thoughtful person.
Haunting and reflective, I enjoyed this collection overall. Like soaking in the rise of a harvest moon on a clear night. The ones that get to me the most are the painfully true stories of Japanese-American internment and what it means to be a Japanese-American who did not live during those times. Learned so much in these pages.
Knowing that Shimoda wrote most of these on the bus in Tucson teleported me back to that blinding desert heat. Suddenly all the flower references adopted another context for me. Quite enjoyed that element.
Many of these poems feel more like miniature essays rather than lengthy prose poems, yet they're an invigorating dive. Morose if pleasant read.
Gorgeous, gorgeous work. Though I may have missed out on an amount of insights the author intended with some parts but I think some things are never to be exhaustively grasped yet you can still appreciate the brilliance of the technique in which the material delivers wisdom. I will certainly reread!
My dad-life-addled brain couldn't quite achieve the depths I was used to before having a kid, but after 10 renewals, I was denied another so I reluctantly finished without going through and reconnecting threads. Nevertheless, the sonic textures and emotional throughlines I retained in some part of my body were satisfying.
“When I think of fruit I think of friends” “a curse is to fate as pollen is to a flower” Beautiful desert poetry and quiet reflections, absolutely worth a read, some of the best modern free verse I have ever read.
there’s an existential density you can feel on the level of the line with its intense, almost laser-like compression, but the dream sequences seem to shudder and shimmer with the glow of the afterlife casted upon language
I plan on doing a reread soon, in one sitting because this book is genuinely magical and I think reading it over a few days took away from that. Still magical though. Reading this felt like when you run down a hill as a kid and you feel like you're going too fast for your legs.