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Sea Change: Poems
The New York Times has said that "Jorie Graham's poetry is among the most sensuously embodied and imaginative writing we have," and this new collection is a reminder of how startling, original, and deeply relevant her poetry is. In Sea Change, Graham brings us to the once-unimaginable threshold at which civilization as we know it becomes unsustainable. How might the human spirit persist, caught between its abiding love of beauty, its acknowledgment of continuing injury and damage done, and the realization that the existence of a "future" itself may no longer be assured?
There is no better writer to confront such crucial matters than Jorie Graham. In addition to her recognized achievements as a poet of philosophical, aesthetic, and moral concerns, Graham has also been acknowledged as "our most formidable nature poet" (Publishers Weekly). As gorgeous and formally inventive as anything she has written, Sea Change is an essential work speaking out for our planet and the world we have known.
There is no better writer to confront such crucial matters than Jorie Graham. In addition to her recognized achievements as a poet of philosophical, aesthetic, and moral concerns, Graham has also been acknowledged as "our most formidable nature poet" (Publishers Weekly). As gorgeous and formally inventive as anything she has written, Sea Change is an essential work speaking out for our planet and the world we have known.
82 pages, Kindle Edition
First published April 1, 2008
33 people are currently reading
319 people want to read
About the author
Jorie Graham
59 books173 followersJorie Graham was born in New York City in 1950, the daughter of a journalist and a sculptor. She was raised in Rome, Italy and educated in French schools. She studied philosophy at the Sorbonne in Paris before attending New York University as an undergraduate, where she studied filmmaking. She received an MFA in poetry from the University of Iowa.
Graham is the author of numerous collections of poetry, most recently: Place (2012), Sea Change (2008), Overlord (2005), Never (2002), Swarm (2001), The Errancy (1997), and The Dream of the Unified Field: Selected Poems 1974-1994, which won the 1996 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry.
Her many honors include a John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Fellowship and the Morton Dauwen Zabel Award from The American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters.
She has taught at the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop and is currently the Boylston Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory at Harvard University. She served as a Chancellor of The Academy of American Poets from 1997 to 2003.
Graham is the author of numerous collections of poetry, most recently: Place (2012), Sea Change (2008), Overlord (2005), Never (2002), Swarm (2001), The Errancy (1997), and The Dream of the Unified Field: Selected Poems 1974-1994, which won the 1996 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry.
Her many honors include a John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Fellowship and the Morton Dauwen Zabel Award from The American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters.
She has taught at the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop and is currently the Boylston Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory at Harvard University. She served as a Chancellor of The Academy of American Poets from 1997 to 2003.
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June 5, 2008I've added this because I just read the review by Helen Vendler in The NY Review of Books. Vendler's review's not that interesting--basically Vendler casting her vote (again) for Graham as Major Poet of Our Age--but it did remind me that I've never quite worked out my reaction to Graham's work. (I've read a number of her books once, fully intending to read them again, and then never returned.)
Vendler deals with a number of objections to Graham's poetry (inaccessibility, etc), but she doesn't deal with the objection I've personally felt: solipsism. In Graham's work, it often seems that the entire world becomes a pretext for thought--sort of the pathetic fallacy, minus the sentimentality. The world is the narrator's voice (poet's voice), constantly addressing a semi-mythical person, the Reader (and personally I always feel that I'm standing somewhat off to the side of this Reader).
Of course, Graham does all kinds of wonderful poetic things, god bless her, and frankly I'm glad she's out there, standing wherever she's standing, irritating all the people who need to be irritated, including myself. . .
Vendler deals with a number of objections to Graham's poetry (inaccessibility, etc), but she doesn't deal with the objection I've personally felt: solipsism. In Graham's work, it often seems that the entire world becomes a pretext for thought--sort of the pathetic fallacy, minus the sentimentality. The world is the narrator's voice (poet's voice), constantly addressing a semi-mythical person, the Reader (and personally I always feel that I'm standing somewhat off to the side of this Reader).
Of course, Graham does all kinds of wonderful poetic things, god bless her, and frankly I'm glad she's out there, standing wherever she's standing, irritating all the people who need to be irritated, including myself. . .
July 22, 2023
Although there are some pretty passages, I found the collection very underwhelming. Graham discusses climate change and ecological matters, however she does this through the same experimental time and time again. This makes the collection a bit repetitive and monotonous.
July 12, 2009
This is Graham phoning it in. It's like this book was composed in some chill room while coming down from the triumph of Overlord. Graham tries very hard to stay out of her own way here and forefront ecological concerns, but she's ultimately preaching to the choir and I'm left wondering what Graham wants from me. There are moments when I felt that my patience was starting to pay off--clusters of poetry like pretty pieces of beach glass that I started to reach for, only to discover that it was a trick of the light.
June 14, 2019
No entendí nada de este poemario, pero me sentí constantemente llevado a la orilla, revolcado por una ola inmensa una y otra vez, tragando agua salada por la nariz y escupiendo arena por los ojos. Y tiene algo con los finales, como si después de hacerte pasar por ese pequeño infierno marino te estuviese esperando sentada en la arena con una toalla calentada por el sol. Todo para enviarte de nuevo a que te revuelque la ola, una y otra vez, a lo Sísifo.
June 10, 2025
I liked it. I think some of the critiques I’ve seen have some merit but at the end of the day I was moved. I was invested. And I see a deep resonance within this work that is there for people who are ready to find it.
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December 17, 2022Moon, who will write / the final poem?
Imagine: a day by the sea; nature turned unnatural; fluctuating heat dry spell The Great Dying; realism of apocalypse creating brutal urgency; no angels no Heaven just us; first lines anchored in moon-phases; the dead gods are still being killed; multiple realisability of consciousness; the floor of the sea watching cuttlefish and nets and trash above; questioning nature of appearances; homesickness never satiated as projected into a future; a future which disobeys; hunger gasping through every instant now; rain at last running over clean hands stained with lifeblood and carbon prints;
a ghost planet Earth: 'there are sounds the planet will always make, even / if there is no one to hear them';
T.S. Eliot echoing everywhere: but 'there will be time' is left in the 20th century; there will not be enough time as climate hell unfolds, acceleratingly; afterimage of nature curdling. Interesting how the echo appears throughout the Anthropocene ecopoetry of a radical female writer.
my birth a thing i convey / beautifully / down this spiral staircase / made of words, made of / nothing but words–
PS. Jesus and she/her pronouns joined in one breath; inspired to interpret the Christian afterlife in a Jungian way according to which it is the contrasexual animus/ anima of a person that is represented in heaven -> inversion of every cis-person's gender in Kingdom of God. Negativity of biological sex. (-> every transphobe is essentially trans <33).
Imagine: a day by the sea; nature turned unnatural; fluctuating heat dry spell The Great Dying; realism of apocalypse creating brutal urgency; no angels no Heaven just us; first lines anchored in moon-phases; the dead gods are still being killed; multiple realisability of consciousness; the floor of the sea watching cuttlefish and nets and trash above; questioning nature of appearances; homesickness never satiated as projected into a future; a future which disobeys; hunger gasping through every instant now; rain at last running over clean hands stained with lifeblood and carbon prints;
a ghost planet Earth: 'there are sounds the planet will always make, even / if there is no one to hear them';
T.S. Eliot echoing everywhere: but 'there will be time' is left in the 20th century; there will not be enough time as climate hell unfolds, acceleratingly; afterimage of nature curdling. Interesting how the echo appears throughout the Anthropocene ecopoetry of a radical female writer.
my birth a thing i convey / beautifully / down this spiral staircase / made of words, made of / nothing but words–
PS. Jesus and she/her pronouns joined in one breath; inspired to interpret the Christian afterlife in a Jungian way according to which it is the contrasexual animus/ anima of a person that is represented in heaven -> inversion of every cis-person's gender in Kingdom of God. Negativity of biological sex. (-> every transphobe is essentially trans <33).
June 20, 2018
I have had my own sea change in life, in several ways, and I was going to the sea in the form of the Indian Ocean, so feel this aptly named collection might be great accompaniment. Like this: “low tide, free day, nothing being memorialized here today—memories float, yes, over the place but not memories any of us now among the living possess—open your hands—...to take up whatever it is the spirit must take up, & what is the melody of that, the sustained one note of obligatory hope, taken in, like a virus, before the body grows accustomed to it and it becomes natural again—yes breathe it in—“ and it is my prayer and intention to open my heart and mind, always the goal of travel for me, I must be changed by even the least excursion into the world. Or like this: “ I have time, my time, as you also do, there, feel it. And a heart, my heart, as you do, remember it. Also am sure of some things, there are errands, this was a voyage, one has an ordained part to play…. This will turn out to be not true but is operative here for me this evening as the dusk settles. One has to believe furthermore in the voyage of others.” And last, the search for this: “there are sounds the planet will always make, even if there is no one to hear them.”
Graham writes in a stream of consciousness that it honestly sometimes too inscrutable; I have had epiphanies from her poems, and am always greedy for more. Like she was writing for my trip, presciently: “we set out willingly, & also knew to play by rules, & if I say to you now let’s go somewhere the thought won’t outlast the minute, here it is now, carrying its North Atlantic windfall, hissing Consider the body of the ocean which rises every instant into me, & its ancient e- vaporation, & how it delivers itself to me, how the world is our law, this in drifting of us into us, a chorusing in us of elements...” Although she is talking about the Atlantic, and I would be literally if not figuratively sea changing in the Indian and Pacific, I love the imagery: the oceans rising within and into me, a primal connection to evaporation as transformation of a couple into who they are and will be.
The overarching themes of the poems are of journeys, travels, and responsibility to the planet, and a lively meditation of the sea change, the transformation, redemption, metamorphosis, evolution. Sometimes there is no trace of it: “Inside it is magic, footprints are never made visible. The moon slicks along this human coming and going with no prints to it.” Sometimes it is moral, political: “this, there is no law, you are not open to prosecution, look all you’d like, it will squirm for you, there, in this rising light, protected from consequence, making you a ghost, without a cry, without a cry the evening turning to night, words it seemed were everything and then the legal team will declare them exempt, exemptions for the lakewater drying, for the murder of the seas, for the slaves in their waters, not of our species, exemption named go forth, mix blood, fill your register, take of flesh, set fire, posit equator, conceal origin, say you are all forgiven..”
My trip to Southeast Asia has included some review of Buddhism and Hinduism in preparation for the temples there, and the idea that those traditions can carry us to other realities and thinking seems to resonate in this: “maybe one is inside a seashell, one is what another force is hearing—how lovely, we are being handed over to an other force, listen, put this to your ear—the last river we know loses its form, widens, as if a foot were lifted from the dancefloor but not put down again...”
In the wilderness of the world, the temples of Cambodia are the ambassador for longevity and fragility in the way the structures endure, but also are vulnerable to many jungle trees that try to reclaim the space and light, a type of “great murmuring of soul/soil.” Graham writes, “there is a fiery apple in the orchard, the coal in the under- ground is bursting with sunlight, inquire no further it says, it wishes it were a root, a bulb, a closed fist—look how it fills with meaning when opened—then when extended—let us not go there—broken, broken—no to the imagination of some great murmuring through the soil as through the souls of all men— silent agreement which is actually the true soil—but there it is now going under—nothing will grow in it—the footsteps are washed away which might have attempted kindness or cultivation or a walk over the earth to undertake..”
Other imagery I loved:
“you might remember kisses—how you kissed his arm in the sun and tasted the sun, & this is your address now, your home address.”
“the right minute falls harmlessly, intimate, overcrowded, without pro- venance—perhaps bursting with nostalgia but ripening so fast without growing at all, & what is the structure of freedom but this, & grace, & the politics of time—look south, look north—yes—east west compile hope synthesize exceed look look again hold fast attach speculate drift drift recognize forget...”
“If you are starting to feel it is hunger this gorgeousness, feel the heat fluctuate & say my name is day, of day, in day, I want nothing to come back, not ever, & these words are mine, there is no angel to wrestle, there is no inter- mediary, there is something I must tell you, you do not need existence, these words, praise be, they can for now be said. That is summer. Hear them.”
“—& it is breaking open further—what are you to do—how let it fully in—the wideness of it is staggering—you have to have more arms eyes a thing deeper than laughter furrows more capacious than hate forgiveness remembrance forgetfulness history silence precision miracle—more furrows are needed the field cannot be crossed this way the wide shine coming towards you standing in the open window now, a dam breaking, reeking rich with the end of winter, fantastic weight of loam coming into the soul, the door behind you shut, the great sands behind there, the pharaohs, the millennia of carefully prepared and buried..”
“...it is your place, you belong, you know it by heart, place— not imaginable, nor under- stood, where death is still an individual thing, & in the dark outside only the garden, & in each plant at core a thing by heart, & after all these years the heart says to itself each beat, & look, if you make yourself think of it, the roads out there will branch and branch then vanish, fanning out, flat, thinning away like root-ends, everywhere going only forward—& so far from any so-called city on the hill, this city of dis- appearance, root-ends then nothing, thinnest trailings of all, forgiveness says...”
Graham writes in a stream of consciousness that it honestly sometimes too inscrutable; I have had epiphanies from her poems, and am always greedy for more. Like she was writing for my trip, presciently: “we set out willingly, & also knew to play by rules, & if I say to you now let’s go somewhere the thought won’t outlast the minute, here it is now, carrying its North Atlantic windfall, hissing Consider the body of the ocean which rises every instant into me, & its ancient e- vaporation, & how it delivers itself to me, how the world is our law, this in drifting of us into us, a chorusing in us of elements...” Although she is talking about the Atlantic, and I would be literally if not figuratively sea changing in the Indian and Pacific, I love the imagery: the oceans rising within and into me, a primal connection to evaporation as transformation of a couple into who they are and will be.
The overarching themes of the poems are of journeys, travels, and responsibility to the planet, and a lively meditation of the sea change, the transformation, redemption, metamorphosis, evolution. Sometimes there is no trace of it: “Inside it is magic, footprints are never made visible. The moon slicks along this human coming and going with no prints to it.” Sometimes it is moral, political: “this, there is no law, you are not open to prosecution, look all you’d like, it will squirm for you, there, in this rising light, protected from consequence, making you a ghost, without a cry, without a cry the evening turning to night, words it seemed were everything and then the legal team will declare them exempt, exemptions for the lakewater drying, for the murder of the seas, for the slaves in their waters, not of our species, exemption named go forth, mix blood, fill your register, take of flesh, set fire, posit equator, conceal origin, say you are all forgiven..”
My trip to Southeast Asia has included some review of Buddhism and Hinduism in preparation for the temples there, and the idea that those traditions can carry us to other realities and thinking seems to resonate in this: “maybe one is inside a seashell, one is what another force is hearing—how lovely, we are being handed over to an other force, listen, put this to your ear—the last river we know loses its form, widens, as if a foot were lifted from the dancefloor but not put down again...”
In the wilderness of the world, the temples of Cambodia are the ambassador for longevity and fragility in the way the structures endure, but also are vulnerable to many jungle trees that try to reclaim the space and light, a type of “great murmuring of soul/soil.” Graham writes, “there is a fiery apple in the orchard, the coal in the under- ground is bursting with sunlight, inquire no further it says, it wishes it were a root, a bulb, a closed fist—look how it fills with meaning when opened—then when extended—let us not go there—broken, broken—no to the imagination of some great murmuring through the soil as through the souls of all men— silent agreement which is actually the true soil—but there it is now going under—nothing will grow in it—the footsteps are washed away which might have attempted kindness or cultivation or a walk over the earth to undertake..”
Other imagery I loved:
“you might remember kisses—how you kissed his arm in the sun and tasted the sun, & this is your address now, your home address.”
“the right minute falls harmlessly, intimate, overcrowded, without pro- venance—perhaps bursting with nostalgia but ripening so fast without growing at all, & what is the structure of freedom but this, & grace, & the politics of time—look south, look north—yes—east west compile hope synthesize exceed look look again hold fast attach speculate drift drift recognize forget...”
“If you are starting to feel it is hunger this gorgeousness, feel the heat fluctuate & say my name is day, of day, in day, I want nothing to come back, not ever, & these words are mine, there is no angel to wrestle, there is no inter- mediary, there is something I must tell you, you do not need existence, these words, praise be, they can for now be said. That is summer. Hear them.”
“—& it is breaking open further—what are you to do—how let it fully in—the wideness of it is staggering—you have to have more arms eyes a thing deeper than laughter furrows more capacious than hate forgiveness remembrance forgetfulness history silence precision miracle—more furrows are needed the field cannot be crossed this way the wide shine coming towards you standing in the open window now, a dam breaking, reeking rich with the end of winter, fantastic weight of loam coming into the soul, the door behind you shut, the great sands behind there, the pharaohs, the millennia of carefully prepared and buried..”
“...it is your place, you belong, you know it by heart, place— not imaginable, nor under- stood, where death is still an individual thing, & in the dark outside only the garden, & in each plant at core a thing by heart, & after all these years the heart says to itself each beat, & look, if you make yourself think of it, the roads out there will branch and branch then vanish, fanning out, flat, thinning away like root-ends, everywhere going only forward—& so far from any so-called city on the hill, this city of dis- appearance, root-ends then nothing, thinnest trailings of all, forgiveness says...”
November 7, 2020
estoy tratando de leer más poesía. este libro de poemas es en parte sobre el mundo del cambio climático, pero también es sobre el mundo como un fenómeno incomprensible, más allá de la capacidad de actuar humana, de la posibilidad de un tiempo posterior a la humanidad.
es tremendo, y a la vez confuso. me gustaría leer una traducción, desconozco si la habrá. si no, tradúzcanlo porfa
es tremendo, y a la vez confuso. me gustaría leer una traducción, desconozco si la habrá. si no, tradúzcanlo porfa
November 24, 2023
—then sleep was near—somewhere you were a child and then this now, nightfall and ease, hospitality—
there are sounds the planet will always make, even
if there is no one to hear them.
—
read the first poem in this collection in the book mill w lou & almost cried. all of these poems are on the threshold of horror & beauty; stunning & strange.
there are sounds the planet will always make, even
if there is no one to hear them.
—
read the first poem in this collection in the book mill w lou & almost cried. all of these poems are on the threshold of horror & beauty; stunning & strange.
July 10, 2008
I've got a sick fascination with Jorie Graham. I studied her work in preparation for the written exam of my MFA, and I found interesting her use of a long line (in some collections--each collection has a different form), her concern with the present moment (Vendler has commented on her -ing verbs) and the delay before action, and her use of a self-conscious voice of a poet addressing a reader which comes through now and then.
All of those concerns are present in this latest collection, and the theme of environmental worry that was present in Never and Overlord has taken front stage here. Like Robert Hass and other pre-eminent poets, Graham has her eye on the long ball--if our consumption continues as it has, she asks, will we still have the world as we experience it now? As she says in the beautiful "The Violinist at the Window, 1918," "I am standing in/my window, my species is ill, the/ end of the world can be imagined." So, for Graham, the question then becomes: what use in being a poet? Will the work we're doing be read in a few centuries? In this particular poem, she 'raises the instrument' in a symbolic act of creation, but the question remains open in other poems.
Her form in this book consists of very long lines interspersed with a succession of very short lines justified at the center of the page. In an interview, Graham described the lines as enacting "a sense of a 'tipping point'—the feeling of falling forward, or 'down' in the hyper-short lines at the same time as one feels suspended, as long as possible, in the 'here and now' of the long line—so that the pull of the 'future' is constrained by the desire to stay in the 'now,' which is itself broken again, as a spell is, by the presence of the oncoming future."
Hmm. In some poems, the form of the lines works well with the sentences and the content of what's being said (a la the future being constrained, etc.), but in some poems, it's just distracting and makes it harder to read.
Back to that "sick fascination"--I've never been able to hear Graham read, so I haven't been able to see the person herself, though I've heard many stories. I'm hoping she "tours" to promote this book.
All of those concerns are present in this latest collection, and the theme of environmental worry that was present in Never and Overlord has taken front stage here. Like Robert Hass and other pre-eminent poets, Graham has her eye on the long ball--if our consumption continues as it has, she asks, will we still have the world as we experience it now? As she says in the beautiful "The Violinist at the Window, 1918," "I am standing in/my window, my species is ill, the/ end of the world can be imagined." So, for Graham, the question then becomes: what use in being a poet? Will the work we're doing be read in a few centuries? In this particular poem, she 'raises the instrument' in a symbolic act of creation, but the question remains open in other poems.
Her form in this book consists of very long lines interspersed with a succession of very short lines justified at the center of the page. In an interview, Graham described the lines as enacting "a sense of a 'tipping point'—the feeling of falling forward, or 'down' in the hyper-short lines at the same time as one feels suspended, as long as possible, in the 'here and now' of the long line—so that the pull of the 'future' is constrained by the desire to stay in the 'now,' which is itself broken again, as a spell is, by the presence of the oncoming future."
Hmm. In some poems, the form of the lines works well with the sentences and the content of what's being said (a la the future being constrained, etc.), but in some poems, it's just distracting and makes it harder to read.
Back to that "sick fascination"--I've never been able to hear Graham read, so I haven't been able to see the person herself, though I've heard many stories. I'm hoping she "tours" to promote this book.
September 30, 2008
Through most of this lovely collection I could never quite rid myself of the sensation that my mind was little more than a sieve, unable to grasp ahold of the overarching narratives presented in each poem...
But after a few poems I realized I was just fine with that, that I was perfectly content to submerge myself the music and lyricism and rhythm of Graham's lines and elegant cobwebs of phrases and words, content to stumble upon quiet pockets of transcendence...
...there is not mistake, the right minute falls harmlessly, intimate, overcrowded,
without pro-
venance--perhaps bursting with nostalgia but
ripening so fast without growing at
all..."
-"Summer Solstice"
But after a few poems I realized I was just fine with that, that I was perfectly content to submerge myself the music and lyricism and rhythm of Graham's lines and elegant cobwebs of phrases and words, content to stumble upon quiet pockets of transcendence...
...there is not mistake, the right minute falls harmlessly, intimate, overcrowded,
without pro-
venance--perhaps bursting with nostalgia but
ripening so fast without growing at
all..."
-"Summer Solstice"
November 7, 2008
Though gone are the early days of her writing when Jorie could bewitch me with nearly every line, when her poems were more tapestry than crazy quilt, this book still contains a number of beautiful, true moments among all the incidental pastiches.
It seems the scientist has overtaken the poet in this collection, with the urge to record every last impulse -- however minute and trivial -- overwhelming, for the most part. But Jorie is a trooper, when it comes to sheer stamina, and never lacks for a strange and arresting simile.
It seems the scientist has overtaken the poet in this collection, with the urge to record every last impulse -- however minute and trivial -- overwhelming, for the most part. But Jorie is a trooper, when it comes to sheer stamina, and never lacks for a strange and arresting simile.
January 29, 2016
Poetry is very personal, an acknowledged poet might hold minimal appeal to one reader and speak measure to another. I am taken by the works of Sharon Olds, Dorriane Laux and Robert Hass and those whose language feels beautiful in the mouth, begs to be read aloud for the pure joy of the way the words lean against one another.
So I am personally not the best to review Jorie Graham's work, do not allow this to dissuade you from selecting this collection, because you might find it excellent.
So I am personally not the best to review Jorie Graham's work, do not allow this to dissuade you from selecting this collection, because you might find it excellent.
Read
March 30, 2008Far too insular; a regression.
November 27, 2012
I guess I am just not someone who enjoys this type of poetry. I'll leave it to poetry 'pros'.
November 28, 2017
Enigmatic poems about exploring the intersections of, and boundaries between humans, nature and the degradation of the environment.
May 18, 2019
Didn’t finish. Not really my style.
July 11, 2021
2* - it was ok
There were a couple of lines and moments I enjoyed, but unfortunately this did not inspire me overall, and actually put me into a bit of a poetry slump. :(
There were a couple of lines and moments I enjoyed, but unfortunately this did not inspire me overall, and actually put me into a bit of a poetry slump. :(
October 14, 2008
I'm sure you'll be shocked to hear how much I loved this book. But I did. I frickin loved it.
Read
December 27, 2022In a New York Times review of one of Jorie Graham’s more recent collections (From the New World: Poems 1976–2014, published by Ecco, 2015), Dan Chiasson writes, “Graham has become a twenty-first-century nature poet the old-fashioned way, by counting cherry blossoms and returning birds. Lyric poetry, with its traditional itemizing of the natural world, flower by flower, cloud by cloud, has, in her work, become a forum for ecological consciousness.” The precision of Graham’s attention often feels nearly dissociative. It’s as if she looks so closely that things we might otherwise recognize take on new shapes and meanings, which is what both disconcerts and delights about her work. And when this attention is focused on ecological crisis, things get more disconcerting still. In Sea Change (Ecco, 2008), Graham reckons directly with the reality that the future, certainly the future we’ve sold ourselves on expecting, is far from assured. Graham’s poems are redolent with justified and clearly documented witness and warning, and yet here I am, years since the initial publication of Sea Change, asking whether any of us have really listened to what these poems have to say.
Review published originally with Orion Magazine: https://orionmagazine.org/2021/07/thi...
Review published originally with Orion Magazine: https://orionmagazine.org/2021/07/thi...
April 29, 2024
Formatting and style not for me
My first book of Graham’s poetry, so I was not familiar with her style of line breaks, page justification, and use of ampersands and em dashes. There’s an intent, she’s doing to create an impact, I’m sure, but rather than enhancing the poems I found it distracting. So much so that I felt I was reading squiggly lines or a different language. Can’t say what any of the poems were about, even while reading them I often drifted away. This saddens me, as I believe Graham has something valuable to say. Maybe this reader is unsophisticated, or not intelligent enough to appreciate what’s going on. But not every work of art has to match with every person to be valuable or successful, and perhaps that is more a condemnation on the simplification of a five-star rating system and our inherent trust in such a system as consumers of art.
My first book of Graham’s poetry, so I was not familiar with her style of line breaks, page justification, and use of ampersands and em dashes. There’s an intent, she’s doing to create an impact, I’m sure, but rather than enhancing the poems I found it distracting. So much so that I felt I was reading squiggly lines or a different language. Can’t say what any of the poems were about, even while reading them I often drifted away. This saddens me, as I believe Graham has something valuable to say. Maybe this reader is unsophisticated, or not intelligent enough to appreciate what’s going on. But not every work of art has to match with every person to be valuable or successful, and perhaps that is more a condemnation on the simplification of a five-star rating system and our inherent trust in such a system as consumers of art.
May 19, 2021
An attention deficit delirium to sweat out, at worst. At best, a learn-as-you-go tap dance of fragmented recall. Graham’s eccentric and palpable sensations simultaneously upend and embed in somatic memory, like a deep dream image in motion—gasping (more than grasping) at the volatility in awe.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Victoria Chang had exalted Jorie Graham’s poetry in an online reading in 2020. If the swirling abandon of Sea Change hit you, consider Chang’s Obits next.
Also of interest: Memo Atken’s Gloomy Sunday “visual poetry” videos of neural networked wave breaks, fire, sky and bouquets cast onto (into?) everyday objects like terry cloth, phone cords, and participants’ hands.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Victoria Chang had exalted Jorie Graham’s poetry in an online reading in 2020. If the swirling abandon of Sea Change hit you, consider Chang’s Obits next.
Also of interest: Memo Atken’s Gloomy Sunday “visual poetry” videos of neural networked wave breaks, fire, sky and bouquets cast onto (into?) everyday objects like terry cloth, phone cords, and participants’ hands.
June 29, 2022
In some ways, Sea Change seems to be a continuation of Overlord. It is often evening now and the tone more apocalyptic. Questions of age(ing), environmental distruction, cyclical time, and even hope in a way seem to take center stage. The poems' form is uniform throughout full of great line-breaks, though after a while the many breaks on prefixes start feeling a little predictable. In the first poem the wind is the interlocutor and in the last the evening. They are my favorites and two of many amazing instances of brilliance, beauty, thrill in the collection.
August 20, 2018
This collection of poems offers works about the astonishing series of events that the human soul goes through. It's beautiful and personal and challenging. Unfortunately, despite how talented Graham clearly is, this collection just wasn't for me. I'm still extremely glad I read them, for they're meaningful and valuable in their own right.
Review cross-listed here!
Review cross-listed here!
January 15, 2024
"somewhere you were a child and then this now, nightfall and ease, hospitality—
there are sounds the planet will always make, even
if there is no one to hear them."
what a lovely way to end a book
I absolutely adored this. I felt as thought I was flowing with the poems as they went on. most of the time I didn't know what the context was but I think that's part of the thrill. I loved it especially during these times when I'm in a state of haze
there are sounds the planet will always make, even
if there is no one to hear them."
what a lovely way to end a book
I absolutely adored this. I felt as thought I was flowing with the poems as they went on. most of the time I didn't know what the context was but I think that's part of the thrill. I loved it especially during these times when I'm in a state of haze
January 2, 2025
Four and a half stars
The feeling that something imaginatively important is being said comes along again and again as you read. Brilliant thoughts, in phrases, lines and sections in these poems turn up like gems. The hypnotic music of Jorie's poetry keeps you reading on. However, there are some failures and dead moments too.
The feeling that something imaginatively important is being said comes along again and again as you read. Brilliant thoughts, in phrases, lines and sections in these poems turn up like gems. The hypnotic music of Jorie's poetry keeps you reading on. However, there are some failures and dead moments too.
January 6, 2015
I first read this collection when it was new 6 years ago. A few months ago, I re-read Graham's
Erosion
. I like this collection. However, I have a feeling that I like it, despite it. It claims to be a collection of poems on the cover, but I envision the book as one extended long poem divided into sections and then "poems." The entire book uses the same invented line form to explore the environment, the weather, the natural water cycles and civilization. The themes ricochet through the pieces , not unlike in John Ashbury's "The Skaters" in a form I've heard called the boomerang in which very long lines seem to veer further and further from the source until the line recrosses its thematic path to explore a new angle. In this collection, Each long line is followed by 1-5 heavily indented shorter lines. I read the shorter lines as rhythmic small waves of the sea lapping at the shore, while the long lines were the cresting waves that push farther onto the coast. In a collection obsessed with rising sea levels and the water cycle, I felt justified in this reading.
From "Sea Change:"
This book takes us from one Autumn through to the next with the moon, rains and birds coming and going, and the trees trying to hold on for eternity.
From "Undated Lullaby:"
Graham aims to chronicle what is passing and to make others aware that "there are sounds the planet will always make, even/if there is no one to hear them." [from "No Long Way Round"]
From "Sea Change:"
from undercurrents, warming by 1 degree, the in-
dispensible
planton is forced north now, & yet farther north,
spawning too late for the cod larvae hatch, such
that the hatch will not survive, nor the
species in the end, in the right-now forever un-
interruptible slowing of the
gulf
stream, so that I, speaking in this wind today, out loud in it, to no one, am suddenly
aware . . . .
This book takes us from one Autumn through to the next with the moon, rains and birds coming and going, and the trees trying to hold on for eternity.
From "Undated Lullaby:"
I go out and there she is still of course sitting on the nest, dead-center in-
visible in our flowing, big-
headed
still young and staked acacia, crown an almost
perfect
circle, dark greens blurring now
in this high wind, wrestling it, compliant too--billion-mouthed transformer of
sun and the carbon molecule-- . . . .
Graham aims to chronicle what is passing and to make others aware that "there are sounds the planet will always make, even/if there is no one to hear them." [from "No Long Way Round"]
February 13, 2021
This started very well. I had never read her before. However, every poem is pretty much like every other. I at least can't tell how the titles are related to the poems, or if the poems are related to each other. My favorite is "This," perhaps the shortest poem in the volume. There's some great stuff here, but the pieces lack variety. There's also an awful lot of abstract language. The language sometimes reminds me a bit of Joyce, and her self-described debt to Whitman is evident.
October 8, 2023
Just quite boring. The language is not exceptional. I'm not sure what to say as I loved Hybrids of Ghosts....(can't remember the title offhand). Now I feel like I need to reread that one, in case I was wrong about it too!
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March 29, 2024“when will we open them again our eyes, this must all be from the world of shut eyes, one’s temple feels the cold, maybe one is inside a seashell, one is what another force is hearing—how lovely, we are being handed over to an other force” 🧚♀️
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