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Threshold
Jennifer Richter presents a series of poems that explore the many facets of the term "threshold." Throughout the collection, the narrator experiences several acts of threshing, or separating—from birth and the small yet profound distances that part a mother and child, to the separation caused by illness and its toll on relationships. At the same time, she is progressively gathering, piecing together the remnants of her life, collecting her children into her arms, and welcoming a future without pain. Pain is often present in these poems, as the narrator frequently confronts her own threshold for enduring a ravaging illness. Her harrowing struggle through recovery is chronicled by a poem at the end of each section, tracing her powerful journey from deep suffering to a fragile yet steadfast sense of hope.
These gripping lyric and prose poems explore duality in its many forms: the private, contemplative world versus a world of action; the mirror sides of health and sickness; the warmth of a June sun and the deep, long nights of winter; mother and child; collecting and letting go. From the comfort of a morning bed at home to the desperate streets of Hanoi, Threshold is a searing portrait of healing, the courage it takes to bridge the gulfs that divide, and the wonder of the ties that bind.
What Is My Body Without You?
My son’s pajamas unsnapped
on the floor: small husk
of his body relaxing on its back,
legs and sleeves still filled
with his rush. This part of him
hasn’t outgrown my arms
and sometimes lets me lift
him up our steep stairs,
carry him to bed and pull
his shade against the gray
thin winter sky like milk
my daughter wakes up wanting.
In the last days of lifting her
to my breast, I fill her less
than the air already gone
from my son’s flat shape.
Twice like that I have lain back,
the doctor opening me
along the same clean seam.
Each time I was watching:
with a few tugs the child
was out, naked and heading
toward other hands, each child
cut loose before I knew it.
These gripping lyric and prose poems explore duality in its many forms: the private, contemplative world versus a world of action; the mirror sides of health and sickness; the warmth of a June sun and the deep, long nights of winter; mother and child; collecting and letting go. From the comfort of a morning bed at home to the desperate streets of Hanoi, Threshold is a searing portrait of healing, the courage it takes to bridge the gulfs that divide, and the wonder of the ties that bind.
What Is My Body Without You?
My son’s pajamas unsnapped
on the floor: small husk
of his body relaxing on its back,
legs and sleeves still filled
with his rush. This part of him
hasn’t outgrown my arms
and sometimes lets me lift
him up our steep stairs,
carry him to bed and pull
his shade against the gray
thin winter sky like milk
my daughter wakes up wanting.
In the last days of lifting her
to my breast, I fill her less
than the air already gone
from my son’s flat shape.
Twice like that I have lain back,
the doctor opening me
along the same clean seam.
Each time I was watching:
with a few tugs the child
was out, naked and heading
toward other hands, each child
cut loose before I knew it.
- GenresPoetry
88 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2010
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26 people want to read
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Displaying 1 - 9 of 9 reviews
July 12, 2016
This is a quick and beautiful book about some difficult topics. The line lengths vary, and probably at least half are prose poems, but almost none spill onto a second page.
Parenthood, sickness, and recovery are three of the main recurring themes of this collection. Children, the battle to bring them into the world and the battles that come after they are in the world, appear constantly. We follow them as they grow from infants into school age. From the moment they are born, they are moving away from their mother, the poetic speaker, who must deal with her conflicting desires to both allow them to grow and keep them close.
The poems that resonated most with me dealt with sickness and recovery (there are several poems called "Recovery" that probably were my favorites).
"Health means Nowhere to hide ... But here comes the night nurses now, fresh back from the steel box that warms the blankets. Here comes one with her flashlight, eyeing the plastic bag hung above your head, following it down to your arm's irritated site--this last night won't hurt ... Recover means, of course, Cover again" ("Recovery").
"Pain stands you behind glass. A curiosity, a diagnosis, you inspire in everyone a circus of speculation. You are changed; they squint to see the measured you who speaks in meter, who doesn't grimace and grind her teeth like some beast" ("Recovery 2: Turn Away Your Eyes and It'll Fly").
Vietnam also appears in a number of poems, and these perhaps best demonstrate how must Richter can say with only a handful of lines:
"In the cloud-and-mountains of North Vietnam, / the flowers running the ridges are children: / Sapa mothers crown their babies with bright hats / so the spirits soaring overhead pass by, / mistaking them for blooms" ("For Chloe, Whose Names Means 'Profusion of Blooms'").
This is a great book, and one worth returning to in the future.
Parenthood, sickness, and recovery are three of the main recurring themes of this collection. Children, the battle to bring them into the world and the battles that come after they are in the world, appear constantly. We follow them as they grow from infants into school age. From the moment they are born, they are moving away from their mother, the poetic speaker, who must deal with her conflicting desires to both allow them to grow and keep them close.
The poems that resonated most with me dealt with sickness and recovery (there are several poems called "Recovery" that probably were my favorites).
"Health means Nowhere to hide ... But here comes the night nurses now, fresh back from the steel box that warms the blankets. Here comes one with her flashlight, eyeing the plastic bag hung above your head, following it down to your arm's irritated site--this last night won't hurt ... Recover means, of course, Cover again" ("Recovery").
"Pain stands you behind glass. A curiosity, a diagnosis, you inspire in everyone a circus of speculation. You are changed; they squint to see the measured you who speaks in meter, who doesn't grimace and grind her teeth like some beast" ("Recovery 2: Turn Away Your Eyes and It'll Fly").
Vietnam also appears in a number of poems, and these perhaps best demonstrate how must Richter can say with only a handful of lines:
"In the cloud-and-mountains of North Vietnam, / the flowers running the ridges are children: / Sapa mothers crown their babies with bright hats / so the spirits soaring overhead pass by, / mistaking them for blooms" ("For Chloe, Whose Names Means 'Profusion of Blooms'").
This is a great book, and one worth returning to in the future.
January 1, 2025
Jennifer Richter's Threshold is a stunning collection that masterfully explores the fragile spaces between life’s defining moments. Through deeply personal and evocative poems, Richter invites readers to linger in the liminal zones of illness, motherhood, and self-discovery, capturing the quiet intensity of these experiences with remarkable clarity and tenderness.
For anyone who has ever stood at the edge of something uncertain, Threshold offers both a mirror and a lantern. It’s a collection that lingers long after the final page is turned—a testament to Richter’s profound skill and her generous, fearless spirit as a poet.
For anyone who has ever stood at the edge of something uncertain, Threshold offers both a mirror and a lantern. It’s a collection that lingers long after the final page is turned—a testament to Richter’s profound skill and her generous, fearless spirit as a poet.
September 4, 2010
The word threshold means a door or opening, but it can also mean, in a more abstract way, the beginning of something new or different. To start out a book review with a definition seems like a strategy that my undergraduate students would use with their essays, but in the case of Jennifer Richter's book, Threshold, it works. Threshold is a poetry collection that explores the boundaries between childlessness and motherhood, sickness and health, life and death, but every poem embraces each "threshold" with a lyrical tenderness that avoids sentimentality that often comes with many of these abstract themes.
Recovery from physical pain and illness is a central theme in this book, and a theme that weaves its way in and out of most of the poems. In "You Are Time to Wake Up" the narrator speaks in second person about illness: "You have been sick for years. You have been sick since Monday. Your/son confuses weeks and months, forgets the names of days. You are his/measure of time sliding by. He's old enough to know the one you were/before." In the prose poem simply titled "Recovery" the narrator explains: "Health means Nowhere to hide. For weeks you will fear the phone, the/calendar, the life that, for seasons, sustained your pain. Your children/will grab your hands and run you through the rooms you've missed; your/husband will pat the sheets next to him and wait."
Still, there are other thresholds as well. In some poems, the poet wrestles with the distance that grows between people. In "Persephone Returns" the classical myth is used as metaphor for this distance: "Each time Persephone returns, there is more of him in her. In/every sheet, he's here: his shadow moving between them." In other poems, the poet wrestles with motherhood. In a particular delightful (and somewhat humorous) piece, "Brought to Life", a mother is putting her daughter to bed: "Did you know people sometimes use their tongues to kiss? she asks. It's/bedtime, she's lying on her bed like Snow White you just read about, her/still lips red and waiting for the prince. When you're not shocked -- the/second you grin That's true -- your daughter wants to try it. She's almost/eight. You've seen the boys at recess pick her first."
Threshold is Jennifer Richter's first book, and it's a clear winner. This poet is one to watch, and as with many first books I have read this year, I will be looking forward to her future work.
Recovery from physical pain and illness is a central theme in this book, and a theme that weaves its way in and out of most of the poems. In "You Are Time to Wake Up" the narrator speaks in second person about illness: "You have been sick for years. You have been sick since Monday. Your/son confuses weeks and months, forgets the names of days. You are his/measure of time sliding by. He's old enough to know the one you were/before." In the prose poem simply titled "Recovery" the narrator explains: "Health means Nowhere to hide. For weeks you will fear the phone, the/calendar, the life that, for seasons, sustained your pain. Your children/will grab your hands and run you through the rooms you've missed; your/husband will pat the sheets next to him and wait."
Still, there are other thresholds as well. In some poems, the poet wrestles with the distance that grows between people. In "Persephone Returns" the classical myth is used as metaphor for this distance: "Each time Persephone returns, there is more of him in her. In/every sheet, he's here: his shadow moving between them." In other poems, the poet wrestles with motherhood. In a particular delightful (and somewhat humorous) piece, "Brought to Life", a mother is putting her daughter to bed: "Did you know people sometimes use their tongues to kiss? she asks. It's/bedtime, she's lying on her bed like Snow White you just read about, her/still lips red and waiting for the prince. When you're not shocked -- the/second you grin That's true -- your daughter wants to try it. She's almost/eight. You've seen the boys at recess pick her first."
Threshold is Jennifer Richter's first book, and it's a clear winner. This poet is one to watch, and as with many first books I have read this year, I will be looking forward to her future work.
July 2, 2015
Jennifer Richter's Threshold is a treasure from start to finish. Delicate and strong, these poems move through experiences with bodily pain, motherhood, and recovery with such grace and honesty that the speaker comes alive; you want to reach out to her. The opening poem and book's namesake sets the tone for the collection with this image: the son has drawn a picture in which the family is depicted, but their hands never touch. The poem concludes, "you're in the middle of all this reaching" (3). That is how we feel throughout the collection - that the speaker is reaching for her children, her husband, her health, control over her own body.
The collection is masterfully constructed. Richter concludes each of the six sections with a poem titled, "Recovery," "Recovery 2," or some variation. Each poem builds on the last as the speaker struggles to recover, to let go of her pain. The first of these poems ends, "Recover means, of course, Cover again. Put on another layer. Even if the pain stays, it's not exposed. Maybe you'll quit being so cold" (9), the first insight into recovery's difficult journey. In each of these poems, she reaches for the next until the final poem, "Recovery 6: The Last Word" leaves us with "You'll tell him everything. Why now? your son will ask and you'll say Now the mother is strong enough" (70) as if we had been waiting all along for her to say this.
Most of the collection is composed of prose poems and I'm not often drawn to prose poetry. However, having dealt recently with navigating relationships and illness in my own life, I found this form incredibly compelling and honest; pain cannot always be contained, so why try to create a container on the page? The honesty and candor with which Richter takes us through difficulty is incredibly moving. Though eloquent and striking, she does not hide behind her metaphors, but uses them to offer these moments purely and openly with tenderness and truth. This is a book I will surely read again.
The collection is masterfully constructed. Richter concludes each of the six sections with a poem titled, "Recovery," "Recovery 2," or some variation. Each poem builds on the last as the speaker struggles to recover, to let go of her pain. The first of these poems ends, "Recover means, of course, Cover again. Put on another layer. Even if the pain stays, it's not exposed. Maybe you'll quit being so cold" (9), the first insight into recovery's difficult journey. In each of these poems, she reaches for the next until the final poem, "Recovery 6: The Last Word" leaves us with "You'll tell him everything. Why now? your son will ask and you'll say Now the mother is strong enough" (70) as if we had been waiting all along for her to say this.
Most of the collection is composed of prose poems and I'm not often drawn to prose poetry. However, having dealt recently with navigating relationships and illness in my own life, I found this form incredibly compelling and honest; pain cannot always be contained, so why try to create a container on the page? The honesty and candor with which Richter takes us through difficulty is incredibly moving. Though eloquent and striking, she does not hide behind her metaphors, but uses them to offer these moments purely and openly with tenderness and truth. This is a book I will surely read again.
October 12, 2012
For me, these poems are a perfect blend of story and mystery. In some ways they're plain-spoken, beautifully everyday: children, suburban gardens, neighbors. But at the same time they are full of depth, unpredictability, strangeness. I love the space Jennifer Richter leaves for the reader--space to enter into the poems and to feel them deeply. The poems have deceptively smooth surfaces--but they are also pocked with holes leading to a sort of underworld, to shadow and darkness and surprise, like the slits in the earth, made by sprouting spring flowers, Richter writes about. I read this book in one sitting... and am planning to go back and read it again.
Also, I think Richter handles prose poems beautifully. It's not a form that usually interests me that much--but in her book it's a form that feels just right.
Also, I think Richter handles prose poems beautifully. It's not a form that usually interests me that much--but in her book it's a form that feels just right.
December 28, 2011
I'm starting with 3 stars, because I've only quickly read through this collection of very personal poems about family, children, health issues and pain. I've found that to say at any point that I've "read" as in "finished reading" a poem or a book of poems is misleading. To read poetry means to read it many different ways, quickly, slowly, out-loud, sing-song, studiously, lightly... So this is just my first review of my first read of Threshold. After several more readings, I'm guessing the number of stars will change.
August 9, 2012
I love this collection. It's one that I found myself returning to over and over the summer after I read it. Together and individually, I found the poems so strong. Their speakers tackle such delicate, transitory subject matter.
The writing served as an eye-opener for me; before reading _Threshold_, I didn't have any real interest for in the prose poem. Looking back, that's silly, but it toke this collection to really show me how prose poems can/should work.
The writing served as an eye-opener for me; before reading _Threshold_, I didn't have any real interest for in the prose poem. Looking back, that's silly, but it toke this collection to really show me how prose poems can/should work.
October 22, 2012
Not usually a poetry person, but after hearing the author read some of these poems and explain a bit the stories behind them I was touched in my soul to read further. Deceptively simple, short, and readable, yet so many swirling currents of thought, emotion, and story contained in each one. Well worth spending some time--and you should sit for a few moments with each one.
January 2, 2011
Once he picked a daffodil, dunked the bloom in his bucket and watered your name across the hot driveway. He didn't mean for you to see it, he crouched down and blew to make it go away. Say it, you can say it now. It's like lovers: all the loyalties and letdowns.
Displaying 1 - 9 of 9 reviews