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Poetry in Motion: Between the lines of “Holy Ghost” from Reunion
Deanna Young’s newest collection Reunion (Brick Books)—a pastoral-gothic hybrid that plays with forms from ballads to prayer to Biblical sermons—weaves in and out of time looking back on a younger self who is confronting old violence. Below Deanna tells us in her own words about her collection, when it began, how it confirmed for her “the magic of creativity” and shares a poem with us.
My writing practice is haphazard. It has no pattern and no rules. Hardly a
practice.
“Holy Ghost”We had no paper
then, or we had
no pen, or no words. How
to say it. We had
no voice. No listeners.
Just deaf night
It comes out of the dark—or the light—and nabs me, or murmurs my name. It is
not about a desk, or a room, or a time of day. I used to think it had to be tied to
such structures. I’ve let go of that. And the guilt that comes with it. The Shoulds.
and the flames that chased us
up the stairs, that
found us
panting, singed. There was
no story then, no
greater myth. It was just
I no longer fret. The work is important and not public—not in its need, its
inception. The practice is important too, but it is not formulaic. Not form but free-fall.
This could change tomorrow.
our life. No big
picture. No art
but the Bible. No thought
but that the Lord must have made
some mistake, our souls
in error. We went
Some days I try to dig, à la Heaney. Some days I approach the door of my
suffering, à la Glück. Or swing it wide. I step over the threshold into the abyss.
Only rarely, mind. Therein lies my practice—the plummet. I try not to think mid-fall.
into the closet willingly—it was
a game—
as into a time machine.
More in hope
than faith. In there
saw only starless space.
I try to listen down, down, until—a voice, faint and urgent. Then transcribe. Not
invent. Transcribe. To write freely like this—like right now—is fairly new for me,
a danger. Maybe it’s a bad idea. I am drunk on not caring.
We prayed.
When I open this door
let it be
some other place.
There was music
though, astounding.
In my core I am afraid you will think my words (me) stupid. Unintelligent is a
more genteel word but I am not genteel. And yet I was born royal, as you were. I
am afraid you will think my words (me) ugly, fat. Now old, too. If you’re lucky you
age.
It flowed from the stereo
and filled the house
like Jesus. It was
Aretha in raiment of gold
and Elvis the King.
It flew into us like grace and shook
When I was a child scales covered my body. I scratched them and they bled. You
think I am being metaphorical. If only. You think I am whining, then. I am merely
stating a fact. You find the facts unpalatable, embarrassing maybe. As do I. A
boiled potato, no butter, no salt. Every night it made me gag.
our spirits loose. We fell
to the floor like change, all
scattered silver. There
gathered ourselves
into swords of light, there rose
and followed the tambourines
Don’t try to tell me that to be covered in scales is not ugly. I know ugly. I do not
wish to mince words. Yet every act of writing is a mincing of words. Chop-chop.
Please read everything here with a line through the middle, a strikethrough.
Consider it all a momentary lapse.
into the shimmering
forest-mind
where we could think.
We walked among
the years like trees
and, trembling, came
Why should I care what anyone thinks. I am alive, for fuck’s sake. Why should you
care, after what you’ve been through. Please do not care. I mean, do no harm,
including to yourself (an immeasurably tall order)—let that be your guiding
principle, at least. Then write without shame, without the need for approval.
Maybe you already know this. I wish you had told me sooner.
to a sky-filled river.
Stepped into its rush like deer
to drink, cold wonder
pulling at our legs.
We gave ourselves up
for lost, raised our arms like thieves—
I swear, and some people don’t like that. Yet it is my practice. Everything
swearing is, I adhere to. The oath of it. I wrote the poem between these lines
between the lines of consciousness and un-. A blasphemy against the past.
Sun lit the blood
of our fingertips, field sparrows
sang our names—and thus
in rapture
were we saved. The only lines that make sense to me: the broken ones, the upstarts. My fondest
wish is to shroud the voices less. To let them glow. That is my practice. To that
desire I profess.
This is to make a long story short. Every book has its unique origin story. Reunion began, of course, forty, fifty years ago in my childhood. The kindling was long there, hungry for the spark, the focused breath to urge the flame. I don’t know if/when the winged words will descend again, to lift me up. Roethke wrote, “A lively understandable spirit/ Once entertained you./ It will come again./ Be still./ Wait.” As I shall.Deanna Young reads “Holy Ghost” from Reunion* * *Deanna Young’s latest book of poetry is Reunion, published by Brick Books in 2018. Her previous book, House Dreams, was nominated for the Trillium Book Award for Poetry, the Ottawa Book Award, the Archibald Lampman Award, and the ReLit Award. Originally from southwestern Ontario, she lives in Ottawa, where she works as an editor and teaches poetry privately.* * *Thanks to Deanna for sharing Reunion with us, and to Kitty Lewis at Brick Books for making the connection. For more Poetry in Motion, click here.Tagged:
