Equinox
Contributor’s Marginalia: Lisa Russ Spaar on “Solstice” by Chelsea Wagenaar
I was thrilled to see Chelsea Wagenaar’s beautiful poem “Solstice” on the verso and mine on the recto (pages 2 and 3) of 32 Poems, Volume 14, Number 2, Fall/Winter 2016.
Ever since I first met Chelsea (she was my undergraduate student in the Area Program in Poetry Writing at the University of Virginia), I’ve felt in poetic, soul-sister conversation with her and her work. So the felicity of discovering our poems appearing side by side in this marvelous issue, like two wings when the journal is open, like puzzle pieces fitting when the journal is closed, was a particular joy for me.
In thinking about how I might respond to Chelsea’s poem, several things came to mind. If I were musical, I might have composed a tune to accompany her words (her poems could create a new hymnal). If artistic: a painting or photograph. As a “critic” and reviewer of poems, I could say much about this lyric, its shout-outs to Lowell, the Psalmist, Milton . . . and about Chelsea’s pitch-perfect ear, her ardent heart.
I noticed that her poem was about twice as long as mine. I settled on attempting to create a cento, pairing every other one of her lines with one of mine to create a kind of drunk-on-beauty, tipsy equinoctial balance in a way that would allow our poems to mesh and converse.
Chelsea’s poem arrived in winter; at the time I’m assembling our cento in February, the light is beginning to lengthen (O, Lent cometh) and we are looking forward to spring, especially in what has been a gray season on so many levels. Although her poems never eschew the dark and difficult (“some darks too dark”), they are always suffused with the fluent embers of her faith and vision, something for which I’m abidingly grateful.
Equinox
a cento, for Chelsea
It’s obscurity inscribed on the air,
windowsill cornucopia that sundown reddens,
the moon a blurted secret at both ends
with salt-glazed resins, fallow volution,
with nothing but moon and eyeglow,
petrified morning glory, souvenir, ocean relic.
I could ask the darkness to hide me,
intricate as the alleyways of the inner ear.
The answer, the wild approaching dark barely fronded
is the long-gone inside that flees, refracted.
Windows crypted with frost? I heard
pinings for its rented house, indifferent artifact.
Milton—going blind as he wrote:
the spiraling room our bodies make, numinous.
Not even the fires give off light
when we—what will become of that? When one of us–?
Some stories are too true to finish.
I bring this bony shell-piece to my lips.
Blackbirds fling upward from a field
to worship every second we have left.
Beneath each wing a startling ember
facing down every lonesome mirror
into the deepening firmament
in which we’ll never see ourselves again.