Tag Archives: Volume 20-1

Review of Susanna Lang’s Travel Notes from the River Styx

Travel Notes from the River Styx -Lang
Travel Notes from the River Styx
Susanna Lang
978-0998215907
(2017 Terrapin Books)
$16

Review by Michael Eddie Anderson

Travel Notes from the River Styx is a carefully crafted study of a soul journey. Although the work is not personal in the narrow sense, it does focus on family. We live through the saga of a dying father, watch a mother giving piano lessons, and meet a son going off to college. But the larger reference is to the human family, including emigrant peoples, their experience of displacement. In “Migration” we hear their voices: “My family came to stay/ but not in one place”. The monk who says “My real country is not a place…” speaks for all those whose identity is less geographic, more relational.

Among the most striking characteristics of Lang’s poetry are its wild leaps. As in all good writing, the metaphysical rests on and arises from the physical. The poem “In the Rearview Mirror” turns our eye to five migrating Sandhill cranes. The birds stand motionless, “the long/knobby legs of their resurrection still”. This is the epiphanic leap, but the setting couldn’t be less so: a traffic jam.

Lang shows us we’ll find splendor and ecstasy in the pedestrian. Yes, these are Travel Notes and we do indeed pole down a mythical river, but as the opening citation from TS Elliot reminds us, in every true journey we “arrive where we started” – we end up at home.

Many unknowns await us before we get there. In the title poem, which opens section three, we’re spelunking in Mammoth Cave, its cold river running under our feet. The cavern’s name refers to its size and seeming endlessness, and in these images, Lang finds powerful metaphors of disjuncture and confusion.

The cave may be made of rock but “the border is porous”. There might be a river but it is “flowing so slowly/it almost isn’t a river”. And those etchings on the walls—they’re “written in candle smoke”. Added to all this indeterminacy is a father’s decline through dementia. The final section, a sentence fragment nine stanzas long, evokes this bewilderment:

…this dream

of drifting, low in the water but never sinking, never

snagging on a fallen branch, never touching the shore

where we walk beside the river, endlessly, our muscles

aching, the boat just out of reach—

And so it ends: abrupt, unsettling. We’ve drifted along the river only to come suddenly to a falls. Out of control, out of options, we find ourselves asking “where/has the ferryman gone, how do we call him?” But isn’t it always this way? Whether on Chicago’s elevated train or Charon’s dark waterway, the one thing we can expect is: “destination unintelligible”.

Some poems give us comfort. In Travel Notes from the River Styx, Susanna Lang gives us more. She’s a wise guide on a dark river every human being must learn to navigate.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 1.

Michael Eddie Anderson has been an editor at Rhino: the Poetry Journal and now serves on their advisory board. His poetry has appeared in New Verse News, Matter Monthly, Rhino, Pen Woman, the Poet and Artist Chapbook of the Northwest Cultural Council and other journals. He lives in Evanston, Illinois.

Susanna LangSusanna Lang’snew collection of poems, Travel Notes from the River Styx, was released in summer 2017 from Terrapin Books. Her last collection was Tracing the Lines (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2013). Read her poem “Confession” in CPR Volume 20, Issue 1 (April, 2018).

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CPR Volume 20, Issue 1 is Now Online

April, 2018

Read new poems by David Crews, Megan Hall, Athena Kildegaard, Avia Tadmor, Susanna Lang, Joel Vega, Caitlin Thomson, Matthew Gellman, David Hathwell, Ava C. Cipri, Megan Arlett, Carol Lischau, Carol Kapaun Ratchenski, Pamela Ahlen, John Sibley Williams, Genevieve DeGuzman, and Megan Merchant. Find a fine review of Jessica L. Walsh’s How to Break My Neck by Melissa Atkison Mercer.

Enjoy the current issue at CPR Volume 20-1.

Rain
by David Hathwell

It’s falling heavily now, as they said it would,
in splashing thuds against the northern windows,
brutally, as if it would break and enter.
Precedence insists that it won’t (I am too awake)
but brings to mind that fine, must-bearing splatter,
impossible to expunge, and those widening gaps
between glass and rattling frame above the desk—
its shaded lamp, a book left open, the day’s work.

Otherwise, readiness: the pan and newspaper
where they should be on the kitchen floor,
below the puddle-shaped stain overhead,
the rolled towel against the threshold of the door—
in truth, a worn, makeshift readiness, surprised
each time by the need for a new defense, permeable
as the windows, the door, the ceiling, the roof.
The world is ending and here I lie, armed with
unwilled consciousness, wariness, calculation—prose.

When I was a boy, new rain fell like grace,
a gathering presence, unbidden, bestowing assurance,
in whispers rising nearly to song, that darkness,
silence, the reaches of the sky—the invisible and
incalculable—hold no harm, no harm at all, for you.
All is safely where it should be. Sleep.
 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 1.

David HathwellDavid Hathwell is a former English teacher living and writing in the Bay Area. He has degrees in English, from Stanford and Columbia, as well as an advanced degree in music theory, from CUNY, and is now a piano student at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music.His work has appeared in Slant, Measure, The Chaffin Journal, California Quarterly, and Cordite Poetry Review, and will appear in the new literary journal, as yet unnamed, of the San Francisco Conservatory of Music.

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