Review of
The Diary of Saint Marion
by Gloria Monaghan

Reviewed by Christine Jones

Gloria Monaghan’s The Diary of Saint Marion is a luminous and layered poetry collection that explores memory, loss, faith, and the absurd through a richly cinematic lens. Fanny Howe aptly describes it as “poems that enact the experience of being lost in the world.” Rooted in an unusual origin story—letters found in a laundry basket in Hamtramck, Detroit, 1971—the collection weaves a whimsical yet introspective tapestry of nostalgia and spiritual inquiry.

The cover art, depicting white cotton laundry on a line, encapsulates a central metaphor: laundry as both domestic ritual and spiritual cleansing. This motif threads throughout the collection, symbolizing the tension between order and emotional unraveling.

The opening poem, “Opera Bag,” sets a reverent, tactile tone. Monaghan evokes a world gone by with lines like “leather as thin as coarse paper,” then questions her own nostalgia: “I don’t know whether I tell / the truth about the beauty of what is lost.” This vulnerability anchors much of the collection, as past and present intertwine in a continuous dialogue.

A striking element is Monaghan’s elevation of her grandmother to sainthood, giving rise to a voice that is both divine and deeply human. In “I Love a Motel in June, Don’t You,” memory becomes sensual invocation: “Shape, shape, come to me bend / like a panther down and take my face into / your hands.” This blend of the sacred and the corporeal typifies Monaghan’s spiritual imagination.

Catholic imagery permeates the book, grounding it in a tradition Monaghan questions as much as she reveres. She asks, “Did I shed the world?” and in “I Am Not Afraid of Storms,” boldly states, “I am not afraid of storms / because I like them,” before admitting, “but I do wonder how I will die.” Such moments of doubt give the work emotional gravity and philosophical depth.

Divided into five sections—Relics, The Chalice, For Martha and Sister Janina, Dog Poems, and I, Too, Have a Chartreuse Cat—the book moves through themes of reverence, vintage charm, the sacred, the animalistic, and the absurd. These divisions shape the reading experience while allowing Monaghan’s obsessions to unfurl organically.

At times, her work turns surreal and dissociative, as in the poem “Absolution” with its enigmatic “deep moth in late summer.” Yet these moments open space for imaginative play, asking questions like, “how long do you stay awake / suffering the moon?”

Such lines exemplify Monaghan’s gift for juxtaposing the abstract with the emotionally resonant.

Grief is a quiet undercurrent, especially evident in “From Martha’s Diary,” where the line “our Father finally called / and did not say your name or even / hello” blends familial pain with religious estrangement. The capitalized “Father” doubles as both paternal figure and deity, a hallmark of Monaghan’s layered symbolism.

Despite its gravity, the collection is laced with wry humor and wit, preventing it from becoming overly solemn. This balance between reverence and irreverence, past and present, gives the collection its emotional resonance.
Monaghan offers not just poems, but a deeply felt spiritual cartography—an invitation to consider what remains sacred in memory, language, and longing.

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 27, Issue 5.

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