After a brief, unexpected hiatus, Suburban Diaspora’s blog is back this week with three entries to catch us up. These entries will be on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. The first entry is on the poetry chapbook Alice in Greenpoint by Iva Ticic from Finishing Line Press, available for pre-order now for its August 14th release date.
The speaker of these poems is honed and honing, marked by an incisive sensuality and intensive attention to quiet domestic details—the smell of spring onions and horseradish, the contours of the surface of an avocado—and also by a hunger, a homeless yearning for a landscape and an identity that she can claim. Even in the familiar spaces in which many of the poems in the first section of the collection, “Listening to the Wind Argue with Frost,” are set, the speaker feels alien, acutely aware of the strangeness that defamiliarizes her own home and her own body, especially in the poems that conclude this section. For example, in “It Is a Joy to Be Hidden, but a Disaster not to Be Found” (the title of which quotes D.W. Winnicott), Ticic’s speaker explores this strangeness, even embracing it by incorporating it into a game, into play:
I am playing hide and seek with myself
in this house where the walls have started leaking
with hollow discontent.
There are so many spots
where I have hidden,
deceiving the opponent
by singing in the oven
and cooking in the bathtub.
Ready or not:
here comes nothingness.
The speaker’s sense of foreignness extends beyond the circumscribed worlds of the body or of the home in “Night Terror,” into the astral and the mythic:
Out of the grainy delicate film of darkness,
a wide-mouthed serpent descends.
She pushes at air, trying to swallow
the moon as a host, render the blackness complete.
My eyes: all sockets and balls,
bulging cranberries in hour of ripeness.
In the second half of the collection, “The Strange Weight,” the speaker’s sense of her own identity gradually transitions from that of foreigner to that of pioneer. Translation, transposition, and transcription are crucial to the geographical and psychological shifts that move these poems. The longing for belonging in this section is perhaps strongest in its first poem, “The Interpreter,” in which the speaker introduces these modes of translation as means of entering—music, conversation, interactions, relationships:
I want to live in the hollow
of your Steinway piano.
Right there beneath the
slender silk of peeled ebony.
I want to become
a part of your conversation
between the pulse
of your fingertip symphony
and the dignified elephant
which you saddle and tame.
I want to learn the dialects
of this foreign arena.
Poignantly, in the following poem, “Faint Relatives or Failing at Translation,” Ticic explores the gaps in meaning between words translated between her first and second languages, Croatian and English, and the speaker, musing on the word “lark,” or “ševa,” acknowledges the limits of translation in transferring meaning and offering a sense of belonging or citizenship:
My people—who are my people?—have squinted their eyes for so long that a songbird translates to fucking. This has never made sense to me. To make songbirds taboo eventually results in people’s throats hardening. It creates the perfect aphasia.
The limits of translation become even more apparent to her when she compares the connotations of the English “passion” with the Croatian “strast” in an arresting meditation:
The word that does not translate. When entering a Slavic mouth it becomes somehow sexual, a provocation. The wandering hand underneath a Sunday tablecloth, freshly pressed, sunflowers at its center. The whisper of excitement among lovers. Only a faint relative to the Anglophone promise of greatness. As if that to believe in something, anything—could never be innocent.
Language proves an undeniable barrier for the speaker of the poems in Alice in Greenpoint, but by the collection’s conclusion, she has learned that where she cannot translate, she can transcend, and that language, poetry, offers that transcendence. “The poem is the testament,” she asserts in the final section of the closing poem “We Have Traveled So Far, Only to Come Home,” leaving the reader with this:
All of the body is built on the past—
the chipped-at collisions and inward worm-holes
yet I use it to transport the delicate load
wondering often of how I’ve arrived.
Oh, do not ask me if Mars / is an ethical place.
Let those who must go carry the strange weight
of all that was left
and of how to return.
The speaker has traveled—and arrived—and returned. She has translated. And she has testified.
Alice in Greenpoint is available for pre-order at Finishing Line Press’s website.
Review by Billie Tadros