Rebecca Foust

I have to admit to going through something of a midlife crisis at this point in my life. I'm not acting out or experiencing it in the traditional, obvious ways (like an affair...not possible since I'm no longer married), but in subtle ways like job disillusionment. Really just disillusionment in general, I guess. So, Pilgrim's journey/experiences in these brilliantly written sonnets really hit home for me.

The written word has always had a deeper meaning for me than just entertainment, and never is that more so than when I read poetry. As I'm going through this period in my life, I found myself really identifying with many of Pilgrim's experiences in these sonnets.

She finds herself at parties, teeming with the examples of the seven deadly sins and she shuts herself in the bathroom to escape, to read. Soon, she is always armed at these occasions with a book in her purse. Sound familiar? I always have a book with me and could so see myself doing this. Especially if subjected to the narcissism and elitism she finds herself exposed to.

"...Pilgrim ran for the bathroom, not for coke
as others supposed, but for something
more covert and rare: a book,
or any bit of anything written. An antidote
to the twitter Out There..."
(Page 5)

And then her fears in regards to her special needs son (autism, Asperger's, spectrum disorders), as I have dealt with these same fears with my son. Powerful, powerful words...

"...and where to find
the manual that tells how to respond
to the loved child who from his snug bed
whispers, I wish I were dead, Mom?
Tell me, Dr. Spock, what to do about that,
what does a mother fucking do about that?"
(Page 18)

And what so many of us run to and alas, it doesn't help/didn't work, at least not in my case...

"Pilgrim knew what the answer was: get born
again. Even if it hadn't worked out
so well the first time. Te altar-call part,
the prophesying, the speaking-in-tongues
all felt a lot like a Ouija board cheat,
you know, wanting it so much that, OK,
SHE NUDGED THE PLANCHETTE..."
(Page 61)

And here, I think what we perhaps all were taught and continually strive for, even through our trials, midlife crises, etc...

"...So clear then, the rules:
better yourself. Work hard. Save. Pay the bills."
(Page 15)

As I said, profound. If you love poetry, you must pick up this book.

I leave you with this final sonnet, which speaks to my love of books and reading, to the mother who instilled that love in me, and to the validity of the escape and redemption that can come from reading a book...

Forgotten Image

Your mother, reading on the stairs in light
poured in a wide shaft. At night, shadows,
soft thuds and pleading, clink-clink of his ice
in the glass. Your mother, reading. Light seen
through a chink in a cellar wall. The attic air,
dry and danced with bright motes. You know
it's there, at the top of the house, the stairs
you must muster the mind to ascend. But how?
Where is the first step? Your old notebooks,
dust-felted, stacked up somewhere. Your mother,
reading. The sense of another life, inside
and outside the walls. An attic, other upper rooms
in the home. Other homes. You are a mother now,
too--so many open mouths, so much to do--
your mother reading, reading herself alive. Showing you.… (altro)