March 5, 2011

Review by Stellasue LeeAll of Your Messages Have Been Erased by Vivian Shipley

ALL OF YOUR MESSAGES HAVE BEEN ERASED
by Vivian Shipley

Louisiana Literature Press,
SLU Box 10792
Hammond, Louisiana, 70402
ISBN: 978-0-945083-27-6 (cloth)
978-0-945083-28-3 (paper)
2010, 128 pp. $14.95
louisianaliterature.org

Vivian Shipley’s voice is compelling as she speaks for the women in her book. She gives word to their loss and loneliness, their passion, as well as her own. These poems fill the reader with a sense of wonder at the existence of such ordinary people, their extraordinary struggle and alienation, their grief and rebellious attitudes in the face of life’s tragedy.

Shipley’s allegiance to the forgotten honors them by giving voice to those who can no longer speak for themselves. From Mary Shelley’s long wait for her neglectful, philandering husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley, who was never to return from the sea; to The Radium Girls hired by Timex and told only that the paint was harmless as they ingested deadly amounts of radium by licking their paintbrushes to sharpen the points. What did they know; they were young, and beautiful and paid 8 cents a dial. “Work faster,” said their boss, even though the radium made them gag.

Frances Splettstocher, 21 became the first dial painter to die in Waterbury.

I had lip painted for 4 years, did think it strange that my handkerchief
glowed in the dark when I blew my nose, but church members,
makers of Waterbury’s Dollar Watches, wouldn’t let young girls
like us do anything harmful.

Frances describes her work area:

Next to me racks of altimeters and clock dials waited
like upturned faces of children I would never have.

Eventually, Frances had to have a tooth removed.

The hole in my cheek would not heal; my uncle would pay
me a dime to go away so he did not have to look at it.

The language Shipley uses is extraordinary. At times, a line may leap off the page and become a banner the minds-eye sees and can’t quiet move past. Often, her description is painfully stark, ridged, as if it were happening in the present. The reader can’t help but take it personally, the sudden desire to remove yourself from your chair of comfort and demand justice.

Other places, it’s as if Shipley is talking to you over the back fence about a relative. She leans into her words, gossip-like, while the wind ruffles leaves from the branches of trees overhead. At other times, lines come at you like bits of flying embers from the bonfire that has become her passion, the voices of women who have returned to earth.

There is a quality of music throughout, as an operatic base, a basso profundo like Paul Gerimon singing Ol’ Man River. It sends shivers up your spine, a refrain that carries you along an endless river into the center of your being as these women become as real as your own family.

Interspersed, there are very personal poems, family dynamics, grief, loss, a history of a working family doing the best they know how. Vivian’s father,

…valued silence, never was one to talk much
and it’s no surprise that in blueprints for his house,
there are specifications for pegs to cover the screws
in the hardwood for floors and stairs that do not creak.

And, Vivian’s mother, the image of her “…lifting a hand, mothlike, to tell the stooped man (from the hospital) who sidles in for the trash that today’s her 88th birthday.” Shipley’s family is all of our families. “Orphan,” near the end of this marvelous book, Vivian writes, “Not a word one would apply to a sixty-two-year old,…” yet I experienced this same feeling when the last of my parents died. She touches my heart with her accessibility.

I would be negligent if I didn’t wonder why Shipley has chosen to champion the women she writes about in this book. I am led to believe that deep within her space, she has suffered, felt silenced. Well, we are listening now.

__________

Stellasue Lee was an entrant for the 2000 Pulitzer Prize, and is again under consideration in 2011. She received The Poet and the Poem Special Recognition for Excellence from the Library of Congress in 2003. Dr. Lee is the author of five books in print: firecracker RED, Crossing the Double Yellow Line, 13 Los Angeles Poets, After I Fall, and Over To You. Her newly released book, firecracker RED, deals with issues of loss, recovery and redemption. Her poetry has been published in numerous anthologies and literary journals including the Connecticut Review, Cortland Review, Margie, Paterson Literary Review, and Quercus Review. Now Editor Emeritus of RATTLE, a literary journal, she teaches privately. (www.stellasuelee.com)

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November 10, 2010

Reviewed by Ramon Pressonfirecracker RED by Stellasue Lee

firecracker RED
by Stellasue Lee

Cardinal House Publishing
5001 Fremantle Court
Spring Hill, TN 37174
ISBN 978-0-9826472-0-2
2010, 117pp., $19.95

If Stellasue Lee were a storeowner and her poetry the products, hers would be a most inviting shoppe, the kind that quickens the pulse with anticipation upon entering while simultaneously quieting the heart. Lee’s poetry is generous in its hospitality. It invites browsing and sitting with the piece for a while.

Honestly, I’ve grown weary of rambling or disjointed verse that hopefully has some special or at least discernable meaning for the poet but is a labyrinth in the dark for the reader. I am not willing to go on a scavenger hunt inside a poem with senseless clues. A friend of mine said to me after reading a long poem in The New Yorker, “It must be good; I didn’t understand it.” Former Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, who invented monotone speech, once remarked, “If you’re famous and you bore people, they think it’s their fault.” Many poetry aficionados applaud elitist poetry for the same reason that we clap during an opera—we don’t understand a thing that was said, but these singers have amazing voices and apparently a good command of Italian.

Lee’s craftsmanship, however, invites you to pick up the piece, hold it, turn it over, examine the colors, feel the texture. In a recent interview with her local newspaper Lee said, “If there is any phrase in firecracker RED that’s not understandable I’ll fall on my sword. I wrote it so people could know me and be with me.” Lee knows how to serve her readers. Consider “Bits of Flying Glass”:

At last we realize that there’s no one
but ourselves to sweeten
the torrent of days, stacked
one against the other,
with no proper bookends
to keep them together…

There is a both a gentleness and an edge in this new collection of poems, most written following her move from Los Angeles to middle Tennessee. Lee proves to be a keen observer of the landscape and moments around her (the way the wind blows off the Pachaug River, Christmas lights taken down in February, a man blind in one eye welding without goggles) as well as the movements within, and she displays a remarkable ability to connect the outer and inner worlds. The poet holds light-heartedness and sadness in her two hands, a reflection of both her positive and hopeful spirit as well as her grief (for her parents and especially Jillian, her daughter tragically killed as a young adult in an auto accident).

Love and loss—the actual experience, or the inescapable risk of it—are present in many of Lee’s poems. And the risk of loss is also about the encroaching realization in later years of inching closer to one’s own finale. But that acute awareness does not gloom Lee’s poetry. Consider the delightful “For This, For Everything I’m Almost Out of Time”:

I-65 North going into Franklin, I pass by a family of buffalo.
The bull positions his hugeness between the freeway,

the cow and the calf. That offspring almost as large as his sire.
Just to the right and beyond the buffalo, a white cross stands

in a ditch, stabs upward toward infinity. The name, John Lunn,
clearly visible written in black on the shoulder of the cross.

I always wave, Hi John, as the car speeds by at 75 mph.
This has been going on for eleven months now, ever since

we arrived in middle Tennessee. I have caught a speeding
train. It races toward a birthday that is considered by most

rational beings to distinguish middle age from old age.
So plain is it to me that I am moving through these last years

at an accelerated speed. It’s time I start making some contacts
you understand, who have already passed over to the other side.

While she is certainly attentive and responsive to the natural world around her as evidenced by affectionate nods to a gaggle of geese, a feasting squirrel, a beloved cat, or a female cardinal that flew into her glass window, Stellasue Lee is most insightful about the human heart and its longing for relationship. (While many know that her PhD is in literary studies, few are aware that Lee’s Master’s degree is in counseling.) Her honoring of the rhythms of life, the delicacies of the human spirit, and our core yearning for love make regular appearances throughout firecracker RED.

Reading this collection of poems reminds me of the angst I feel when enjoying the first tastes of an exquisite dessert. At first I’m so thrilled I’m inclined to devour the heaven in one sitting and suck the spoon clean. But then I’m conflicted because I know that the last bite brings its own grief. To indulge and devour or to sip and savor is always the dilemma when engaging great writing.

The final poem on page 117 is a master poet’s bow to an appreciative audience before slipping off stage. I was disappointed that she did not return for encores on subsequent pages. But I trust that Stellasue Lee will interpret the lingering applause as a plea for more in another book, another performance this grand.

___________

A clinically certified therapist and newspaper columnist, Ramon Presson is the author of almost a dozen non-fiction books. His newest book, When Will My Life Not Suck? Authentic Hope for the Disillusioned (New Growth Press) will be released in early 2011. But Presson’s first and greatest love is poetry. An Academy of American Poets award winner, the author says, “I do therapy and write prose to pay the bills; I write poetry to pay me.” View his website at www.LifeChangeCS.org and his blog at www.RamonDPresson.typepad.com

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