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It is rare to find in one collection an entire skyline burning and the quiet to follow a single worm, to hear soil breathe—in Jorie Graham's fifteenth poetry collection, you do.
Jorie Graham’s fifteenth poetry collection, To 2040, opens in question punctuated as fact: “Are we / extinct yet. Who owns / the map.” In these visionary new poems, Graham is part historian, part cartographer as she plots an apocalyptic world where rain must be translated, silence sings louder than speech, and wired birds parrot recordings of their extinct ancestors. In one poem, the speaker is warned by a clairvoyant “the American experiment will end in 2030.” Graham shows us our potentially inevitable future soundtracked by sirens among industrial ruins, contemplating the loss of those who inhabited and named them.
In sparse lines that move with cinematic precision, these poems pan from overhead views of reshaped shorelines to close-ups of a worm burrowing through earth. Here, we linger, climate crisis on hold, as Graham asks us to sit silently, to hear soil breathe. An urgent open letter to the future, with a habit of looking back, To 2040 is narrated by a speaker who reflects on her own mortality—in the glass window of a radiotherapy room, in the first “claw full of hair” placed gently on a green shower ledge. In poems that look to 2040 as both future and event-horizon, we leave the collection warned, infinitely wiser, and yet more attentively on edge. “Inhale. / Are you still there / the sun says to me.” And, from the title poem, “what was yr message, what were u meant to / pass on?”
| ISBN-13: | 9781619322691 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Copper Canyon Press |
| Publication date: | 04/18/2023 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 1 MB |
Are We
extinct yet. Who owns
the map. May I
look. Where is my
claim. Is my history
verifiable. Have I
included the memory
of the animals. The animals’
memories. Are they
still here. Are we
alone. Look
the filaments
appear. Of memories. Whose? What was
Land
like. Did it move
through us. Something says nonstop
are you here
are your ancestors
real do you have a
body do you have
yr self in
mind can you see yr
hands—have you broken it
the thread—try to feel the
pull of the other
end—says make sure
both ends are
alive when u pull to
try to re-enter
here. A raven
has arrived while I
am taking all this
down. In-
corporate me it
squawks. It hops
closer along the stone
wall. Do you remember
despair its coming
closer says. I look
at him. Do not
hurry I say but
he is tapping the stone
all over with his
beak. His coat is
sun. He looks
carefully at me bc
I am so still &
eager. He sees my
loneliness. Cicadas
begin. Is this a real
encounter I ask. Of the old
kind. When there were
ravens. No
says the light. You
are barely here. The
raven left a
long time ago. It
is traveling its thread its
skyroad forever now, it knows
the current through the
cicadas, which you cannot hear
but which
close over u now. But is it not
here I ask looking up
through my stanzas.
Did it not reach me
as it came in. Did
it not enter here
at stanza eight—& where
does it go now
when it goes away
again, when I tell you the raven is golden,
when I tell you it lifted &
went, & it went.
To 2040
With whom am I speaking, are you one or many, what are u, are u, do I make my-
self clear, is this which we called speech what u use, are u a living form such as the
form I inhabit now letting it speak me. My window tonight casts light onto the snow,
I cast from my eye a glance, a touchless touch, tossed out to capture this shine we
cast. I pull it in, into my memory store. I have lost track. It’s snowed for more
than we’d imagined at the start, it began, unexpectedly it began, it did not really
cease again, it slowed some days, melted as it fell on some, days passed thru snow
rather than snow thru days. Did it remember us at some point, when we cld hold no
more memory of day in mind. We had started with minutes. We had loved their
fullness—cells flowing thru this body of time—purging all but their passing thru us
& our letting them flow-through. But then they stopped being different. You
couldn’t tell one minute from another, or an hour, day, year. Years pulled their
lengths through us like long wet strings, and we hung onto them, they strung us a
ways along, & up, they kept us from drowning in the terrible minutes. Once I sat
down & cried as I watched the sun come up & the flakes falling as if not noticing the
movmt from night into day—at least let there be difference—otherwise whatever
remains of desire will go—otherwise there will be nothing I have saved—nothing to
save—make day flower as a piece of time again—it’s cold—dream is a hard thing to
catch sight of—I said dream—I said dream what is it I said—I said it because just
now, looking out, it’s a reflex, I saw, as if a stain or residue of scent, a yellowing on
snow in patches, long thin stretches, like a very cold face remembering something it
wishes to forget, I saw a poverty touched by a lessening of poverty, a memory of a
chime on cold air, a strange flash as of birdshadow—so fast—though there are no
birds any longer—longer—I would have said ever again—but then there it is that
word I dread so—again—here where we have none of it or nothing but, we can’t
tell—but it was the so-rare poking-through of the strange sun we have—& for
an instant it gave us shadows—branches that do not move moved—against snow,
wall, pane, against trunk, intertwining & trembling inside other shadows, & all
was alive. You feel the suddenly. You feel like an itch a thing you used to call so
casually yr inwardness, u feel yr looking at the knotting, the undoings of nothing in
nothing, gorgeous—cursive golds what wld u say now, say it now, do it now yr in-
wardness thinks as you feel yr greed in yr eyes yr hands yr soul—how u drink
what used to be just end-of-day, low light, any winter afternoon. Give me a day back.
Give the slowing of dusk into gloaming. Give me a night. Shut something down, close
your fist over it, hold us tight, then unclench unfurl slowly release us again into light.
Give us a dawn. Give us the one note without warning where one call one cry breaks
& darkness releases a branch & if you wait the whole crown then the body will be
unhidden and handed over into yr sight. The sight of the watching human. I turn
back-in as the accident the release of light is fixed & we are back in snowlight now.
How far forward r we. We used to speak of future. Speech had a different function
then. It’s hard to know when to break the silence now. It has something to do with
the absence of night. We never knew we shld feel the rotation. We hurled
forward. Yes towards death but what joy. Didn’t know it was a game. Should have
loved the hurtling, the losses, the hurry dilation delay fear surprise fury. We miss
the sense of abandonment yes we miss homesickness. We miss the vector in any
direction. You back there are you back there listening to me am I audible what do I
do to make this audible don’t forget to ask when your time comes for presence.
Do not ask for forgiveness. Do not ask for youth. They will offer them up
pristine and innocent. Do not listen. Do not make the silly mistake do
not ask for eternity. Look behind you, turn, look down as much as you can, notice all
that disappears. Place as much as you can in your heart. It doesn’t matter what’s in
your mind. When you come here all you will be left w/is a heart they spill out, a
tin cup, they count up what you put in it, they shake it into a small burlap sack, they
weigh it, they tie it up, they do not give it back. It is then you are placed at your
window to watch. Then the snow begins. You are told to remember the message u
accidentally forgot to attend to. It is among the things they sequestered when they
measured u. You must sit now and recall the message. The one put in yr hand but
not opened. You were busy. There was little time. Little notice was given. Its ink is
new. The fold in its paper single & crisp. The words glow in their crease. The unread
shines with its particular shine. It has been weighed. It was put to yr account &
burned. What was it, u must remember, what was yr message, what were u meant to
pass on?
Are We
On the Last Day
I
Can You
I Am Still
Translation Rain
To 2030
They Ask Me
Dusk In Drought
Cage
Dis-
I Catch Sight of the Now
Day
In Reality
Time Frame
Fog
Why
Dawn 2040
In the early 1900s, lauded journalist and politician Joseph Pulitzer created one of the most coveted awards in all of journalism, music, drama and book publishing. Year after year, brand new stories are recognized for their indelible contributions, from fiction and biographies to history and poetry. Without further ado, join us in celebrating the 2024 […]
