Adrienne Su - Having None of It
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- Year:2012
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In this third collection, award-winning poet Adrienne Su reflects deeply about the circumstances in which people are forced to remake themselves: as parents, as immigrants, as people whose marriages have ended, as people whove wound up in a place they never intended to settle.
From Breakup:
Another ending finds its place
among novels, lives, summers
that fled, but this kind has a way
of getting filed under failure:
yes, the relationship failed,
if to fail is to fail to endure.
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The following poems originally appeared in these journals, some in slightly different form:
The Antioch Review: On Not Writing in Cafs
Crab Orchard Review: In Labor
Crazyhorse: The Baby Years, His Fathers Son
Eclipse: The Muse as Middle-Aged Man, Nobody Said
Electronic Poetry Review: The Re-Education of the Intellectuals
Emprise Review: The Women and the Girls
Fledgling Rag: ABC, In the New World, March Comes in Like a Lion, Why It Happened, Witness
Gargoyle: Harvard
Green Mountains Review: Middle of Nowhere
Indiana Review: The Love Boat
MiPoesias: Child, Sestina
New Letters: Reading
Oxford American: Even the Overachievers Had Barbies, Georgia
Poet Lore: Animal Mornings, The Rift
PoetryMagazine.com: Imagining China, In Spite of Great Difficulty
Prairie Schooner: Having It All, The Outer Cape, Summer
Southwest Review: T. J. Maxx
Most of the poems in this book would not have been written without the generous and timely support of the Central Pennsylvania Consortium/Mellon Foundation, Dickinson College, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Virginia Center for Creative Arts, to all of which I am grateful.
For literary and real-world insight and support, I also wish to thank Jennifer Joseph, Faith Shearin, Melanie Sumner, Cleopatra Mathis, Chris Francese and Amy Luckett, Lynn Johnson, Cotten Seiler, Elizabeth Lee, Nitsa Kann, Rebecca and Justin Marquis, Sharon OBrien, Victoria Sams, Regina Sweeney and Gerry Murphy, and Jeff Wood. Thanks as ever to my parents, Jennifer and Kendall Su, and my brother, Jonathan Su. And daily thanks to my daughters, for making everything new.
In Memoriam: Akiyu Hatano
Also by
Adrienne Su
Middle Kingdom
Sanctuary
must have heft,
its job being physical;
cant afford to apologize
with a ladylike barrel;
must, because its owner
is not, be dependable;
and, serving perchance
as the solitary vehicle
of frank deliberation,
or as central receptacle
of quotidian detail for its
seemingly nonverbal
companion in exile,
ought to be refillable
with insomnia, regret,
elation, impossible
plans, and the tedious
ache of perennial
relinquishment, the only way
out of which is the ritual
of lifting the instrument
with intent to unravel
the thread of ink that turns
into flesh as it travels.
We bought the concept like a dress
wed never wear to anything;
it simply looked too fabulous.
Now that the emperors shivering
in his skin, our lives are half done,
the family hungry and clamoring
for its share of what we promised
to lavish, back when we were flush.
Not that we dont want to give it
we can feel it in our breasts,
the generosity weve become,
but at times it is our very flesh
that resists when we offer it up.
There wont be anything left,
it would say if it could, and what
will become of the little ones then?
Once we were a bottomless well.
Once we were mighty as men;
we talked and drank and loved
as fiercelyoh, how they loved us back!
Then one day love or whatever it was
ceased to be just for the fun of it.
The event that completed us undid
the cloth. And now well have none of it.
Everyone knows about summer:
it finally fails to deliver
the goods. It singes your skin,
rains on your reading list,
insidiously lets you sleep in.
It sneakily sends up blossoms
so gorgeous and fleet-footed
you hardly notice them
going to seed. A beautiful woman
or beautiful man, it tears off
your clothing, leaves you forlorn.
Since its all that December is not,
its all you desire, all you regret
having let back in. In September
you cross your heart, murmur Never
again. And each spring you forget
how you wept, the wasted weeks
and unreturned calls. Around slinks
June, sweetly inquiring, What books
have you written me? Where
have you been? Please oh please
come along Your compass,
memory, gut cry No, but you act
like youve only been born.
One bright look from the merciless
hottest of seasons, and you go.
for S. W.
Its too much like sex in a car:
fine as a concept (everyone needs
to be seen at times by strangers)
,but reality seldom agrees.
Its clumsy. Whoever happens
along as you start to forget yourself
is not what you fancied a relation,
a stranger you know too well.
The hand that isnt holding the pen
flails like an animal pinned by a leg.
And the gorgeous epiphany, just then
at the tip of your tongue, has fled.
When she caught herself trying
not to eat it, not because
she didnt like it or wasnt hungry
or thought she was fat, but because,
lacking strength to cook again,
she wanted it to last two nights,
she understood whose flesh lay
prostrate on the bed of Pyrex,
torn by those she cherished.
A conclusion with no apparent
beginning, it had simply arrived
like a brush fire, like a boot on an ant,
and nurture levels hit a new low.
Just like that. She rewound a little:
garlic, onions, rosemary, wine,
a chicken, olives and their oil,
a process she used to savor.
Now it almost hurt. How a passion
could travel the world, then fall
into such an obvious trap, she hadnt
the faintest, but now her bones
were up for grabs. Shed be reviled
by some for what was going to happen,
but the choice was false: their approval
or her kids. That blinding minute
she would have made the leap for sure
if it hadnt been made ahead for her
like a frozen dinner just heat & serve.
1983. It hasnt fallen into the well
of memory yet. July, August: I still
think its home. At Stone Mountain
the young move in packs. Everyone
at the laser show seems certain
of what they want, that they can
find it locally. Im in high school,
no one strikes me as regional,
and I lack the range to imagine
well mock the way we lived, ringing
the mountain like pilgrims as it went
from green to red, to the shrill laments
of pop stars whod finally date us.
The newest era always shines brightest,
though some predict well later regret
velour and emulating Farrah Fawcett.
And Ive no clue how crazily Ill love
the cold Northeast, how cruelly leave
my sweetest but not last Southern boy
in the dust of my hope, or how perfectly
unoriginal that is, as all the seekers here
will do the same, or nearly: turn traitor
on our prior selves as if no longer Southern
despite the glow by which we loved them.
Not being in it or even in one of its empty forms,
I can see it for what it is: minor-to-major illness,
interferer with plans, abandoner of friends,
root cause of insomnia and death of appetite,
inconvenience making its holder ridiculous.
I say holder even though it sounds ridiculous
because I dislike the word lover for suggesting the illicit
and/or continuous action, as clearly one can love
while doing other things as most of the time,
even when unable to think of anything but the beloved,
thats what people do but to love and be loved
is apparently not the same as to inhale and exhale,
or to have a circulatory system, or to be,
with or without affection. Such prejudicial usage
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