East of the River

Anna DiBella’s Review of East of the River
Author: Suzanne Nielsen
Published: January, 2006
So’ham Books, Haryana, India
Website: http://www.sohambooks.tk

For a poet who is open and straightforward, yet private, as she herself tells us in “Bound, ‘The ties that bind/the binds that tie,’” her poetry becomes a medium for being. In East of the River, Suzanne Nielsen shares her personal journey of “mirrors and shadows.” Her poems fill me with fire. As I read them I escape the ashes, but, without question, continue to experience a meltdown.

You cannot help but be touched profoundly by those things which move her, stun her, leave her bereft or questioning, either her own or her core life of another. The last lines of her poems carry metaphoric weight: “all of a sudden/honk honking stirs me back/ to turning right/or wrong/attempting to find submersion.” In “1015 Fifth Street: ‘This house isn’t the way I remember it/Does that count for something?’” In another piece: “I never sold tickets/to my own sideshow/attraction.”

Suzanne’s poems are indescribably honest. You will never forget them. You will pulsate with remembrance of those characters she has created or known and recreated: her mother, Kathleen, her aunt…you will come to know Suzanne. Even when she is hiding, she is there, right there.

Anna DiBella, President of Pen Women, author of Half Moons & Falling Stars

Sampling from EOTR

1015 Fifth Street

If only I’d have remembered to multiply
1015 would have made sense
no slapping high five’s, no low ball offers
just a measly little two
plus?
bedroom
a basement
with a windowless frame
minus a set of hinges on the upstairs
master bedroom
door
that
leads
to nowhere but trouble
times
gang
symbols
written in Revlon’s
Holiday Splendor
empty smudged bottles resting on the window sill
and ouch
a bullet
buried
in the floor carpet right next to
a glass earring, pierced and stained with
teenage blood.
This house isn’t the way I remember it
with the party line stuck to my ear
hanging from the kitchen wall where the
ticking
clock
carried
from Denmark and proudly hung
on the wall of the property owned
at
1015
displays
the time
of decades past
with shiny red linoleum flooring and counter tops
the color of cherry Popsicle’s
but the cherry stain rubs the carpet in the other room now
does that count for something?
Oh, hang your hat elsewhere or you will
become the mistress to a master’s
bedroom of
endless
renovation.

A Less Than Purple Passage

My son is excited
for an eleventh grader
this is big
for him this is monumental
He is ordinarily stoic
and always in command
of his emotions

What’s this excitement about,
I ask with sincere anticipation

I’ve been accepted to Annapolis’
summer naval academy program, he answers, eyes averted

He’s pivoting with pride, delight, puritanism
at its finest. All those years I spoke out against
militarism, served on the steering committee for WAMM
reminding him that his uncle would have gone to Canada
instead of serving in Viet Nam,
reminding him that his grandfather
received a purple heart in WWII
and never let go of the nightmares
to follow him into death
at too young an age
a saddened heart
broken from bloodshed
while less than a purple passage
remains
next to a flag folded to precision
in the shape of a dagger

I want to scream from
the battlefield right out our front door
War is right here among us
Annapolis is not privy
to my eleventh grader
all the while he
the one with diverted eyes
remains in command

Peat Moss For the Soul

I sat waiting for adoption
a silenced relic in a contemporary world
dated 1956 inside a pelt of pale ecru
like a skin graft donor
a first edition
fees pending
minus a Catholic discount
no tax on wearable items

Life takes hold and I find a home and a way
where I plant myself for almost five decades.

I read, I write, I contemplate life and one day
there it sits, waiting to be adopted
a silent relic in a contemporary book bin
dated 1924 inside its green cover
like sod rooting into the earth
a first edition copy of
The New Spoon River
for a dollar
minus my 10 percent discount
brings it to a grand total of
ninety-six cents
with tax, a new millennium addendum.

Life takes hold and Claud Antle, Edith Bell,
Emerson Clingman and Wayland Reed find a home
and a way to be unsilenced perched within the hands
of this aging reader.

Spinning

I work for a living.
I know right from wrong.
I know the sun sets in the same direction.
I know the Earth is round.
I know my favorite socks are blue and thin around the toe tips.
I know I am not hungry but
I am tired,
I know one animal is sick and the other two seem
okay, for now.
I know I like pasta
not over cooked and room temperature.
I know I can follow direction.
But I can still get lost.

I can color the picture
but not draw the detail.
I can read the lyrics but not
sing the song.
I can row the boat but not
tie it to the tree.
I can sleep while standing but
not in peace.
I can wake up cold but
not feel the draft.
I can say I’m sorry but
I won’t.
I won’t mean it if I say it.

I won’t call someone in the
middle of the night.
I won’t share my chips.
I won’t ask personal questions.
I won’t tell details.
I won’t write your story
or drink your coffee.
I won’t try religion
on for size.
It will not fit.
I will not fit.

I will not talk about centipedes
I will not step on anthills.
I will not step on a crack
or pull the weeds out of one.
I will not drive to Detroit.
I will not live on a commune
or take communion
or eat fish on Fridays.
I cannot eat fish
or follow ritual even with direction.
I cannot live off vegetables
even with spices or oils or
cooked.
I cannot talk randomly
to Gods or ministers.
I cannot eat foul unless
I have vegetables
cooked.
Luke warm left crunchy
left over.
I can’t throw them away.

I can’t ride a unicycle.
I can’t read upside down.
I can’t read out loud.
I can’t wear high shoes
that are white or pink
or yellow.
I need shoes to fit
I need shelter
I need time alone.
I need it to rain
and snow to spin
and the threat of tornadoes
and tomatoes but not potatoes
on Sunday or any day
of the week.
I need to follow direction
in order to get somewhere.
I need direction.
I need a wife.