Carmen Calatayud is no stranger to aches of the mind, heart, and body. Both immigrant parents– a Spanish father and Irish mother– survived wartime violence before settling down in the United States of Traum-erica. Mix in Calatayud’s adult experiences with health afflictions, politics, and romance. The result? A thunderous volume of poetry that alternates between prickly discomfort and affection for the cosmic elements of the universe.
War creates melancholy, especially within families. In “Last Night in My Father’s House,” the passing of a formidable parent becomes a complex spectacle: “Even the angel of death who comes for my father / is scared tonight.” In “Finding Costa Brava,” the poet’s disheartened mother reminds us that, given enough difficulty, a nurturer can become frozen, even in life: “Her sadness fills sinks and bathtubs / I can’t turn the faucets off.” Calatayud describes each character with dignity and compassion.
Every poem depicts a dichotomy between raw honesty and earthly beauty, peppered with magical realism and inventive word play. In “For The Woman Who Knows Death and Loves Hard,” the poet elevates the noun “hurricane” into a verb, transforming her sorrow into a concrete form:
I hurricane my pain all over the floor I don’t
Bother to mop it up
I would swallow that inconvenient grief if I could
At times, Calatayud conveys the undeniable indifference of the world in matters of feminine distress. In “Growing Up Female Around American Shooters,” the poet states, “To be female is to be raw 24/7,” while incisively indicting the lack of obstacles for “Amateur killers coming for us.” In “First Concussion,” the stark magic of spring blossoms shines through. And of course the universe remains elegant, despite the preventable attack that is thrust upon the Girl:
“pulls into parking lot at a grocery store
windshield absorbs her hyena sounds
It’s springtime in April
she rolls down the windows
air
more
air
the dogwoods are in bloom”
Even in the darkest hours of this oeuvre, starlight still twinkles. In “Water Bottles at the Border,” there is comfort in “a saint with a white guayabera” who leaves jugs of fresh water for those crossing the “burnt coral sunset land.” Mentions of The Beatles and Jimi Hendrix in “Watching the War, 1975” relieve the weight of televised struggles in Vietnam. In “Open Letter To My Outer Space Lover,” an engrossing rendezvous with a hot starman– lovingly modeled after androgynous rock god David Bowie– showcases a deep affinity for timely, rebellious music. There may be sorrow and desolation in these pages, but there is also dancing and lovemaking.
This is Calatayud’s second full-length collection of poetry. The otherworldly imagery of water, stars, and connection to others is a constant companion for the reader in each of the four subsections of the book. Throughout, there is generous wisdom, for the reader and perhaps for the poet herself, in how to proceed through the inevitable grief of being human: “There are walls everywhere. / Your work is to knock them down with your eyes. / Then go toward tenderness.”
