LEARNING TO SWIM is a painful narrative of poems that — truly — I expected to hate as soon as I read the first page. I could see where they were going from that first page — as the poet intends — and I didn’t think I had any desire to travel there.
I’ve only just begun to understand how to read poetry — reading particularly each word and phrase, not just the ideas and content, bringing a concentration that is unnecessary for comprehension but allows me to appreciate the art. It is not necessary to study a painting to understand what is portrayed, or even to appreciate it at some level. But if you do study it, and the artist has invested his skill in the painting, then you will be rewarded for your contemplation, especially if you have taken the time to educate your eye. This concentrated reading, I find, means that painful poetry has more power than painful prose. And I’ve read enough “important” stories of trauma to have a distaste for it in literary form. So I set this book down when it got distasteful and ugly. I don’t feel that a book or a story has to be about some terrible act in order to be important, and I feel a distaste for the easy importance that clothes such stories. But that false patina of power is not what I found when I picked it up again — hoping to read swiftly until I found this passage, the one that had caught my eye in the first place:
There are veils
over the high bush blueberries,
like huge white wings
brushing the ground.
Mother and I scrooge under,
tin cans in hand,
and pull the berries down
so fast they rattle
and fill to the brim.
I hate their sour taste
but love being hidden
under the netting
where no one can see
me.
But as I quickly read, I found myself drawn in and found the story in these narrative poems so true as to be compelling. And these poems are true, reflecting not only the pain of the assault, but the eventual cleansing and moving on that happens in real life. A recovery that doesn’t make the original act any less repugnant, but is not a permanent destruction of youth and childhood either.
In the prologue, she says
…
This is what I remember:
that hot room,
your strange body,
your hands hurting,
and harsh words
telling me terrible things
would happen
if I ever
told.
But now you can’t
find me or reach me
or hurt me ever
again and once I tell the words
I am going to kick
you off my porch
and learn to breathe
again.
Perhaps you find this a promising beginning. I did not. But the speaker recovers, and so does the poetry.
Or, rather, first the poetry, then the person.
I hate the color yellow.
I hate limp curtains.
I hate iron bedsteads
and thick boys in shorts.
When I grow up
I will have a green room
with a soft, mounded bed
and white curtains
blowing in the windows.
In my room
there will never be
a thick boy in shorts.
For me this recovery was even more appreciated because I didn’t quite believe it was going to come, so fully, either in the story or especially in the almost poetry — I call it that just this once because it has so little besides formatting and intensity to make it such. Perhaps it is more fairly poetry that is almost not poetry…
Daddy held my hand
as we scrambled down
the path to Dresser’s Pond.
We waded in together,
and I thought of white, bony
things I could not see,
of a lake octopus waiting
to sucker its tentacles
around my skinny legs.
Daddy said,
“You are learning to swim,”
and I let go of his hand.
“I am learning to swim,”
I chanted
and when the bottom
fell away,
I bobbed on top,
my face like a white flower
before me.
Perhaps it is realistic because it is real — the book is subtitled A memoir. Perhaps parts are painful to read because they were painful to live — and to write, the author said that starting these poems was like eating ground glass (although I doubt she can truly make the comparison, I believe this right is included in the poet’s license.). The good thing to reflect on, is that perhaps she recovers so fully because that is what people do.
In the end, I don’t find this poetry to be many things that I want poetry to be. It is painful and uncomfortable in many places. But it’s true in a sense that includes emotions and goes beyond facts, and that is something.
LEARNING TO SWIM: a memoir by ann turner