What the House Knows
Edited by Diane Lockward
116 poems ~ 210 pages
Price: $21.00
Publisher: Terrapin Books
ISBN: 978-1-947896-78-9
To Order: Available through Ingram, your local bookstore, Amazon.com and other online retailers.
Reviewed by Michael Escoubas
About houses Robert Frost once wrote, “Talking is a hydrant in the yard and writing is a faucet upstairs in the house. Opening the first takes all the pressure off the second.” This thought occurred to me as I read the wonderful poems in editor Diane Lockward’s superb anthology, What the House Knows. After all, few things matter more, or have exerted greater influence, for good or bad, upon our lives, than those special places we call home. Lockward, in her excellent introduction, concludes “As you move through the poems … listen to what the walls have to say.” The walls in this anthology have a lot to say. My goal is to share ways in which some of them have spoken to my heart.
If you are a fan of variety, What the House Knows will not disappoint. There are long poems, short poems, poems that rhyme, free verse, classical form poems, prose poems and more. There are great titles too: “The Doghouse,” “Deep in Milkweed, ” (What is that all about?), “The Poet Leaves Muzot for Paris and the Housekeeper Remains,” and “The Fire Responds to Questioning.” These are but a few of the titles Lockwood includes. They are written by some of the best poets writing today as well as great poets from yesterday.
Need I explain what “The Doghouse” is about? This delightful take on household unrest, by Eric Nelson, engaged me with a kernel of truth. It sums up, for me, what I felt witnessing my own parents’ consternation with each other. Nelson, the son, imagines life from the perspective of living in the doghouse. His last stanza is precious:
How I learned what it meant to be in the doghouse
I don’t know. But whenever I hear the expression
I think of my Dad. And Mom. And Ray and the house
where I grew up knowing I was loved. And nothing else.
Note: “Ray” is short for “Stray” the dog.
In my youth and even as an adult, I am drawn to the Biblical story of the prophet Jonah in the belly of a Great Fish–he lived there for three days’ time. It is not surprising then that Jennifer Maier’s “The Occupant Imagines the House as a Great Fish” arrested my attention. In this fascinatingly creative gem, Maier finds herself living in a century-old house, “each year a silver iridescent scale.” The poet describes its “creaks and currents of air, its slow, digestive rhythms.” Maier conjures the former occupants, imagines what they were like, asks them questions about the décor, what influenced their decisions. Don’t miss the last stanza on this one–it highlights Maier’s excellent command of her Great Fish metaphor.
Ted Kooser’s “Abandoned Farmhouse” is a masterpiece of interesting details. His listing of clues about the house’s former occupants would impress any detective. Kooser aptly defines the size, shape, demeanor, likes, dislikes, and tendencies of those no longer there. Then Kooser lets everything hang out there wanting answers:
Something went wrong, says the empty house
in the weed-choked yard. Stones in the fields
say he was not a farmer; the still-sealed jars
in the cellar say she left in a nervous haste.
And the child? Its toys are strewn in the yard
like branches after a storm–a rubber cow,
a rusty tractor with a broken plow
a doll in overalls. Something went wrong, they say.
Annette Sisson’s “Deep in Milkweed” describes a dilapidated house, a shack that had none of the basic things, let alone extras. In the country, no running water, barely sound enough to stand on its foundations, the roof was flimsy, no insulation. It did have a wood stove, but the walls were ready to collapse. This bleak portrait of a particular house put me in mind of a family I knew. This family tried everything to sustain their home. The children in the poem reminded me of real people I once knew:
His children, angular and thin,
rambled the hill
deep in milkweed. Sharp
pods scraped
their skin as they scanned for monarchs.
tufts of floss
released, ribboned the empty
heat, the sky.
During my childhood in rural central Illinois, my family moved six times. At each new place, I found small things, inconsequential things, that wedded me to history and to the people that once dwelt there. Jane Kenyon’s “Finding a Long Gray Hair,” captures the essence:
I scrub the long floorboards
in the kitchen, repeating
the motions of other women
who have lived in this house.
And when I find a long gray hair
floating in the pail,
I feel my life added to theirs.
What the House Knows has returned me to the places and to the people that shaped me into the person I am today. The poems connect with reality (my reality) on so many levels. It has been aptly said that poetry is its own reason for being; these poems bear witness to that truth.
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