A Middle Aged Woman Rages
by Melissa Jørgenrud Helton
56 Poems ~ 97 pages
Price: $19.00
Publisher: Accents Publishing
ISBN: 978-1-961127-25-8
To Order: Accents Publishing or Amazon.com
Reviewed by Michael Escoubas
Nothing could have prepared me to write a review of A Middle Aged Woman Rages, by Melissa Jørgenrud Helton. Having written well over three hundred book reviews, I have never encountered a collection this outrageous, this angry, this mission focused. Yet, in the same breath, I have yet to engage with a work so compelling, so honest, and so “needed” by western culture. Helton is fresh, bold, and raw. These observations are not in the least pejorative. But they are true.
I began my research, as I usually do, with a pre-read of titles. No shortage of great ones. I couldn’t stay away from “Where to Find My Body in My Hometown When I Die.” This lengthy prose poem (four pages that I couldn’t put down) also qualifies as a “list” poem. Helton describes the places in town where one could find her body parts if one cared to look for them. For example, her pelvis bone rests in a bushy tangle near the railroad tracks, close to the city dump. Her hands, folded in prayer, reside in a greasy, orange-topped corner booth at Rudy’s Hot Dog restaurant. Here’s a stanzaic sampling of the “more” that’s in store for the intrepid reader:
Between the golf course and the projects, you’ll find
Manhattan Marsh Nature Preserve, a soupy, boardwalked
descendant of the Great Black Swamp. Follow the trail
until you find a tree with a bald eagle’s nest high in the canopy.
You’re gonna have to climb up there. You’re gonna
have to want it. Up there in the heavy nest,
are my breasts, unincubated, useless, and pale.
This poem, which appears late in the collection, was a can’t miss opener for me. It is as if the poet gives her cathartic horse free reign to race through the insincerities of life. They are satires … ironies the poet must face and deal with.
Since I now have your attention, I offer a clue to the entire collection via Helton’s dedication page:
To all the middle-aged women
who raged before me and showed the way
and to all the middle-aged women beside me now,
with clear, brawny voices.
Helton touched my heart with this compelling miniature:
The Moon Calls Us All
to thrive in flux,
to pull the water
of the whole world
behind us as we go
without apology.
This cryptic picture of the poet’s sister-species is supported throughout the collection. She is perhaps the strongest defender and proponent of women, I’ve ever reviewed. She is also unique in her aggressiveness and plainspoken audacity. Here are strophes from “First 100 Sentences of a Life Sentence, a line-a-day journal for 25 years”:
And so it begins, Happy Birthday
from our little home. Sometimes,
the truth is in blood.
Life is like sea foam.
Give yourself away like the sea.
The lights flicker and we hold
still. It was a woulda-been day
of epic proportions.
The serenity prayer is wise.
We venture out into the blinding snow.
Today’s postcard was a moose from the UP.
Helton’s diary entries continue for several pages. They reveal truth-telling from the heart of a truly gifted observer of life. She says what many are thinking but never voice.
Speaking of titles,“Things I Want to Write a Poem About but Don’t Have the Energy to Because We’re Surviving Hell”: open like a smashed piñata dropping out a plethora of potential poems, yet to be written:
The last penny being minted.
The image of a child with a map.
A sonnet about pins and needles in my arm
when I finally roll away from you at night.
The fluffy squirrels who startle me each morning,
making such racket in the dry oak leaves.
How much I would love to be a novelist.
All the tattoos I want to get.
How I wish I could be mad at my ex-husband
for all of it.
Helton knows that the only poetry worth writing is the poetry of “surviving hell.” Her implicit advice: Poetry is all around you, write it. Write it as one surviving hell.
Melissa Helton is among the most talented and diverse of any poet I have reviewed. This is supported by her vast array of forms. I counted no fewer than two dozen distinct and interesting forms. Some I have never seen before. This feature is worth the book’s modest asking price. But her forms are never just for show. Forms are well-chosen containers that hold the truth which resonates from her courageous heart. For example, “Orbit” reveals life constantly in flux. Can you fill in the missing letters? Can you relate to its wisdom?
disco_fort
m_nsoon
_error
eart_ling
p_rpetural
ac_obat
galact_c
u_done
_ravity
Poems not to miss:
“Perimenopause Haibun.” I showed this one to my wife. She had to fill me in. “How Many Ways Does My Government Hate Me.” This one is so packed with ironic truth; I had to sit with it a while. “The Great Black Swamp Woman,” chronicles all the things the poet is either “done with,” “has had enough of,” or wants to change so she can thrive.
Magnanimity in a poet’s heart:
“What I Don’t Want to Admit Before We Depart”
I’m scared to write all this.
I’m scared for anyone to read all this.
I lied and cheated and tore down
the world trying to feel differently.
I have owed apologies. I am owed apologies.
The propaganda story of us, I swallowed it
whole, I was so starved.
Honesty is a murky glossary.
I need a good therapist. Probably medication.
Perhaps some gentle religion and a stern lover.
I passed on some generational curses
I should have pruned.
The sun making the dried oranges I hung
in the window of my new place glow
each evening is the closest I have
ever been to knowing god.
A Middle-Aged Woman Rages, by Melissa Helton, is a dangerous book; it could kill a person.
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