Editor’s Choice 8

Lynda Plater’s pamphlet ‘Three Seasons for Burning’ contains many poems which give me a catch in my throat. This is one of them.

He lost his life thinking of Eunice

She was a long low town
on the Louisiana plain
as he drove down.
The woman at his side
was lovely (though
he could not now
even think of her name)
and her dress
had a shimmer
as the Chevrolet rolled
its peppermint green
between the fields,
soothing heat down.
And she said something
small, shy from her place
at his side
as if she knew
he would think of this,
this slight, light moment
at his dying, remembering
this long, slow time
with heat moving off fields.
It was a hot light:
even at the evening
with sun red and hot
(hot, he said,
as a red Cajun chilli)
as a pain in the chest
burning him to ground.
Yet even then
there were some lights
strung low in the line
to Eunice town
in whose deep arms
pale stars came out
over the flat fields
where corn and cane
ripened with the fall.
Then finally,
even stars went out.

To begin with there’s something songlike in the way it opens, which is sustained right the way through the poem. The narrow, long form is one which I think of as speeding up the pace, but in this case seems to help the story move along more gently, revealing a little more of its intricacies piece by piece ‘remembering/ this long, slow time’.
The female personification of the town, and its name being a woman’s name, gives the poem a suggestive ambiguity. While the conflation of ‘the woman at his side’ and the town is there, the reader always knows which is which. And there’s a touching irony in the fact he remembers the name of the town but not the name of the woman at his side, made more poignant when ‘she said something/small, shy from her place’. Which is followed by what I feel is a dimension-shifting revelation ‘as if she knew/ he would think of this,/ this slight, light moment/ at his dying’. Premonition, hindsight, the mutability of memory all suddenly leap into the frame here and I’m held in a present that, while containing this particular past, also changes it.
And it is a hard present, ‘a pain in the chest/ burning him to ground’ while he relives this brief loaded memory. And the poem ends with that atmospheric conflation of the arms of the town, the memory and the woman whose name he can’t recall but whose premonition is somehow at the core of it all. A poem full of the shifting ground between past and present before ‘even stars went out’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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