Poetry review – MERMAIDS OF ALBUQUERQUE: Charles Rammelkamp enjoys the realistic optimism in Elizabeth Cohen’s poems
Mermaids of Albuquerque
Elizabeth Cohen
Saint Julian Press, 2024
ISBN: 978-1955194396
94 pages $18.00
Elizabeth Cohen exudes optimism, a joy of living. As she writes in “morning glories”:
they are opening their arms
when everything else is dying
blooming, optimistically
with such wild abandon
as they bask in the sun
right up to the first hard frost
like beautiful letters sent during wars
Cohen uses personification throughout Mermaids of Albuquerque to convey this sense of exuberant joy, even while recognizing that all things inevitably must die. In “The Honey Bees,” like carefree children the honey bees have a party by a leaky hose,
and, later, slow dancing
with the queens of the night
in the golden barrels
proving happiness
can be exactly this
a pop-up surprise party
Honey bees only live a month (‘obviously / they make the most of it’) before a new generation takes over.
The same personification goes for something as amorphous as the wind. In “windswept” she addresses it, asking who gave it permission to run around the house, to yell in the garden, even as the asparagi ‘bow down to you
like mourners, or lunatic
followers of a cult
of frightened tremblers
Throughout the poetry there is this sense of reveling in the present, appreciating everything, no matter how small or annoying. In “Green Chile Versus Pandemic” it’s the humble pepper come to slay the coronavirus, the invader of the lungs, in a native home remedy. In a day or two
it will elbow out
this intruder
chase away the aches
dissolve the fever
guide you back
to the safe
clear house
of your body
“Papyrus” is actually in the voice of this ‘floating piece of paper,’ once a tabula rasa on Ranchitos Road, but soon enough, as she tells us, covered in ‘doodles of birds, simple math equations
Some words I thought might make
a good country-western song
A couple dozen love letters, a recipe for tortillas
combination lock numbers.
Birthdays, so many birthdays:
sister’s, daughter’s, best friend’s,
Abraham Lincoln’s; that whole “one step for a man”
speech of Neil Armstrong…
But everywhere things are looking up, in wonder and appreciation. In “poem with six meadowlarks, a vesper swallow, and a milk carton” the swallow – ‘in her speckled cape // and pink stilettos’ – sings about the treasure she finds in the garbage while the meadowlarks strut and preen (‘they’re so happy / good moods with wings’). In “Beautiful Darlings” Cohen gushes, orgasmic, about the lush berries she’s grown (‘Such troopers, such achievers, / not a slacker among them.’), their deliciousness, their sensuality. “Dear Prehistory” is a song in praise of the pelican, which she calls a ‘stunning reminder that anywhere on the planet / is a living exhibit of everything life.’ “Sunny, With a Chance of Bird” is a paean to the Chachalaca, the yapping, chattering bird of Mexico, which has somehow gone off track on the Jemez River, a tributary of the Rio Grande in New Mexico, whose ‘raucous morning / songs rile everyone, / even waken the dead.’
Cohen writes lovingly about her father, from whom she got her love of nature and gardening. In “Labor Arbitrator” she writes about his instructions for tending a garden.
“Plant marigolds around the edges,”
my father said. Like a hoop of fire
they cast a protection spell, to guard
the garden, keep out intruders.
As a child, she doesn’t understand when he says that he has to go to Arizona for work, to resolve a dispute at a mine run by the Anaconda Copper Mining Company, picturing instead a large snake and pirates with sabers fighting in a copper mine. His job as labor arbitrator was to listen to both sides and suggest a resolution.
In the midst of their warring,
these rough warriors had summoned
my father, with his tattered briefcase
and receding hairline, his thick glasses,
and tan trench. He knew what to do.
Sure enough, he resolves the dispute in the same way he manages the garden. ‘He was a man / who understood edges and sides, / inner and outer, ups and downs.’
He was gone a week, and then came home
rumpled and tired and I knew why
somewhere in Arizona, he’d cast
a protection spell. “And everyone
was basically satisfied,” he said,
at the dinner table.
“Pass the mashed potatoes.”
We’d grown those too, he and I,
and they were delicious.
“I Used to Die Here” is a poem about helping her father die, in Oxford, New York. He’d become old and sick, eyes clouded over, mind wandering.
He was the kind of dad
who would tell you he was proud
of your vocabulary
when you used words
like “asphyxiation” or said “exit strategy”
Eventually he’d lost the ability to speak, began ‘to take dying so seriously / running with it / all the way home.’ It’s a very poignant poem, but Cohen’s language is understated, and this suggests the attitude that underlies the whole collection. “Bone to Bone” begins with the suggestion, ‘Think of your body as something / built in a factory. All the parts / latched and correctly assembled.’ Using this metaphor, she describes how the parts eventually give out, wear away – a knee, a hip, a wrist, your spine. But do we mourn a stove that has ceased to function? A car? Well, maybe a little, but she concludes the poem:
In the interest of open disclosure
what a beautiful circuitous ride
it has been / will be, to the last place
where we’ll drop these bones off forever.
In the interest of open disclosure
I love you.
This is not a sad story.
I forbid you to cry.
And so, almost summing up, in the final poem of Mermaids of Albuquerque, called “the wild places” (“–for my riveman”), she writes:
life is short
so let’s ride the wild rivers
sleep in the wild light
of the wild dark
I’ll bring the last bit of wild me
let me taste the wild of you
let’s go to the wild places
because they won’t be here forever
and of course
neither will we
Elizabeth Cohen’s elegantly short lines simplify and focus her message. Life is beautiful; let’s not overthink it or overly indulge in sorrow and self-pity, but instead let’s take delight in the things and the people around us while we are able to do so.
Sep 27 2024
London Grip Poetry Review – Elizabeth Cohen
Poetry review – MERMAIDS OF ALBUQUERQUE: Charles Rammelkamp enjoys the realistic optimism in Elizabeth Cohen’s poems
Elizabeth Cohen exudes optimism, a joy of living. As she writes in “morning glories”:
they are opening their arms when everything else is dying blooming, optimistically with such wild abandon as they bask in the sun right up to the first hard frost like beautiful letters sent during warsCohen uses personification throughout Mermaids of Albuquerque to convey this sense of exuberant joy, even while recognizing that all things inevitably must die. In “The Honey Bees,” like carefree children the honey bees have a party by a leaky hose,
and, later, slow dancing with the queens of the night in the golden barrels proving happiness can be exactly this a pop-up surprise partyHoney bees only live a month (‘obviously / they make the most of it’) before a new generation takes over.
The same personification goes for something as amorphous as the wind. In “windswept” she addresses it, asking who gave it permission to run around the house, to yell in the garden, even as the asparagi ‘bow down to you
like mourners, or lunatic followers of a cult of frightened tremblersThroughout the poetry there is this sense of reveling in the present, appreciating everything, no matter how small or annoying. In “Green Chile Versus Pandemic” it’s the humble pepper come to slay the coronavirus, the invader of the lungs, in a native home remedy. In a day or two
it will elbow out this intruder chase away the aches dissolve the fever guide you back to the safe clear house of your body“Papyrus” is actually in the voice of this ‘floating piece of paper,’ once a tabula rasa on Ranchitos Road, but soon enough, as she tells us, covered in ‘doodles of birds, simple math equations
Some words I thought might make a good country-western song A couple dozen love letters, a recipe for tortillas combination lock numbers. Birthdays, so many birthdays: sister’s, daughter’s, best friend’s, Abraham Lincoln’s; that whole “one step for a man” speech of Neil Armstrong…But everywhere things are looking up, in wonder and appreciation. In “poem with six meadowlarks, a vesper swallow, and a milk carton” the swallow – ‘in her speckled cape // and pink stilettos’ – sings about the treasure she finds in the garbage while the meadowlarks strut and preen (‘they’re so happy / good moods with wings’). In “Beautiful Darlings” Cohen gushes, orgasmic, about the lush berries she’s grown (‘Such troopers, such achievers, / not a slacker among them.’), their deliciousness, their sensuality. “Dear Prehistory” is a song in praise of the pelican, which she calls a ‘stunning reminder that anywhere on the planet / is a living exhibit of everything life.’ “Sunny, With a Chance of Bird” is a paean to the Chachalaca, the yapping, chattering bird of Mexico, which has somehow gone off track on the Jemez River, a tributary of the Rio Grande in New Mexico, whose ‘raucous morning / songs rile everyone, / even waken the dead.’
Cohen writes lovingly about her father, from whom she got her love of nature and gardening. In “Labor Arbitrator” she writes about his instructions for tending a garden.
“Plant marigolds around the edges,” my father said. Like a hoop of fire they cast a protection spell, to guard the garden, keep out intruders.As a child, she doesn’t understand when he says that he has to go to Arizona for work, to resolve a dispute at a mine run by the Anaconda Copper Mining Company, picturing instead a large snake and pirates with sabers fighting in a copper mine. His job as labor arbitrator was to listen to both sides and suggest a resolution.
In the midst of their warring, these rough warriors had summoned my father, with his tattered briefcase and receding hairline, his thick glasses, and tan trench. He knew what to do.Sure enough, he resolves the dispute in the same way he manages the garden. ‘He was a man / who understood edges and sides, / inner and outer, ups and downs.’
He was gone a week, and then came home rumpled and tired and I knew why somewhere in Arizona, he’d cast a protection spell. “And everyone was basically satisfied,” he said, at the dinner table. “Pass the mashed potatoes.” We’d grown those too, he and I, and they were delicious.“I Used to Die Here” is a poem about helping her father die, in Oxford, New York. He’d become old and sick, eyes clouded over, mind wandering.
He was the kind of dad who would tell you he was proud of your vocabulary when you used words like “asphyxiation” or said “exit strategy”Eventually he’d lost the ability to speak, began ‘to take dying so seriously / running with it / all the way home.’ It’s a very poignant poem, but Cohen’s language is understated, and this suggests the attitude that underlies the whole collection. “Bone to Bone” begins with the suggestion, ‘Think of your body as something / built in a factory. All the parts / latched and correctly assembled.’ Using this metaphor, she describes how the parts eventually give out, wear away – a knee, a hip, a wrist, your spine. But do we mourn a stove that has ceased to function? A car? Well, maybe a little, but she concludes the poem:
In the interest of open disclosure what a beautiful circuitous ride it has been / will be, to the last place where we’ll drop these bones off forever. In the interest of open disclosure I love you. This is not a sad story. I forbid you to cry.And so, almost summing up, in the final poem of Mermaids of Albuquerque, called “the wild places” (“–for my riveman”), she writes:
life is short so let’s ride the wild rivers sleep in the wild light of the wild dark I’ll bring the last bit of wild me let me taste the wild of you let’s go to the wild places because they won’t be here forever and of course neither will weElizabeth Cohen’s elegantly short lines simplify and focus her message. Life is beautiful; let’s not overthink it or overly indulge in sorrow and self-pity, but instead let’s take delight in the things and the people around us while we are able to do so.