Obit Poems

In Chang's fifth collection, she ardently searches for balance after the death of her mother. Early on, she writes "To acknowledge death is / to acknowledge that we must take / another shape." Intrigued by the look and sound of the word "obit," Chang has created a unique poetic construct. Made up of four parts, its 95 stanza-like sections resemble clippings from a newspaper's obituary section. Most have no titles, while "I Am a Miner. The Light Turns Blue" is a masterfully paced 12-page poem packed with lines that will persist in the mind such as, "disregard the billions of bodies rushing out like smoked bees", or "the rain does not have a mouth it is more slap than tongue". The feeling of hope is a theme throughout this solid collection, in variations Chang evokes with grace, "Hope / is the wildest bird, the one that flies / so fast it will either disappear or burst / into flames." Chang's poetry fine tunes that conflagration with acuity.

In her fifth collection, Guggenheim Fellowship winner Chang (The Boss) uses an unusual subject--obituaries--to shed light on what qualities make for a good life as well as a passable death. In predominantly page-length prose poems, her obits address the speaker's parents but also cover privacy, language, and the future as well as memory, hope, and even obsession: "Sadness--dies while the man across the street trims the hedges and I can see my children doing cartwheels." The poems are infused with both grief and the need to accept it while responding to the demands of a career and raising a family. Using a first line from Sylvia Plath as its title, "I am a Miner. The Light Turns Blue," the free-verse poem comprising the book's second section, reinforces themes of death and grief while also considering ambition, happiness, and rain. At times, it becomes a hodgepodge but is also rich with beautiful lines that connect readers to emotion. A series of tanka about parenting become side notes to the narrative flow and are, on the whole, less effective. VERDICT Often incorporating short declarative sentences, Chang's poems can veer toward being list-like but move forward quickly to endings that surprise and even amaze as they burrow deep into those grieving places all of us have experienced. Recommended for most collections.--Doris Lynch, Monroe Cty. P.L., Bloomington, IN

ObitLanguage--died again on August3, 2015 at 7:09 a.m. I heard aboutmy mother's difficult nights. I hireda night person. By the time I gotthere, she was always gone. Thenight person had a name but was likea ghost who left letters on a shorethat when brought home becameshells. Couldn't breathe, 2:33 a.m.Screaming, 3:30 a.m. Calm, 4:24a.m. I got on all fours, tried to pick upthe letters like a child at an egg huntwithout a basket. But for every letterI picked up, another fell down, as ifprotesting the oversimplification ofmy mother's dying. I wanted the nightperson to write in a language I couldunderstand. Breathing unfolding,2:33. Breathing in blades, 3:30.Breathing like an evening gown,4:24. But maybe I am wrong, howdeath is simply death, each slightlydifferent from the next but the finalstrike all the same. How the skinresponds to a wedding dress in thesame way it responds to rain. Excerpted from Obit by Victoria Chang All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.