Instructions for traveling west Poems

Sullivan's highly accessible debut collection can be read as a loosely assembled memoir in verse with intriguing detours. Readers meet the poet as a child in an evangelical household, her parents "medical missionaries." Avidly focused on nature, from forest to field, birds to horses, Sullivan, "slow to root," evokes contrasting scenes of "girldom" in the Central African Republic and rural Ohio. She writes of lemons and mangoes, her mother, her sisters, and formative moments. She presents a series of poems about Eve and reflections on relationships that sputter out, on moving to Oregon to embrace precious independence and solitude by the sea, and on the vicissitudes and revelations of COVID-19. Sullivan's poems are direct and sensuous, each lyric a vibrant vignette, a story with a lesson, a sensuous homily defining holiness as lushly earthy. These are prosy poems that evolve in poetic form and precision over the book's arc; moving, forthright, and fresh poems about loneliness and desire, beauty and pain. Sullivan's collection is a welcoming and rewarding volume, especially for readers tentative about poetry.

In this sunny debut collection, Sullivan traces a lifelong journey of self-discovery and self-acceptance with deceptive depth. The poems capture relatable small pleasures of life and a spirit of resilience, as she recalls facing such challenges as a bad marriage, and acts of bravery, such as her relocation to Portland, Ore., for a new start. The most troubling parts of life provide an opportunity to seize the day: "Look, America is awful and the earth is too hot and the truth of/ the matter is we're all up against the clock. It makes everything/ simple and urgent: there's only time to turn toward what you truly/ love." While romantic love can be a destructive force, there are always opportunities to live and love again: "Is there a way to love and not die? I'm not sure but the Alaskan/ wood frog freezes solid in winter only to blast back in spring." There are a fair number of pieces of less substance, but even many of these offer delightfully musical moments, as in "Remember What It Was Like to Be a Kid?" which begins, "All skinned knees,/ pavement and sick-sweet/ candy in the sticky backseat." Sullivan's unpretentious and blunt recounting of her experiences is a breath of fresh air. (Apr.)

Remember What It Was Like to Be a Kid? All skinned knees, pavement and sick-sweet candy in the sticky backseat. How you stank of sweat, bewilderment, popsicles, peppermint. Swam in summer until it gobbled you whole. Witnessed revelation, trembling and silent: the rabbit's nest between the stones, a dark bat winging, the buck carcass at the edge of the wood where you weren't allowed to linger, and a woman calling you home. How you found the jewel of language and marveled at your wealth: mule deer, blister beetle, blue ghost firefly. Each new name-- a little candle you brandished in the dark. Long Division My first friend was built like a willow tree. We were the same age but she was taller and leaner and impossibly graceful. Hadessah is the Hebrew name for Esther--the biblical beauty who saved her people from genocide. I was envious of her name and its heroism. Mine was Joy--flimsy and monosyllabic like pond or soap or cheese. Hadessah was smarter than me too, got better grades, and understood long division where all I saw was a thin bridge with numbers jumping off. But she laughed at everything I said and my god, I adored her. When you're little, love really knocks you out. We said what kids say when you move. That we'd write. That we wouldn't forget. That, every night, we'd look up at that one weird winky star and make a wish. After she left, I could still see her bike leaning against the house, its blue body trembling in the rain. Nothing is as lonely as childhood, and the person to finally interrupt that ache is a big miracle. You never forget the hero who slides into the bus seat beside you or scoots their tray over at the lunch table. The silhouette of someone small and familiar running down your street--sweaty and hopeful that you can come out to play. To this day, I can still hear Hadessah's voice at sunset. The bats winging in the dying light. She's calling out my dumb name. She's making it sound almost beautiful. Excerpted from Instructions for Traveling West: Poems by Joy Sullivan 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.