Kitchen hymns [poems]

Review by Booklist Review

In reflective, questing poems, Irish theologian Tuama (Poetry Unbound, 2022), a prolific lecturer and editor, unpacks the contradictory coils of life. The human heart is stardust and "knows that quantum is the basis of the real," but it is also something to be given willingly, metaphorically; occasionally, it is abandoned at the altar, "light, the meat, dried out." Tuama devotes a lengthy section to the recurring question, "Do You Believe in God?" The poet grapples with doubt and disillusionment and locates answers in language. At one point, Tuama's speaker admits, "God became a word // to bear all I could not bear. / God bore it well." Other poems juxtapose Jesus and Persephone, both lost in hell, each humanized by their infernal conundrum. Tuama is especially adept at depicting the passage of time, whether it's the circuitous rejuvenation of sunrise ("the way that morning is both dead and new") or the colorful autumnal sequence of the seasons, "the green has gone to brass and berry, copper, ember, fire." Readers will enjoy this title as a return to or entry point into Tuama's work.

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Darkness brings revelation in this meditative offering from Ó Tuama (Feed the Beast). In "Who Do You Think I Am," Persephone addresses Christ in a Hades-like garden. The dialogue unfolds in persona poems, with Persephone quipping, "Christ, you're such a narcissist." This interaction epitomizes Ó Tuama's blending of mythology with a contemporary sensibility, casting biblical and mythic figures into modern, human dilemmas. These poetic dialogues become hymns and anti-hymns that interrogate the weight of creation. Even birdsong reflects the inherent selfishness of existence ("your cheeps are/ me me me"), and a newborn bird's beak opening for bread is the object of condemnation: "The raw need, the pink demand of you. I can't stand you." In "Rite of Baptism," Ó Tuama posits, "There is no such thing as the past/ just stories told about the past today." The ghostly liturgy found throughout the collection feels less like a Day of the Dead celebration and more like a quiet reckoning with absence, as the poet baptizes the self into the loneliness of modern existence. It's an admirable and noteworthy performance. (Jan.)

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Review by Library Journal Review

Host of On Being's beloved Poetry Unbound podcast, Irish poet Ó Tuama continues his search for a faith not borne strictly of religious practice. The title references Irish religious songs heard at home, suggesting the conversational tone of this meditative work. "I know you expect me to bless you in the mysteries of God, / but I prefer the strangeness of each other, darlings," says a woman at mass, and elsewhere: "And do you?… Lift up your heart? / Yes,… but I don't know to who. / Whom, she said. Let's get started on the soup." Ó Tuama does want to lift up his heart. Acknowledging "I need a direction for my need," he can be drawn back to Christian ritual ("I like the smells, the psalms"), and he defines his life through a God no longer there ("God is / the only language that I speak. / I need to describe this loss"). Sex with men brings its own sort of religious ecstasy, and he inclines less toward doctrine than an embrace of "whatever makes up life"--as exemplified by the intriguing and ambitious closing poem, with a befuddled Jesus encountering wise Persephone when he descends into hell. VERDICT Heartfelt, questing poems for anyone reconsidering how to believe.

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DO YOU BELIEVE IN GOD? It was like a warm fire on a winter day after a long walk home from school, a cup of cocoa by that fire. It was like the sound of my dad's voice when he sees me. It was like a hug from a friend, the one you remember. It was like laughing during sex. It was like that time I danced and I didn't care, I felt fantastic. It was like relief after heartbreak. It was like a cool shower. It was like a welcome dream. It was like an unread letter from a friend who'd died. It was like a kiss. It was like a storm and like its eye. It was like winning the fight. It was like a good wake. It was like seeing his body at long last. It was like tonguing the gap where the tooth was. It was like touching the bruise. THESE THREE REMAIN Do you have hope? she asked. In what? he said. In hope, she said, come on -- I know you understand me. It's the one I miss the most, he said. I used to think it was a little radio, tuned to the secrets of the universe. Then I thought no, hope's a muscle. Then no, a song. There's Hope and hopes, she said: Hope in meaning, small hopes for a nice day. I'll hope for the nice day, he said, Meaning's too evasive. When everything was ending, I said a little prayer back to myself, one I'd learnt at school. I never felt so empty than when I realised it was empty. She looked, said nothing. She heard the rush of words. Felt the edge of him. Felt the fray. Understood that he was begging her for help he couldn't bear to beg for. Then, Your name means Destruction, doesn't it? he said. I remember that from lessons too. What's that supposed to mean? Are you where everything will finish? Is that what it feels like? she asked, moving closer. Don't touch me, he said, then said, It feels like I've arrived into a world that I abhor. And I don't know who you are, or what you're here for. I just know that everything I've believed is nothing now. The god I said I followed plucked me like a golden apple, let me rot in the corner of his garden. He said I'd be prized, said I'd help establish a kingdom of wisdom and of love. Look at me now. Cold on whatever day this is. Hungry too, I'll have to search for berries for some satisfaction. I'll drink water from the mountain stream, it'll taste of heaven and sheep's piss. I'm forgotten, he said, And I'm wondering if it's worth the effort to continue. Is it? she said, Worth the effort to continue? He looked at her, made a noise like laughter, or a bark. Who's asking? he said. I know you want to know what happened to me, who did this to me, why I'm bleeding. I've some things I need to find out too. Like: How come you found me? Were you waiting for me? Am I bait? Is this a game? Entertainment? f I tell you everything will you explode in front of me like everything explodes in front of me? Are you a friend? Are you a bomb? Probably both, she said. Excerpted from Kitchen Hymns by Pádraig Ó Tuama 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.

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