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The Second Child: Poems, by Deborah Garrison
Download PDF The Second Child: Poems, by Deborah Garrison
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About the Author
Deborah Garrison is the author of A Working Girl Can’t Win: and Other Poems. For fifteen years, she worked on the editorial staff of The New Yorker and is now the poetry editor af Alfred A. Knopf and a senior editor at Pantheon Books. She lives with her husband and three children in Montclair, New Jersey.
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Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
On New TermsI’d like to begin again. Not touch my own face, not tremble in the dark before an intruder who never arrives. Not apologize. Not scurry, not pace. Not refuse to keep notes of what meant the most. Not skirt my father’s ghost. Not abandon piano, or a book before the end. Not count, count, count and wait, poised—the control, the agony controlled—for the loss of the one, having borne, I can’t be, won’t breathe without: the foregone conclusion, the pain not yet met, the preemptive mourning without which nothing left of me but smoke.Goodbye, New York (song from the wrong side of the Hudson)You were the big fat city we called hometown You were the lyrics I sang but never wrote downYou were the lively graves by the highway in Queens the bodega where I bought black beansstacks of the Times we never read nights we never went to bedthe radio jazz, the doughnut cart the dogs off their leashes in Tompkins Square ParkYou were the tiny brass mailbox key the joy of “us” and the sorrow of “me”You were the balcony bar in Grand Central Station the blunt commuters and their destinationthe post-wedding blintzes at 4 a.m. and the pregnant waitress we never saw againYou were the pickles, you were the jar You were the prizefight we watched in a barthe sloppy kiss in the basement at Nell’s the occasional truth that the fortune cookie tellsSinatra still swinging at Radio City You were ugly and gorgeous but never prettyalways the question, never the answer the difficult poet, the aging dancerthe call I made from a corner phone to a friend in need, who wasn’t at homethe fireworks we watched from a tenement roof the brash allegations and the lack of any proofmy skyline, my byline, my buzzer and door now you’re the dream we lived beforeNot Pleasant but TrueThis afternoon when the bus turned hard by the graveyard,the stones sugared with snow, I wanted to go there, underground.You’re thirteen weeks old. Cold shock, as never wished before:to die and be buried, close under the packed earth,safe for an eternal instant from my constant, fevered fear thatyou’d die. Relief warming my veins,and you relieved forever of my looming, teary watch.Someone take from me this crazed love,such battering care I lost my mind—I was going to leave you without a mother!Play Your HandA joy so full it won’t fit in a body. Like sound packed in a trumpet’s bell, its glossy exit retains that shape, printingits curve in reverse on the ear. A musical house, with more children than you planned for, a smallest hand, and fingersof that hand closing on one of yours, making a handle, pulling the lever gaily down, ringing in the firstjackpot of many, with coins and cries, heavenly noise, a crashing pile of minor riches—And if the worst thing imaginable were to happen where does the happiness go?The melody flown (where?), you think you wouldn’t live one more day. But you would.Days don’t stop. You toss your glove at the moon, you don’t know what may come down.
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Product details
Paperback: 96 pages
Publisher: Random House Trade Paperbacks (April 1, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0812973887
ISBN-13: 978-0812973884
Product Dimensions:
5.1 x 0.3 x 8 inches
Shipping Weight: 2.1 ounces (View shipping rates and policies)
Average Customer Review:
4.5 out of 5 stars
6 customer reviews
Amazon Best Sellers Rank:
#1,739,368 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
Love her poems. Motherhood. Marriage. Very relatedable.
I have to strongly disagree with the previous reviewer. I found Ms. Garrison's poems to be uplifting, encouraging and as bright as the noonday sun.I came away from the book with a smile on my face and feeling optimistic about the state of Motherhood in America today. Nobody has perfect kids, we all know that, and yet....we all want to believe our kids *are* the perfect ones. I know my two daughters are as perfect as perfect can be...as are their children. Don't be scared away from this book by one negative review. The poems are refreshing and upbeat and are about one woman's unique, real life. She doesn't claim to be Edna St. Vincent Millay...she just wrote luminous little poems about her own life experience as only she could do. I'm glad I heard Ms. Garrison on NPR and found her poetry.
I loved Deborah Garrison's first book of poems, heard them read on NPR one day as I drove over the long miles between Charlotte and Charlottesville. I still remember sitting in the car and scribbling her name, the book's name, on a receipt. I bought the book immediately and treasured them for their melancholy, their understated humor. When I saw she'd written a book of poems about motherhood, well, I *knew* I would love it.I suppose I knew wrong. Maybe it's just me, that I have no perfect attitude towards my children, that my two boys are far from storybook quality. Think of them more as dramatic novel material, stunningly beautiful, full of tension, rife with passion, that runs the gamut from dark to silly. But Deborah's poetry about motherhood is treacle. Simple sugars that may taste good for a moment on the tongue but then clog your throat with their cloying sweetness.You see, Deborah's poetry has lost its melancholy. Her pieces about strangers ("I saw you walking") have that quiet introspective quality that I missed so. But her treatment of her children, of motherhood, is all roses and bliss. I find myself angry for being brought to tears by "A Drink in the Night", which isn't poetry, but a nicely-worded treatment of a cute story about her daughter, one that should go in the album to repeat at her wedding, one day, but not as literature. There is no wrong in these poems, not in "A Human Calculation" (full of self-sacrifice and adoration), not in "Both Square and Round." I love that Deborah loves her children so. But good poetry it's not.When she forgets that all she is about is wide-eyed motherly bliss, she's funny ("To the Man in the Loden Coat") or packs vast meaning into a single moment ("Pink and White"). Her poem about having a third child ("September Poem") is almost what I wish it would be. What she is arching for, I think, to be Sharon Olds.Sharon Olds she's certainly not. I won't read her birth poem at blessing ways. Her breastfeeding sonnet (much though I appreciate a good homage to breastfeeding) is too light, too full of sugar, "you grow so you / can go from me, I know, yet I drink in / the sweet increase that will divide us."I wanted so much more.
I am not a person who reads poems. I just never thought it was a good way to pass the time. I picked this up at the library and I swear it just popped into my hands! The way she writes is how I think, but can't express myself. She puts into words what my heart thinks. I love how she talks about nursing her children, about life/death, about being overcome with worry for her children, etc. I read it three times last night and was reading it to my husband in bed. I will buy this book for myself. It is terrific and I will get her other books from the library.
This book spoke to me. Perhaps because I too am a mother who lives in New Jersey and commutes to NYC on a daily basis, but I think anyone who has moved on to the next stage of their life, will enjoy Ms. Garrison's wry observations of modern life and parenthood. The poems are both moving and funny and she writes in an accessible, conversational tone.This book was a great treat. I am considering buying it for my other mommy-friends.
This is a book to read and keep. Wonderful words. I would really like to see more by this author.
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