Johanna Skibsrud, MEDIUM

 

“LET THEM SLICE OFF OURHEADS”

“Let them slice off ourheads in the desert,” I whispered.
“Let our eyes roll uptoward the heavens; let our bodies
turn to dust and be blownin four directions from our
bones.”

I packed two sandwichesand an extra pair of stockings—
took my brother along.

When my uncle found us inthe marketplace and
delivered us back home,my mother shook her fist,
then knelt and sobbedinto her sleeve.

We tend to imagine ourlives as though they are in
themselves a limit ratherthan a tool or simple accessory,
like a knocker on a door.

I used to weep over thepassion until my head ached and I
could no longer see.

My father’s father was aJew, condemned; my mother
desired nothing more thanto lead a quiet, Christian life.

I hear loud noises in my head,which make it hard to
write this down.

Thelatest from Johanna Skibsrud [see her 2009 ’12 or 20 questions’ interview here],a writer who “divides her time between Tucson, Arizona, and Cape Breton, Nova Scotia”is the poetry collection MEDIUM (Toronto ON: Book*hug Press, 2024), acollection that “shares the lives and perspectives of women who – in theirroles as biological, physical, or spiritual mediums – have helped to shape thecourse of history.” The author of three previous collections of poetry, threenovels and three non-fiction titles, as she writes to open her “PREFACE”: “Thisproject began a decade ago, while I was pregnant with my first child. I keptthinking during that time, and afterward—through those first all-consumingyears of parenthood, two miscarriages, and the birth of my second child—about theways in which women have served as mediums throughout history, and of the waysthey continue to serve. I thought of and looked again for guidance from thepowerful women whose bodies, minds, and spirits have acted as conduits ofknowledge and intuition; as points of convergence for the past, present, andthe future; as concrete points of channeling and accessing a way forward—or sideways,or otherwise.”

Thepoems that make up MEDIUM are carved and constructed in a kind oflayering, providing different elements across a book-length project almost as apolyphonic call-and-response. Skibsrub’s lyrics and asides offer a multitude ofvoices, structures and perspectives, from Helen of Troy to Anne Boleyn, MarieCurie to Roe vs. Wade, and Shakuntala Devi to Hypatia of Alexandria. The effectis almost choral, offering threads on and around multiple figures vilifiedacross history, reclaiming the stories, purpose and legacies of an array ofhistorical women. “We don’t know either Julian of Norwich’s real name or / whather life was like before she recorded her Revelations / of DivineLove—the first known book to be written by a / woman in the Englishlanguage,” Skibsrud writes, “in the 14th century. Some / suspect shewas a mother before taking her vows, and that / during the plague years she mayhave lost one or more chil- / dren.” Skibsrud writes akin to an anthology thatleans into theatrical script, as different characters, including the narrator,take their turns in the spotlight. As the poem “SOMETIMES, I TELL MY DAUGHTER,/ YOU MAY FEEL” begins:

“Sometimes,” I tell mydaughter, “you may feel
one thing so strongly itseems it’s the only true thing.”

“But then the feelingsplits into two, and you find
there are other truethings.”

She holds onto my handand doesn’t look up.

“It’s also possible, ofcourse, to feel more than one thing.
Or for a single feelingto break down steadily into other
feelings over time.”

She begins to cry.There’s nothing more I can do. There
are, after all, only avery few hours in the day; they, at
least, do not divideendlessly.

I turn. She reaches after—.

Thereis a curious call-and-response element Skibsrud that employs in her book-lengthstructure, offering poems with the occasional aside, akin to Greek chorus,providing further information and foundation to what it is she is slowlybuilding. The narratives and legacies that Skibsrud weaves together alongside thoseof her (presumably) own first-person domestic considerations, including conversationswith her daughter, utilize language to offer both warning and study, seeking toprovide perspectives on histories lost or set aside, and what lessons might begarnered from those stories. The effect of becoming a mother to a youngdaughter, as Skibsrud, through both preface and the poems themselves suggest, pushthrough a further examination of the legacies of women, and how too often thosewith something to offer have been ignored, pushed aside or silenced. I wonderif Skibsrud is aware of Gale Marie Thompson’s remarkable Helen Or My Hunger(Portland OR: YesYes Books, 2020) [see my review of such here], which focuses abook-length lyric gaze around Helen of Troy? Skibsrud’s aside to introduce thepoem “LET THEM SLICE OFF OUR HEADS” reads:

Teresa of Ávila(1515-1582) was a Spanish mystic, writer, religious reformer, and spiritualguide. Her paternal grandfather had been a marrano, or converted Jew, at onepoint condemned by the Inquisition for returning to his Jewish faith. But Teresawas born a Christian and a noblewoman—her father having purchased a knighthoodafter securing success in the wool trade. Teresa was introduced to mysticwritings and romance novels by her mother and, as a child, dreamed of runningaway to North Africa in order to martyr herself there. At the age of twenty,she entered a convent and, after struggling with doubt, achieved the powerfulconnection with God she desired. Her fellow nuns were sometimes obliged to siton her, or tie her down, in order to keep her ecstatic and sometimes painfulvisions from quite literally carrying her away.