In his new book, Break
Every String, Joshua Michael Stewart rides shotgun on a trip through
the back roads of a small town called Everywhere. Imagine him sitting there, unfolding an old,
worn map of the region—so old that it feels like chamois—and featuring all the
tired places encompassed there. He may
point to a lake, a school, abandoned wells, and homes stuffed with
stories. In his own measured pace, he’ll
tell you about those places and why their significance goes far beyond the map
could ever show. This isn’t topography
or simple street intersections, this map is a history of a person, a family,
and pain.
Stewart doesn’t overshare. He’s subtle with his
explanations, and doesn’t quite tell you the whole story. He leaves you with
more questions than answers. But the
search, the listening, is the treasure of these poems. Epic stories are told,
spanning several poems. And then there are simple phrases, stunning in what
they reveal.
A blackbird in crosshairs, singing.
For example, the women of this town, this history. They are tender, murderous, hateful, or
simply invisible. A brother is alluded
to many times, Frank, and his story is told in broken shards that perfectly
represents his jagged life. Frank fights
addiction, a broken family, a stint in jail—all working as parallels with the
life of the man Stewart describes. It’s
not necessarily autobiographical, but rather a complex amalgamation of
character studies. You never quite know
the whole story.
A large part of Stewart’s poems feature letters from mother
to son, keeping him posted about the “other” brother. The inference is clear:
the other son occupies her thoughts; the broken bird getting more attention
than the one in flight with wings aloft.
The pain this inflicts is never mentioned only surmised. And one that finds our narrator at a loss
with his own worth.
You
haven’t had the blues
Until
your mother drunk-dials
Your
number at two o’clock
In
the afternoon and leaves
A
message for your brother
Who’s
been dead since 2007.
Coltrane and Brubeck serve as tonics in this town that maybe
should be called Nowhere. A place where
Stewart asks, “What’s the narrative in a still life or a landscape?”
Some moments are universal but no less profound:
When
someone leaves
Your
life, you’re left with a story
You’ll
fetch from your minds library
When
sleep eludes you and you sit
In
the quiet of the kitchen, surrounded
By
the dark and empty rooms of self.
And at times, the contemplation takes a troubled,
introspective turn:
I’m
not interested in last words,
But
in final thoughts. Do you love
The
most the one you think of last?
The most intense poem of the collection hits me hard each
time I read it. I actually have it pinned to a wall. I Wanted to Be a Blue Jay or
Wear a Flowered Apron tears me up.
It’s almost the perfect poem, except that I don’t want to accept that
the perfect poem has already been written. Much like Ginsberg’s Supermarket in California, it has so
much dimension and depth that one could get lost in all the allusions and
meanings, as well as get smacked by the simple reality of the words. Take it straight or read something into it:
in either case, it’s brilliant.
 |
| poet Joshua Michael Stewart |
In it, the unknown narrator reflects on a previous
suicide attempt, many years before. He
finds himself in the woods near his home,
Blue
jays flew in and out of the pines.
I
delighted at their squawking—thought of tenement
women
Airing
laundry on fire escapes.
I
wanted to climb the branches for the same reason.
But then, he remembers his father, the things that the
flawed man did for the flawed son that were absolutely perfect. And he waits to be found by that same man.
One who he now shares a meal with, realizing what it must have been like for
his father to set out the long-ago morning, looking for a son and not knowing
what he would find.
…he
takes us back
To
that morning behind the shed, looking at me
As
if I’m a jig-saw puzzle and he’s lost the picture.
I
didn’t take into account that he’d blame himself,
That,
with or without death, guilt would haunt him.
…nothing
rests between us except for our folded
hands.
Stewart’s poems reference jazz as a poultice to
old-fashioned heartbreak. Springsteen
gets a nod as does many cultural references unique to rural places that time
has left behind. Is it Everywhere? Is it Nowhere? That part of the map is
rubbed out. No matter, the reality is it's Anytown.
Special thanks to Hedgerow Books for the Review Copy.
