by Maryrose Larkin
i.e. Press 2007
Reviewed by Melinda Wilson

The Book of Books

The themes in Maryrose Larkin’s The Book of Ocean are grand. The book is divided into six sections, each dedicated to a large idea, sometimes abstract, and each titled “The book of [insert profound variable].” She spends significant time with gods like gravity, time, history, and of course, ocean.

It is not surprising then that the opening poem is titled “Brief Gravity” and immediately marries the narrator to the cosmos: “I rhyme with the ground,” a stellar first line, I think, but perhaps what follows is too predictable: “and all at once it falls / apple  I am apple.” The biblical/Newtonian contexts are inevitable and yet Larkin pursues them explicitly: “apple severed from the tree / not the snake or the woman…” Gravity is indeed what grounds us, and is easily employed as a grand metaphor for the outcome of original sin and all subsequent disobedience. All of this seems obvious, though Larkin isn’t finished yet. She writes, “to be gravity is to be understood.” She embraces our fallen position and she uses it to her advantage. Even the “red dark unknown,” presumably the unrecognizable afterlife, the vague fear of death, is welcomed by Larkin. She moves full-force into the unknown and into the book: “throw me in the air / but don’t catch.”

The next poem continues in the same vein, discussing the unknown and the possibilities for combating the terror it produces. We can ponder and query, discuss and press on, but part of Larkin’s message seems to be that we cannot, must not, fall silent. If we merely accept the impenetrability of it all, it is then that true fear will set in. Paralysis is the only possible outcome of silence:

the discord
which        rises within silence
disorder.

Since only further disorder will arise from silence, it is necessary to communicate, or at least interact, with one’s surroundings. Certainly humans are not the only ones that struggle with the incomprehensible and as Larkin posits, we are not the only to fight it with communication, as even the stars carry on a “dialogue.”

Larkin repeatedly returns to the impasse of silence. For the narrator silence is deadly: “over silence / I cannot pass.” Often silence has positive connotations like thought, concentration or meditation; however, for Larkin if those thoughts are never vocalized, made public, released even, then they are swallowed up by the abyss:

In vacuums    a manifest destiny

Essentially, this is the poet’s manifesto, the very reason she values poetry and writing.

Larkin goes beyond abstract ideas in this collection. One of my favorite images comes from a poem called “Noah Variations”—again with the biblical references, though the image of which I’m speaking isn’t an ark. In fact, I can’t be sure what it is, but here are the lines: “rose blood / retina hung high above the sea.” My initial thought is of the sun and I like this comparison to the body, something fleshier perhaps would have also been nice. It establishes an identifiable connection between our own bodies and the body of the universe; we are made of similar parts. Several times Larkin likens portions of the cosmos or atmosphere to earthly or material objects with which we are familiar. As in “Sext”: “because the sky is a strange broken mirror”—a beautiful fragment to open the poem, the notion that what’s below is reflected above and is, in part, our body.

As the universe reflects portions of itself, humans mimic other forms of life. Larkin points out in “Alphabet Walking” the way we’ve constructed our alphabet, letters, and words: “the earliest of insect depictions / curve reflected in spine reflected in mind and on the page.” Strikingly true. Think of a praying mantis, the A-framed wings of a fly. She goes on in this manner in the following poem: “a sentence as a femur.” So letters are formed by small creatures such as insects; it takes a whole femur to indicate a sentence.

All in all, I’m impressed with and softened by Larkin’s beachside conjectures and interrogations. She raises many interesting observations, but I’d like to hear some of her conclusions or at least working answers to these mysteries of life. Larkin attempts closure, but at times fails due to cheesy technique as in “Pulse for Two Voices.” She aims to bookend the poem with two similar yet polar ideas. The poem begins with the phrase “the wait of expansion,” goes on for a while with an odd columnar list of everything from medical terms to tabby cats, and ends with the phrase “the wait of contraction.” No good. Also, it seems she is offering multiple meanings through her choice of preposition “of” versus “for.” Could “wait” also be read as “weight?” Either way…

The visual elements of Larkin’s poems can often be frustrating and seemingly uncalled for. A later poem called “Remedy” produces said effect. Some lines are in italics, some regular type, others appear centered and the indentations are off-set. The appearance of the poem is scattered. Perhaps the intended outcome was “funky”; that’s the only word that comes to mind. Italics offer the possibility of three poems, so again, we have options, but this is hardly a new technique and more interesting things have been done with structure to effectively alter rhythm and meaning.

In the end, what’s best about Larkin’s book is that it echoes many of the cosmic questions most people face over the course of a lifetime; it is constant affirmation that nobody knows, but at least we have ideas and can share them and continue to be lost together.

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