Her writing found me feral in an empty college dorm room. I was starving and alone–both of my own volition–trying to be a writer, or at the very least someone worth knowing.
No writer has affected me quite as much as English poet Frances Leviston. I heard her voice before I read her work–this is important. At the time, the voice in my head was both unkind and unwilling. But her’s I could listen to.
I was looking for free poetry. This sounds a bit shady, BUT I found recordings of readings given at various Ivy leagues, and felt justified. I thought I was angry at elitism, but I was probably just jealous. Anyway.
I picked a few at random and tried to wish away my body. This is where I found her.
Ms. Leviston read several pieces, all of which could be described as–well–experience? Her work isn’t familiar the same way bubble-gum is; her poetry isn’t something to quote or tattoo, rather the feeling is one that has bitten your neck before.
Her work pulls at your memory. Primitive in that it touches your beginning, prophetic as it shows you your end. Not “the end” but yours. Does this make sense?
After reading her work, I felt similarly to how I feel after hearing someone has died young: yearning unfairly for someone I didn’t know. Grieving because it is all there is.
Let me show you.
In Scandinavia, the final piece in her first published book, Public Dream, the passage I played and replayed until the words lost meaning reads,
“I could try
to live as a glass of water, utterly clear and somehow
restrained, a sip that tells you nothing
but perpetuates the being there…”
The Gaps, from the same book, cannot be properly segmented. Reading this piece, or hearing it as I did, is an experience I hope you seek out. It is my favorite poem, full stop.
It’s about the space between. Again, full stop. The Gaps dances around the idea that solids are not solid–that you can look at a forest from the road seeing only trees–that a creature inside could look back, seeing all of this and light.
I bought Public Dream some years later.
Dear reader, thank you for listening. I don’t send my favorite books to people anymore, as I never used to get them back. But I still wanted to share this thing I love with you; I hope that’s okay.
Love, always.
me
Girl Seeking Peanut Butter 