Join Superstition Review in congratulating past contributor Emily Banks on the publication of her poetry collection, Mother Water. Emily’s poetry collection covers a wide range of topics and emotions as well as features poems from her past work with Superstition Review, including “Poem for the Juvenile Cardinals” and “On the M15 Bus” from Issue 22.
Mother Water centers on maternal inheritance in literal and figurative forms. Through its water motif, the book traces the speaker’s transformations as she absorbs, and often resists, lessons from the women who guide her. The poems explore the speaker’s sense of self through feminine genealogy and her mother’s voice, the mother figure becoming simultaneously nurturing and threatening, teaching her daughter to survive in a perilous world. Coming-of-age poems are here, too, and poems exploring gender mystique, balance, relationship, and understanding. The book’s last section considers how we are altered by loss and how that alteration challenges our notions of both individual subjectivity and bodily autonomy.
University of Washington Press
Click here to order your own copy of Mother Water. Also, be sure to check out Emily’s website and Twitter as well as her past Guest Post.
When the cold
water soaks through my hair to ice my scalp I think this is your punishment. I neglected to pay my gas bill last month,
for no reason beyond carelessness. I thought I’d set it to auto-pay like I had
the rest of my bills. Now that I’ve put everything I can on a subscription
service—tampons, razor blades, toothbrush head refills—I feel indignant when
anyone expects me to remember to pay for something by a specific date. The
maintenance guy from my apartment complex looked slightly sheepish, slightly
amused when he explained why my hot water was off. There are books strewn all
over my floor, some piled atop the long cardboard boxes containing Ikea
bookshelves I have yet to assemble. I get it. I’m a mess. And when I tell this
story to my friends I’ll make a joke of it, but as I lower my head into the
cold stream I ask myself, as I so often have, why are you unable to function in the world?
Incompetent. It’s what my ex called me, shouting
through the morning’s peace on a Charleston beach when he didn’t like how I was
walking the dog. Swimming away from him, salt water stinging my tear-raw cheeks,
I knew I had to do it, finally—leave the solid comforts of the life he’d built
around me for the vast unknown which beckoned, beautifully, as the mist cleared
and the sun began to reassert itself. All summer I’d be caught between the sad
task of nursing a doomed long term relationship into periods of stability and
falling in love with a friend who made me feel like I was in college again. I’d
been going out dancing every weekend, taking pickleback shots and writing like
I hadn’t since senior year, when I felt fancy drinking bottles of Barefoot
Moscato, when the dresser I’d put together incorrectly was falling apart and my
clothes were strewn across the floor, when I was sleeping with athletes and fretting
over nerdy boys who didn’t want to commit and starting fights about feminism at
bars with my poet friends with whom I’d roll into class the next morning
sporting neon wristbands and last night’s eye makeup. That year, the poems just
flowed. Something about the messiness of life, the highs and lows, the
devastation giving way to excitement giving way to floods of drunken tears—
I don’t mean to
romanticize it. I’ve been working in the Plath archives at Emory, and the
letters from the months before her death, when she was caring for her children
by day and writing Ariel by night, read
as a warning. As Patric
Dickinson wrote in a letter to Harriet Rosenstein about his friendship with
Plath, “you can’t go without sleep.” You can’t forget to pay your bills,
to take out your trash, to stop at CVS for toilet paper, to fill your gas tank.
But for me, like many creative spirits, those mundane tasks take on a crushing
weight. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, graduating from college
terrified me. While I welcomed the bright horizon of starting an MFA program in
a new city, I struggled to imagine myself living like a real adult. Doing my
taxes, changing my license, paying for car insurance, and making dental
appointments all felt like remote possibilities I would never be mature enough
to master. I entered a relationship I knew I shouldn’t, with a guy who worked
in finance and knew how to fix things. He didn’t read, his friends used racial slurs
as jokes, and he told me he wanted a woman to have dinner waiting for him when
he got home, but I stubbornly ignored these signs in my quest for stability. Over
the next seven years, I floated numbly through adult decisions I couldn’t
muster real excitement for, feeling like a supporting character in my own life.
I sat beside him struggling to focus at the realtor’s office as he deliberated
over mortgage options. I scrolled through my phone in Target as he calculated
the most cost-effective choice of paper towels. I cooked beautiful dinners and
cried when he’d complain about the mess they left. I wrote poems, but they
never came easily. My mind was cluttered with too many rules and lists. I
channeled my frustrated creativity into tasks like gardening and making jam
with muscadines from the farmers market, but these quickly turned compulsive,
feeling more like chores than leisure as I clung to my vision of domestic happiness.
And then one day
I left. Freed from the monotonous routine of my former life, I felt my thoughts
becoming poetic again. Chaotic, unwieldly, but charged with an insatiable
energy. A poem can’t be overdetermined, we know, but neither can a poet. The
unstable period that followed coincided with the feminist poetry section of the
“Poetry and Politics” course I was teaching. Talking through “Daddy” with an
eager roomful of students in my state of sleepless delirium, I was my most
animated teacher-self, feeling so intensely the poem’s urgency. Seven years,if you want to know. I thought about Plath up writing Ariel all night, wild with the sting of
betrayal, intoxicated by the righteousness of her anger. In the archives, what
chills me most is her handwriting, the bubbly script of an ambitious, happy girl.
I’m her age now and she isn’t the ethereal madwoman I once took her for. Like
so many women poets, I find myself constantly orbiting a fearful desire for and
resistance of identification with her. Can you write Ariel and survive?
I locked my keys in my car last Friday. It’s
happened so many times I immediately felt the nauseous pit swell in my gut—the
door’s cheerful beep unaccompanied by the reassuring clank of metal between my fingers.
Chaos is hardly glamorous, most days. Having grown up with two artist parents,
some part of me has always craved the order of a freshly-made bed, a planned
week of dinners, a sorted cabinet. But the unruliness inside me pulling towards
disorder is, I have to accept, what lets me write. I don’t have the answers. Even
as I’ve acquired some basic life skills, I’ll always be absentminded, always
get myself into fixes. I have a partner and friends and family willing to help
me out of every mess, and all I can offer in return is the promise of some dedicated
poems, maybe. I know I can’t survive forever on charm and art alone, but,
equally, I can’t survive without writing, and I can’t write when my inner voice
is drowned out by tedious litanies. And every time I fail in some extravagant
way, it brings me back to the page; if nothing else, I know I’d better produce
something powerful enough to justify my shortcomings.