Safe as Lightning Book Review

Safe as Lightning: Poems by Scudder H. Parker
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Such a wonderful collection of poems that are hopeful, sad, pensive, gracious, and grateful--a world of emotions expressed in this world of nature and poetry! There are such lovely lines and turns of phrases throughout, too, such as "a bowl of wildness" (p. 95); "remember you are here by gift" (121); and:

"We found and ate wild onions, green flags,
red bulbs flecked with loam,
so spring would infect our breath" (p. 41).

The poems are accessible, and many feel like little stories of a life and place in rural Vermont. A complete book that will transport and transform you. Full disclosure: I am the editor of this book, however, I would not inflate my review as such. I truly enjoy the work here, and think you will too.

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I Take a Walk with My Daughter to the Library

and it’s quiet but for screams of circling seagulls overhead. Still, it’s quieter than usual. We see no people. Only the chipper birds, all the birds, circling and swooping the sky that’s now theirs.

I walk in this desolate town that used to bustle at Noon. We get to the library that used to be open. My daughter asks if she can play in the library today. When I tell her no she says, because of the virus?

A person walks by with a dog and I put my mask up over my mouth and nose. I walk away from them. My daughter thank god is already running around the library lawn and doesn’t notice the person and the white, fluffy dog. I don’t have to remind her to stay away.

Downtown Main Street: all the parking spaces are empty; all the storefronts closed.

My daughter picks up a stick and draws a picture of an oval in the dirt. I ask her, is it a heart? and she says, no it’s a bird with no wings, and I’m amazed she knows exactly how I feel.

Then she draws a shape duck table, she yells it at me three times. She is three years old.

Then she chants I want to go home, places three shriveled winter berries in my hand, wraps her soft hand around my thumb and leads me down the sidewalk while I trail the empty red Radio Flyer wagon behind.

My daughter playing on the library building.

Jewel Tones

For twenty-five dollars
my mother can dress your feet
in jewel tones. You send her a check,
she’ll send you jewel tones.

My mother can dress your feet,
she does it by hand, with fingers curled as a reflex.
She’ll send you jewel tones.
Around needles, without thought

she does it by hand, with fingers curled as a reflex.
Intricate toes and heels form tubular
around needles, without thought
my mother knits.

Intricate toes and heels form tubular.
One hand over the other,
my mother knits.
She doesn’t need to think anymore.

One hand over the other,
knit one, purl two,
she doesn’t need to think anymore,
lost in knitter’s repetition.

Knit one, purl two,
while the television blares she
is lost in knitter’s repetition,
her private concerto.

While the television blares she
hears jewel tones,
her private concerto.
Her lips move in the counting.

She hears jewel tones,
with large glasses sliding down her nose,
her lips move in the counting
as a sign of her concentration.

With large glasses sliding down her nose,
inaudibly whispering to herself
as a sign of her concentration,
she holds back her world.

Inaudibly whispering to herself
for if she let her excitement out
(she holds back her world)
she might disturb our TV show.

If she let her excitement out
in unraveling emotions in the family room
she might disturb our TV show,
or we might disturb her.

In unraveling emotions in the family room
sometimes instead of the sitcom, I watch her
but not to disturb her,
her inner world that none of us enter.

Sometimes instead of the sitcom, I watch her
knitting, her way to escape
into her inner world that none of us enter
where beautiful things are born.

Knitting, her way to escape,
making socks instead of time
where beautiful things are born
in a now empty nest.

Making socks instead of time,
the lines of worlds fade, and all that’s left
in a now empty nest
are the lines of corrugated yarn in a spiral design.

The lines of worlds fade, and all that’s left
is wrapped around needles, lips, and hearts.
The lines of corrugated yarn in a spiral design
coming together in knots,

wrapped around needles, lips, and hearts.
A pair of hand-knit socks
coming together in knots.
And she’ll send them to you,

a pair of hand-knit socks
in jewel tones. You send her a check
and she’ll send them to you
for twenty-five dollars.

---

One of the many difficulties of writing in strict form is the pitfall of allowing the form of the poem to take over the content or the intention of the poet. In “Jewel Tones” we see the opposite: A poet utilizing the form to carry the very human desire of the person writing it.
—Matthew Dickman, 2010 Ruth Stone Poetry Prize Judge

*This poem was Runner-Up in the Ruth Stone Poetry Prize and was published at Hunger Mountain.*