Sophia’s
Lost and Found: Poems of Above and Below by Barbara Spring
A
picture is worth a thousand words, but in well under a thousand words Barbara Spring creates pictures of her world for
us to see. Through her eyes I see the Michigan
shore, the spirituality of those that were here before us, her own deep faith
and her family. It could be a recipe for sickly sweet verse, but it isn’t.
Description
is Spring’s strength, she brings words together easily to help us to see, to
hear and to experience her world:
The
belugas will sing to you
songs
of Artic ice that cracks like a gun
songs
of longing, songs of salt, of swarming krill
from
Calling the Whales or this from the opening lines of How to Crack Black
Walnuts:
When
autumn startled quail at us
and
foxtail tickled the air,
we went
to the meadow with baskets.
We
understand, she has conveyed the experience; we stand in her shoes.
Description
without meaning and depth might satisfy for a short while, but we need more
than that to satisfy us and the poems here all provoke reflection: on the
natural world and our place in it and on questions of faith. Spring sparks
thought but never is didactic. We must find our own solutions.
These
poems are accessible and readable and yet tingle with mystery without resorting
to the hideaway of complexity with which so many poets cover their work. Even
deep mysteries of spirituality are not obscured by clouds of convolution.
Barbara treats the depth with reverence and we may again stand in her shoes as
she articulates the wisdom of Sophia.
So many
poor poems have been written to honor families and friends that I cannot begin
to count them. Even the best of poets would do well to pass on the inclusion of
testaments to their children and grandchildren as rarely can the poet see such
poems in their true light. Somehow Spring has managed to avoid the trap and
included work that is worthy of this collection. Don’t take my word for it;
from Sierra’s Freckles:
Sierra
hears singing in the night:
horned
owls in the woods and
choruses
of toads and crickets in the garden.
Their
songs poke holes in the dark:
Here is
a poem for any child.
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