I attempted a description of a short collection of Natalya’s poems recently, a blurb of sorts. I was pleased to arrive at the final line in the paragraph and finally articulate something about Natalya’s poetry that never fails to move me: “sink into the lovely internalized rhythms of Your Last Exhalation.” Her poetry often moves her readers/listeners into and through the liminal. The external, concrete methods of ink and word create successful transliterations of those internalized conflicts. Even the most fractured take on a lyricism that familiarizes the pulse, the breathing.
I like the Quiet that is contemplative; yet I often mistake it for the Quiet that is sinking and consuming. This isn’t a deafening Quiet, but it presses the mouth and eyelids closed, shuttering in the conversations going on in my head. During my brief forays in the study of Melancholia under Dr. Pompa Banerjee’s excellent guidance, we spoke of the detriment of a melancholy that failed to produce meaning—well, really, to produce anything at all. It needn’t be the production of a piece of art, but a realization that takes on some articulation (read activity). I’m not suggesting I’ve been melancholy, or that other slope, depressed, but the topic has always challenged me to seek a better balance.
I’ve felt the scratching on the eyelids, the settling of a heavy line to my lips. I have to resurface. I may as well do so here. Perhaps the concrete methods of hand and ink and mouth will alleviate a poisoning circulation of blood that is failing to breathe properly.
I should, perhaps, take a cue from the daughter, find an articulation that resonates; find reconciliation—or at the very least, a healthier (better oxygenated) space in which to explore the fractures, the conflicts, the seemingly innocuous queries.