New Poems by Zach Savich

From "The Mountains Overhead" 


1. 


I sang: Tell me of the heart which exists

in which to continue is not

to confine 


2. 


Then dreamed I sang so loudly, I woke

myself singing

The cygnets' feet were lost in snow

The cygnets were lovely because footless 


3. 


Our augurs read their veils

What's sensible isn't seizeable, you said, waking 


5. 


You may only sing to dedicate a song 


6. 


You may hang your dresses on the back-

yard's line and you may rest here

You may work in a mine where you see yourself in

the rock and every day remove a piece

as large as your body 
 


8. 


To bring you to this:

We row out now over the lake where stars are

these muscles sobbing makes

Slashed across nightsky like bones

in owl droppings 


9. 


Star exhaust

Have fun, we said for goodbye 


11. 


Literally: to found meaning

to founder

Every pause, a cause

Every bow, a vow

At each footfall, landfall 
 


16. 


I sang: You would love it here, because I'm here

You sang: My cheek is softer where it touched your neck

I sang: I will hold you like it is enough

for a singer to hold a single word

You sang: Don't you always hold the door an extra second,

hoping?

Did you say something? 


18. 


I walked home—you can see it in my eyes 


23. 


When the lake froze, I crossed it

To a shore closest in the coldest 


24. 


Can't say to land: think of me

Or: you held me in place, in places 
 


30. 


Singing: And here you are coming toward me

Everything nearing, blooms

Water cold enough to cut

I could go on 


31. 


As though the end of harvest were not

farthest from harvest

As though reunion were not so close to ruin 


36. 


Dawn in the clouds like gold in a tooth 
 


40. 


Then a man we saw at the dance club dressed all

in white and carrying an orange 


42. 


I could see by your look 


43. 


I wanted a gentle way of waking you, so I let

So I let a tissue

sift to your face…


46. 


Be how you were, be how you were

I mean more 
 


50. 


Or needing to break one's mast on the bridge or

go back to the burning dock

The mast changed to a gnarled desert tree

Sail lifted to a gull 
 
 


53. 


Afternoons, we watched the benign gags

of silent films… 


54.

I drew your picture by holding

my brush over a shaking tray 
 


58. 


If the road is shaped like an S,

you know there were mountains 
 


61. 


And there is a tribe that carries water for months

in their cheeks, their cheeks

hanging to their bellies and they never swallow 


63. 


Recall: I bent my brow

to the back's small 
 
 


69. 


Walking, so aware we were touching

Thistle

Granitescape

To leave being to meet 


71. 


The creek bed frosted like it isn't dry

The pump in the lawn, a lean dancer

Glove in the road,

sunning lizard

Day diving at me like the winking of a smoke detector's light

Once a minute

I remember love 
 


75. 


Sang: Tell me a secret I don't know I have 


76. 


So I spend a week here, have been carrying

a Thing so precious any touch dissolves it, but to prove

its worth, meaning, destroy it, now, I need

to go on, so I

hold it against you 


78. 


We may rest here 
 


81. 


…Be how you were, be how you were 


82. 


Then cut me so I unfold like the sky between

leaves into a string of paper dolls either

holding hands 


88. 


The dog has worn a circle around its post bare, chain

a clock hand

It is not our dog, we release it 
 


91. 


Dandelions miners' headlamps 


92. 


I sang: What is love to a fault? 


95. 


Then second: can the metal melt? 


100. 


Snow coming now like tissue after tissue from a box 
 


102. 


The plane never lands 


104. 


Or not draw a small V as though a gull seen

from a distance or a migration

of geese every time

through the day I think of you every

minute 
 
 


108. 


Sang: Outlast this song

Zach Savich's first book, Full Catastrophe Living, won the 2008 Iowa Poetry Prize and received a New American Poet honor from the Poetry Society of America. His second book, Annulments, won the most recent Colorado Prize for Poetry and will be published by the Center for Literary Publishing in November of 2010. His poems, essays, and book reviews have appeared in many journals, including Boston Review, Kenyon Review, A Public Space, Denver Quarterly, and Pleiades. A recipient of a BA from the University of Washington and an MFA from the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop, Savich has lived and taught in Italy, France, New Zealand, and around the US. He currently teaches and studies at the University of Massachusetts Amherst, where he helps organize the jubilat/Jones Reading Series.

A Great Poem: Norman Dubie’s “Ibis”

Zach Savich's first book, Full Catastrophe Living, won the 2008 Iowa Poetry Prize and received a New American Poet honor from the Poetry Society of America. His poems, essays, and book reviews have appeared in many journals, including Boston Review, Kenyon Review, A Public Space, Denver Quarterly, and Pleiades. A recipient of a BA from the University of Washington and an MFA from the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop, Savich has lived and taught in Italy, France, New Zealand, and around the US. He currently teaches and studies at the University of Massachusetts Amherst, where he helps organize the jubilat/Jones Reading Series.

Zach's piece is the second of ITIWNH's new series of writings called "Expositions," which are, in essence, short essays about "great" contemporary and/or non-canonical poems. The idea behind this series is to allow for critical interaction with either individual poems or small clusters of poems, since such writing is hard to come by in mainstream publications. My guidelines, as such, are both nominal and (therefore) flexible, so authors are free to investigate poems they find fascinating in whatever way they see fit. Even after just two installments of "Expositions," the nature of the project surprises me--and, to a degree, escapes me. Peter Ramos's inaugural essay on Joy Katz's "A Desk." is rigorously focused on exploring the poem at hand; Zach's work, by contrast, tapers toward its observations about Norman Dubie's "Ibis" only after considering some of the constituent elements of poetic "greatness": great lines, great poems, great books. It spirals, beautifully, toward insight. Perhaps Peter's work will establish the precedent for future Expositors; perhaps Zach's will. I don't know. But I do enjoy the fact that I don't know what to expect. It's all so wonderfully out of my hands.

***

Is “Meditation at Lagunitas” greater than Robert Hass? Is any Robert Duncan poem greater than his use of “ensouling?” Is his “Often I Am Permitted to Return to a Meadow” great or does it just have great first and last lines? What about Alice Notley’s “The Prophet”—I’ve often quoted lines from it (“The purpose of awakening is black coffee”; “You are not great you are life”) but have never been moved to memorize or copy-out the whole piece. This is typical of my favorite poems: with effort, you can memorize any poem, but the best lines seem to stick with me whether I want them to or not; I often forgive dull books that have three great lines. And often, I mentally anthologize poets not by poem but by line—Ezra Pound, for example, wrote more beautiful lines than anyone since Chaucer, one might claim in an undergraduate paper, but may have never written a great poem. And then, of course, there are the poets I love who do not write poems but books of poetry, sometimes in contrast not just to the idea of great poems but to the idea of great lines. There are passages by Rosmarie Waldrop that have composed my days (“Much work still to be done. And the smell of ripe peaches. And Long-Jin tea. And lungs full of words. And being an opaque body that intercepts the rays of the sun.”), but I would tell students to read an entire book by her, not any anthology’s selection.

Of course, this may be a problem not only of contemporary poetics—that today’s best poets often work more by sequence and line than by lit mag page units—but of contemporary perspective, as Keats’ contemporaries neglected his odes and Auden’s best early verses (including the hits we all know) first appeared untitled. One day, we will come to see the singular in what now seems continuous, and the major anthologies will no longer get limp after O’Hara. Perhaps, we will come to see that a truly great poem is one that has no great lines—those painted scarecrows—but exists as a unit, each piece equally required. Carl Phillips’ “Custom” is one of my favorite great poems that may have no great lines (except for, perhaps, the displaced augur’s thesis of “I look for omens everywhere, because they are everywhere / to be found” and the line linking that sensibility to poetic effort, claiming that “art can become, eventually, all we have / of what was true”—but I see these lines as structurally integrated into the poem, necessary machinery, not vivacious fauna flashing in the rough). It is a poem I never tire of reading or sharing with others. Like other poems I have memorized and recited to myself and motley assemblies over the years (Yeats’ “Adam’s Curse,” in particular, comes to mind) it deepens with each saying, like things should in the old idea of greatness. On the same hand: what about a poem like Dean Young’s “Sunflower,” with its “ketchupy light” and “crowness?” Some memorable phrases, riveting turns, general plunging descent and the invention of running by moving your legs very fast—but I remember most the rush and the voice of it, its vibrational contagions infecting my oatmeal when its way of seeing comes to mind, not a particular bon mot that’s reducible from it.

Other concerns: recent poets who do not focus on producing polished poems at all, but on recording their producing of poems, a process set down; or those whose process is not product but project, apart from the projection of greatness; or those who intentionally uglify a poem’s proceedings so its experience is more empirical than transcendentally great, based in a friction that can be created only through the exchange within its particular presentation. (An upcoming smart, sharp, and somewhat sociological review of American Hybrid by Michael Theune and Jay Thompson in Pleiades gets into thoughts about how anthologies variously represent poets, poems, and ideas of poetics.)

And I think of the conventional “beauty is truth” great line ending of a great poem, in which the line is great at all because of the particular path of greatness that has preceded it, long ice luge that makes the cheap vodka worth getting on your tie…And how that gets changed in a book like, e.g., Joshua Harmon’s Scape, where I often feel the BMX boost ramp of Keats’ ending in grounding, voice-rooted phrases that frame and stitch more burbling and diverse lyricism mid-poem…

All that said, this weekend I have been reading Norman Dubie’s The Mercy Seat (Copper Canyon), which compiles poems from 1967 and 2001, most of which appeared in earlier volumes, and such thinky thoughts have been far from my mind: I’ve been thrilling at the poems, jealous of what Dubie can do, pleased that his work exists. I first read his poems in 2002 at the suggestion of my teacher at the University of Washington, Linda Bierds, whose own careful and passionate work shows the influence of Dubie’s historical dramaturgy and personae. At the time, I got that, but missed the strange depths and hard-bright rhetoric that drive the speeches and scenes of Dubie’s poems. His poems may resemble work you, reader of adventurous poetry, distrust—imported scenes and personages; tremors of Zen; naturalistic landscapes depicted as though language can, by naming, portray and give voice—but they are more startling and solid than the often-made, dull performances of those traits. The sense of the actual in them recalls Yeats’ materially constructed images (“a tattered coat upon a stick”); the presentation of consciousness is as expressive as Faulkner’s or shifty-stanced Keats’. The mix of reserve and rollick, characterization and its dissolution, detail and the minds that frame them—

There’s a poem called “Ibis,” first published in 1975, that I particularly recommend. It begins:

There is the long dream in the afternoon

That turns a large, white page

Like, once, the slow movement

Of slaves at daybreak

Through the clouds of a stone laundry.

The blossoms

On a black vegetable and

The olive wood burning in the plate

Are the simple events

That I’ll wake to this evening.

At dark, we’ll walk out along

The shore having finished

Another day of exile in a wet place.

As a boy I burned

Leaves in the many gardens

Of a cemetery in Rome.

I wrote in my diary:

A blue vessel

Is filling out in the rain. All day,

Here, the water falls and is not broken,

But it punishes me like the girls

With their clubs and bowl

Flattening the new maize,

Millet, and the narrow tubers

Of yam

That are white like hill snow.

You do not yet realize that the speaker of poem is Ovid, in exile, attended by a servant he envies, admires, and hates, who, a page and a half later, is told he must “fuel the terra-cotta lamp / And gather the cress and hidden eggs / Of the Ibis” when Ovid is dead, but of course the poem isn’t really about Ovid: it’s about a situation, a dailyness that surpasses the weary dailyness of most dailyness-based poems. Are these lines great? Well, the sense of line is great. The sense of real things somehow more real than the things around me, given with range that is held so it is tight but still vibrating, a heavy kite by which you deduce these must be very heavy winds, and somehow my thin wrists are up to it—it makes my poems feel smaller than they should, as though I do not take on the real good variety of utterance and world. I would like to. To see poem and line, book and poem, intelligence and artfulness as more wildly aligned. As they are in the great poems of Norman Dubie. 
 


Why Would You Lie to a Field?: An interview with Zach Savich

Zach Savich received a BA in English from the University of Washington and an MFA from the University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop; he is currently in the MFA Program for Poets and Writers at the University of Massachusetts Amherst, where he is a teaching assistant. His poems and essays have appeared in such venues as the Colorado Review, the Beloit Poetry Journal, jubilat, Court Green, the Denver Quarterly, and the anthology Best New Poets 2008. He is an editor at Thermos Magazine and author of the book of poems Full Catastrophe Living, which recently won the Iowa Poetry Prize.

GL: In your appended “Notes” for Full Catastrophe Living you explain your reasons for choosing the book’s title as follows:

The title of the collection comes from Jon Kabat-Zinn’s guide to mindfulness and healing of the same name. I used to attend poetry readings at Prairie Lights Books in Iowa City. Kabat-Zinn’s book was often on a shelf near the reader’s head, like a caption. I love the phrase—how full is the catastrophe, how full is the living that follows?

In essence, then, your book poses—albeit, often ironically—as a guide for mindfulness and healing! But these concepts in self-help literature usually function as something of a mirage: they suggest a means to recovery but often seem to be used as a kind of hypnotic cue that actually avoids the pain and difficulty of reflection and transformation. Does your work try to perform the real difficulty of interpreting mindfulness and healing in a poetic context? And does your book pose as a kind of renegade instance of self-help literature or, forgive me, as lyrical self-help?

ZS: First, let me point you to this clip from Zorba the Greek, which moves this “full catastrophe” business from books to the deck of a ship, a conversation with dolphins breaching. I have been told that “young family men” of an earlier generation quoted these lines to one another (“Am I not a man? And is not a man stupid? I’m a man, so I married. Wife, children, house, everything. The full catastrophe.”). What a syllogism! Like Kabat-Zinn’s book (which I have not read all of), Zorba’s resume rests on a sort of behavioralism. I’m sympathetic to such approaches, partly because I have a “background” in chronic pain, for which reflection and psychoanalytic grappling have been less useful than taking a walk, eating a sandwich, concentrating on a poem.

That is, when healing itself is a mirage – pain just singing out like a bird without a mate, not signaling something to fix – behavioral change precedes transformation; it can be as good as healing. So, you focus on surfaces, do the coffee thing, move your feet for the dancing thing, follow the instructions printed on the food thing. I like poets – Sarah Manguso, Henri Michaux – who treat poems as such behavioral acts. There’s a wonderful Michaux piece in which the sounds of his own suffering keep him awake, so he extracts an orchestra from his head, and, in the greater din, finds a kind of silence, a kind of joy.

A poem is a behavioral act: an actor friend recently taught me the difference between gazing at an imaginary castle and looking precisely at your surroundings while imagining a castle. You can see the difference in the actor’s face. I want to say that poems provide that kind of actual looking. And that this is self-help of the best sort. In an intellectually defensible sense – we learn new ways of seeing, thinking, speaking; ways to be imaginatively/mindfully in the world without shrinking to truths less complex than our lives and language demand; ways that bring to mind, for me, Roethke saying “at times, reality comes closer.” But also in the Don Quixote sense. And in the hypnotic sense, as in lullabies. I like all three.

What is a self-help poem? 1) You are in prison. 2) Here is a fabulous cake. 3) Here is a kit of dynamite, ropes, and crowbars I have baked into it. Let’s say, good self-help poems need all these dimensions.

GL: Your poems are often haunted by mid-western atmospheric details in almost the same way that Ashbery’s poems are haunted by the snowstorms of his Rochester childhoods. Could you tell me a little about the impact that Iowa’s landscape(s) had on these poems, and how place/landscape affects your work in general?

ZS: I moved to Iowa from the Pacific Northwest, where mountains and water determine buildings and roads. I panicked. Why was anything where it was? You could walk all day and no geography would stop you. I lived (with you, Greg) in a farmhouse four miles outside of town. After we left, they detached the house from its foundation and moved it a few miles away. All this gave me two thoughts about poetry. One, in such a landscape, one becomes like the heroic poet figure Stevens presents in The Necessary Angel, cursed/blessed to hear only his own voice; that is, without mountains and water, you decide where you build. Two, what’s really permanent is not what you build, no matter what you build, but the fields around it. In a city, pretty talk and lies can be functional; they, like a city, show the pleasure of invention and collective interchange; they keep things going. But why would you lie to a field? I stared at one outside my window that whole first year. I still think of it when I want to be more honest.

All this connects to place more generally through Rome, which is the other major landscape in the book and in my life – a Rome way of seeing and an Iowa way of seeing are stilts I sometimes put other boots on. In Rome, permanence and possibility interact differently. Is that fountain permanent? Well, not exactly – this year they’ve covered it in scaffolding and a scrim painted with the fountains’ figures so scientists can chisel off bits. What’s permanent is more the motion through things, not an underlying field but an overlying sort of light. It makes a piazza move like a clock, through market hours to siesta to nightlife. You can’t stop it. It doesn’t care for you. The tomato, at its height of ripeness, goes rotten as soon as you touch it. Ah, but what tomatoes! I find all this very relaxing. The chaos, the grime, the obstruction of the sublime that people dislike about Rome – they calm me. You could be stabbed in the street and it wouldn’t matter. I’d hardly mind if I was stabbed in Rome.

And yet, you are in the definition of civilization. A man crams a cell phone into his scooter helmet so he can shout over the traffic. A postmodern mime sits with her postmodern juggler boyfriend outside ancient baths. These are not juxtapositions but fullnesses. These two forces – time moving bodily through Rome, its scrabble, elevating and depersonalizing human invention; time paused in an Iowan field, diminishing and singularizing the human figure, in humid and freezing silences – seem to be through the book, relating, I think, to the different positions its poems take on fidelity and the passions.

Also, snow fascinates me. It is the marble of the midwest. It is skin. In Iowa, I spent so long drinking coffee and watching snow, whenever I see snow now, I taste coffee.

GL: There are a number of relatively short poems in this book that seem to hinge on a single observation, whether about experience or language, that take no more than a breath or two to bring to conclusion. Here’s one called “Hotel”:

The ledge stops

       somewhat

before the air

       pressed in

its calmed longing

       which feels like snow,

as though the body

       or soul

would have any part

       aside from

aswell

Could you tell me a little about how these shorter poems function in their own right and how they compliment or balance the longer poems in the collection?

ZS: I thought of these short poems as pure atmosphere, analogous, perhaps, to the photographs in Wright Morris’ The Homeplace (from which my book’s cover photo is taken). Morris’ photo-novel has a continuous narrative on the right-hand page and photos on each left-hand page. The photos do not correspond to the text directly – they are not illustrations – but function as the lyric does in my prosaic life. You are going on with your story, and then you look to your side and notice something. There is the need to keep listening attentively to your boss, but also a sudden comet or bunched up flag behind him. I hope the shorter poems offer such pauses, letting some air in (or out?) and giving a particular consistency among the book’s varied poems. They also frequently remove the “I,” attempting to serve more as seeing itself (linked via language to thought, than posed images). So often, images in poems seem posed for rhetorical ends, while the actual experience of seeing is disturbingly digestive. I imagined these poems as wind-up toys that would stutter a couple steps, stop, stutter some more, though clearly all of the same motion. I was thinking of Carl Phillips and H.D. when I wrote them and looking at still photographs of the most famous ballerinas in history.

The poems are interested in a distinction Cole Swensen has made among fragmentation, compression, and distillation – compression preserves the same mass in a smaller space, fragmentation takes a piece of mass, distillation has less mass across a broader field. This happens, for example, in their out-of-context use of material from Yeats (“every tatter in”) and from Dante (“I turned the color of a man” – taken from the beginning of an idiom that runs, e.g., “I turned the color of a man ashamed at sunrise”). Language as knobby bits.

GL: The book’s final poem, “A Dedication,” begins as a meditation on seeing. The poem contemplates the degree to which visible phenomena are inherent in the person perceiving the world. It’s a wonderful poem that explores the classic boundaries between subjective and objective realities, but it takes what I think is an emblematic turn near the end, by suddenly addressing a mysterious “you” to whom the poem is presumably dedicated. In the poem’s penultimate stanza, you write, “…the secret of poetry is cruelty, / said a poet who used to live in our town, / but I would rather sleep inside with you.” Could you tell me about the impulse to turn the force of your mediation toward a single (apparently intimate) listener/reader? Why do you end the book by inviting the reader intimately into your musings and cognitions? And could you tell me how the “you” generally functions in your poems?

ZS: Maybe it’s because my girlfriend and I have spent half our three years together in separate countries, existing in letters, kissing like people in novels (that is, only in words), but I’ve begun to see less difference between poems and letters. Each is a piece of time, given and received with delay in the middle, made of words, implying some drama merely from the need to write it. The title of that poem is stolen from James Merrill’s poem of the same name. I like the idea that the occasion of every song, or poem, is the desire to dedicate it. Why else write a book but to dedicate it to someone you love? In that poem, I see the boundaries you mention occurring also in the boundaries between individual and shared experience. Are you with me? Are you me?

More honestly, I thought it was a love poem the entire way through, until a friend pointed out its intimate turn. That is, I was writing to Meg all along. The function of the ‘intimate you,’ then, seems to be in providing constant, underlying desire that sometimes turns explicit. The poem is important to me for positing one version of writing what James Wright called the “poetry of a grown man.” After the collapse of “but I would rather sleep inside with you” – that domestic retreat – it expands back into the final stanza’s attempt at vows, at staking something. These attempts, I hope, are more complicated than the blustery swagger imagined earlier in the poem, more true to the feeling I have, increasingly, that life has made my feelings simple, solid, few. I love you. We should never die. I know little else. We’re in the realm of psychology again. What follows the initial adolescent rush, the romantic tinge, the resolved dedication to another despite difficulty? Gratitude, unknowing, more.

GL: I’ve asked you a lot of specific questions about the book, but I’d like to back up a little bit and ask about the poet you were both before and during the writing of this book. How did you get started writing poetry? Who were your early influences? And how did your influences and sensibilities change while you were working on the poems in Full Catastrophe Living?

ZS: I came to graduate school and was blown away. Everyone was older, smarter, and had read more. I aimed to write a very different poem each week. I took on all schools. I believed, in a way I realize now was tied to a historical period interest, a period style, but also to my personal sensibility, that all techniques should be available to a poem, formal tendencies with plastic expressive language, deep imagery with wacky voice, etc. All techniques available, but with specific technical and associative consequences. I actually believed I was writing to save my life. Then I started to realize that, even as I tried to escape myself, certain reflexes of temperament and conviction remained inescapable. More limber gravities pulled back the satellites I tried to fling from orbit. I then tried to focus on those reflexes, indulging in and resisting them – impulses toward humor, questions, intimate address, proverbial utterance, elements of song, straight up sentiment. The book shows both stages of this work – the varied lyrics, the longer pieces trying to explore my emergent instincts. Then I started working non-academic jobs, writing for an hour in the morning, reading only at lunch. What I wanted from poems shifted. I wanted poems that could stand to a half hour lunch, to thinking about during the rest of my day, rather than ones that merely explored or demonstrated poetic possibilities that might seem trivial, smaller than either what’s possible or what’s permanent. I then wrote the more formal, measured pieces in the book, such as “A Dedication” and “Outside Santa Maria in Trastevere,” which became its third aspect, a more settled position. This connects also to being in a good relationship, which made me more invested in – order, a less reckless world. Hopkins, Rosmarie Waldrop, Dean Young, The Changing Light at Sandover – these were all revolutions.

GL: Describe the poems you’ve been working on since your book came out. Are your poems headed in an entirely new direction? And, finally, what is the future of Zach Savich? Continue poeting? What’s the plan?

ZS: Gratitude, unknowing, more. I think the secret is staying in motion, though sometimes at slower speeds, sometimes at breakneck. “Nothing lasts and nothing ends,” says Merrill. Most days I honestly don’t know what a poem is or if I have ever written one. As soon as I understand that I have, and how I have done it, I can’t do it that way anymore. Everything begins to seem like convention. I grow less interested in my own impressions or even in articulating the state of being someone who is less interested in his own impressions. I’m trying out the idea that we don’t know what we are building; I’m trying to stay in motion, keep writing, and trust that patterns will come out, that something will emerge from the matter. Pragmatically, there’s a question of how long to continue playing the academic poetry game – tied to institutions, building a resume, if with the haphazard and inefficient ways I’ve done it, for the benefits of fellowship and intellectual succor, despite the bouncing around it requires – and when to take on another life. My poems grow closer to epistle, mixed with a continued interest in proverb. Both are about transmission, but with a different relationship to time, to the context they occur in. Epistle is to proverb what Rome is to Iowa? Hmm. I feel that I know less and less. Has our collapse been economical? I’ve continued reading widely but have been loving books less widely. I used to pride myself on finding a way to love any book. But now I am hewing more. I imagine a great swelling out will follow. (This is half-true, shrill weariness: I’ve recently been humbled by and loved books by Geraldine Monk, Dan Beachy-Quick, Kevin Goodan.) One of the first poems I loved was by Denise Levertov, whom I haven’t read in years. Speaking of April, she says “each will astonish you.” Can that be the plan? It’s nearly April.