I recently reconnected with a friend from college, Jeff Schwaner. We were both aspiring poets, and of course found ourselves in many of the same classes (including, if memory serves, a seminar with Archie Ammons). But he was living a decidedly more literary life—he edited one of the undergrad literary mags and lived in the “artsy” residence hall (Risley), where he convened a regular open mic for writerly types (a group that included housemate Matt Ruff). I, on the other hand, was living with a bunch of engineers above a bar in Collegetown. But Jeff was an inspiration for me, and though we lost touch after school, I was delighted to learn that he’s continued to write poetry throughout all these intervening years. He sent me a few of his books, including his latest, Artificial Horizon. I may, of course, be biased, but I find myself drawn in by the compelling and sympathetic voice. I’m also impressed by the deft turn of phrase and keen observation. Imagine e.e. cummings as a zen master.

The poem “What I Told the Shadow” is a fine example. It includes a line that has been stuck in my head since the moment I read it: “you are made of nothing yet you need / so much.” All poets run across lines that they wish they’d written; I wish I’d written that one. I detect a whiff of Ammons in the line (and line break) “you collect the / Rims of waves and marsh knobs / Into yourself…” And the lack of punctuation recalls Merwin, who famously eschewed such stuff in his poetry (the poem does in fact contain a colon or two—perhaps another artefact of Ammons?). The subject matter, though—the centrality of absence, the importance of not being—comes straight from Lao Tzu. The speaker asks a questions of a reflection on a pond’s surface, and in response, “the reflection shimmered / Saying nothing.” And here, of course, nothing is something, is the main thing. I’m again reminded of a zen koan in which silence becomes the only possible answer to any question. The poem concludes with the speaker noting, “So I stepped less heavily for a while / On my own absence.” Which is perhaps a way of saying, “I have made some peace, at least for now, with my own death.” And while it is hard to read of shadows and not contemplate Plato’s cave, it seems in this case that there is no world beyond the shadow, no ideal. There is only this reality, which often appears more than a bit surreal.

It’s interesting to compare this poem with the one that directly precedes it in the volume, “The Crickets.” Here, every line in the first part of the poem ends with a period, giving a flat tonality and sense of resignation. Moreover, the first three lines grow successively longer, building momentum, piling up anger and despair (though at this point, we may not recognize those as the underlying theme):

I am reminded of Babel’s famous dictum: There is nothing so devastating as a period in exactly the right place. This is especially true in the second part of the poem, which loses the terminal punctuation altogether, until the final line. The counterpoint is striking, as the poem lifts off from that first short deadpan assertion to a lush extended metaphor that carries the reader along on its trajectory. The crickets are not singing a dirge—only the mention of “each lost friend” makes it seem so. But ultimately, the crickets—that is uncaring nature—is what survives us and continues quite well without us. “The crickets will not leave you,” the speaker asserts. No, it is you who will leave the crickets. And when that happens, the final line tells us, “nothing will be disturbed.”

I feel privileged to discover Jeff’s work after all these years. And to think I thought I was too old to be surprised.