It was a great choice. Shearin\u2019s poetry, even then, combined an unusual maturity with a youthful exuberance and sense of wonder. Many of the poems in this book look back on childhood events and memories with an eye that is not entirely critical or nostalgic. Rather, they read more like an examination or a documentary in which the poet seeks to explain\u2014to herself, at least\u2014how she came to be the person she is. One of my favorites in this vein is \u201cFrogs,\u201d which recounts a third-grade science exercise dissecting frogs. The poem bounces (leapfrogs?) around a bit, as her poems often do, providing bits of information that gradually form a larger picture. And the language is vivid: the frogs arrive \u201cdead and soaked in formaldehyde \/ so they looked like wet vegetables dug up on some \/\/ other planet.\u201d That fabulous description is another hallmark of Shearin\u2019s work, as is the deft and unexpected turn of phrase. This poem, for example, extrapolates from dissecting the frog to dissecting her own life, with equal rigor but equivocal results: \u201cAnd because of her I have taken my life apart many times, \/ to examine it, though I have never understood what it was.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Which draws attention to another aspect of Shearin\u2019s work. It is frequently quite personal, and tells of a genteel southern upbringing\u2014but that family history is far from gothic, and the depictions never stray into caricature. In fact, it could be argued that the conventionality of her life became a source of underlying unease and self-doubt. We learn about her engagement and marriage in terms that are ambivalent, to say the least. In \u201cMatrimony,\u201d for example, she tries out the role of \u201cwife\u201d and finds it \u201clike gaining \/ fifty pounds, all on my ass\u201d (a phrase that is delightfully out of character in the book). Shearin also evokes the complicated mess of emotions that accompany pregnancy and birth in several poems, the most visceral being \u201cChildbirth Revisited,\u201d which conveys the sense of absurdity and helplessness when the one giving birth seems to have the least control over the entire situation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The title poem puzzled me for a long time, until it finally dawned on me that it\u2019s not a question about owls, it\u2019s the question the owls ask: Who? Who are you really, in this world, which imposes such expectations and assumptions on you? How much of what you do\u2014even falling in love\u2014is the result of your own pure desires, your own pure persona, as opposed to the gestalt, the collective unconscious, you may have accepted without question or examination? \u201cSurely I am pure beneath the layers I\u2019ve grown for love.\u201d Note that sentiment ends with a period, not a question mark\u2014as though punctuation can differentiate between the real and ideal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The world the Shearin grew up in was vastly different than mine, but I feel a strange affinity for her work. Granted, it is a bit more prosy than my usual fare, but it is carried off with grace and aplomb. Also, I think we can all get behind the desire for the world as \u201ca picnic where the wine is free and sex \/ turns everyone to swans.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Feath Shearin: The Owl Question When I was younger, the Police popularized the concept of synchronicity, or the belief that an apparently random coincidence carries some sort of deep meaning or significance. Jung was of course beyond me at the … Continue reading ![\"\"](\"https:\/\/m.media-amazon.com\/images\/I\/51Q+lcOj14L._SY445_SX342_.jpg\")
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