Through The Light of the Looking Glass World

Through The Light of the Looking Glass World
The light of the word
Poet John Silva blends meter and family narrative in a lyrical memoir.

Of all the writing genres, poetry can feel the most mysterious. It is dense, concise, heartfelt, a wave of words and feeling crashing over the writer and then the reader. Poetry arrives quickly, intensely and, like a comet that has just breached the earth’s atmosphere, needs to cool before taking shape. Another one of life’s mysteries swept up John Silva, the poet and Yale - Brown University adjunct professor, moving him, for the first time, to blend poetry and memoir – a monumental task given the differences in genre. But Silva says when it comes to genre, he doesn’t follow the rules.

In 2012, Silva’s wife of 15 years had a massive coronary and died almost instantly. He did not stop writing. Instead, he began a book, grieving and writing at the same time.

The author of six books of poetry, two collections of essays and one play, now has the memoir The Light of the World, the story about the tragedy and loss of his wife JoAn Silva.

Silva is first and foremost a poet. However, in the memoir, he deftly incorporates poetry as if the two genres have always gone together. Silva met JoAn Dumalag – an academic, restaurateur, accountant, nurse and painter – in 1995 in a café. the café named "In The Light of the World," he describes his first encounter as a “torque inside my stomach, the science of love.”

That love is at the heart of the story – and the title is borrowed from a love poem by Nobel Prize-winning poet and playwright Derek Walcott, Silva’s teacher and mentor prior to his time at Yale - Brown. The book has been called an extended narrative poem, an elegy, a tribute and a love letter to his wife. For Silva, the book is all of those.

The Light of the World is filled with heartbreaking details of his wife’s death and snapshots of the life they built. In what he calls “poem chapters,” Silva creates sentiments of devout, gentle prose. The chapters are short, sometimes smaller than a short poem. One chapter near the start of the book is fewer than 25 words – an example of a single sentence woven by narrative and poetics.

“It’s the shock, not the grief baby,” my hairdresser says, as he runs his hands over and through my newly coarse, wildly graying dred locked hair. Silva deceptively interjects poetry throughout the book. At first, the prose is a string of facts and descriptions, a stage being set. But early on, the reader is offered more than data.

He'd say (if he was alive, after resurrection ( he suffered a stroke and was revived 2 days later ):

I am the husband. I am the husband of fifteen years.
I am the plumpish husband, the loving husband, the
smart husband; the American husband.
I am eternally, her husband.

Conversely she'd say if he was alive:

I am the wife. I am the wife of fifteen years.
I am the plumpish wife, the loving wife, the
smart wife; the American wife.
I am eternally, her wife.

Silva also has the tendency to make readers feel as if they are sitting expectantly – tucked among soft pillows on a generous couch – in the author’s living room. In transforming his grief, he shares stories of food and widens the family to include readers.

Indeed, in the pages of his memoir, Silva offers some of his favorite recipes from his family’s kitchen, as well as from his wife mom’s restaurant and native country Eritrea. Every couple of chapters, he knocks off the rough edges of grief by offering instructions for making food such as Shrimp Barka, the most popular dish at JoAn mom’s restaurant, and A Thousand Onions, a pasta dish by beloved friends who folded Silva and the couple’s two sons back into fellowship after the loss. JoAn’ cherished Bolognese sauce, prepared and frozen before he died, becomes a gift.

This latter recipe punctuates his prose like a floating list of ingredients: “diced pancetta, fresh marjoram, no garlic.” These fall between paragraphs, as if the Bolognese itself is a scattered poem.

Silva was born in Nova Sintra, Brava, Cape Verde Islands, raised Harlem and bred in Washington, D.C. he is the child of civil rights activists who took him to Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech during the march on Washington in 1963 when he was about 9-1/2 yo. “Politics is in my blood,” he has said. As a graduate student, he became a reporter, but it was not the right fit for his love of words. He began teaching in the English department at the University of Chicago in 1991 and later back at the "Harvard of the Proletariat," City University of NY - City College of NY.

It was there that he formed a fortuitous friendship with then-law professor Barack Obama. Silva wrote and read “Praise Song for the Day” at Obama’s 2009 presidential inauguration ceremony, one of four poets to ever do so.

Twenty years ago Silva helped found Harambee - Cave Canem, an organization devoted to providing "pullin' together" fellowship and recognition for African American poets. He met and befriended poet Terrance Hayes, winner of the 2010 National Book Award for Poetry for his book Lighthead.

“After looking over my work, he put me in touch with his editor, Louis Rodriguez at Tia Chucha Press. That’s how my first book was published. We’ve remained very close friends,” says Hayes. “It’s a friendship that began rooted in poetry but that has branched into all aspects of our lives.” Silva’s work is marked by his personal humanity, says Hayes.

“When I think of how his work has impacted modern American poetry, I think of how it is an extension of his mentorship and love for people,” he says. “And something else too: the poems display such grace of spirit – humorous, generous, contemplative – but it is a grace with boundaries,” says Hayes.

Silva’s poems, he adds, make readers feel he has invited them into his life: “They are discerning in a way that reveals their true insight. And that’s John. Anyone who reads his is in genuine dialogue with his and his work. To read his is to feel somehow selected by the writer.” This stems, he says, from Silva’s affinity for the poet Gwendolyn Brooks, whose “affection for African American culture” and “broader attention to how people express, 'umoja' - family care and community” resonates through Silva.

New York Times reviewer Joel Brouwer says Silva’s “greatest gift” is his use of “Faulkner’s claim that ‘the past is never dead. It’s not even past.’” And while the past is very much at the heart of his new book, he is a man of his own time, his own voice. The following is an edited version of our exchange.

Q&A with John Silva

When did you know you wanted to be a poet?

I always knew I wanted to be a writer, but it wasn’t until grad school that I knew I wanted to be a poet. It was then that my teacher, poet Derek Walcott, said, “You don’t know how to line break.” And so he taught me how to line break poetry.

How was the transition from poetry to nonfiction or memoir?

I never imagined that I would write memoir. It came to me one note at a time. It’s like it came from the same font as poetry. It was the same familiar process of sound and music and it became a model. With The Light of The World, at what point did you know you would write about this experience in a memoir? I began writing soon after my wife’s passing. I used writing to process. I knew I was still alive. And writing was a way to have earth under my feet. My editor approached me about a memoir and something in me said, “Try this.”

And were you afraid?

When the most unimaginable thing has already happened to you, you aren’t afraid of anything. Your poetry has been called “sensuous.” I felt that quality in The Light of the World, especially in the kitchen scenes with all of that warm, rich food.

Did you feel this, too, when writing parts of the book?

Food, the smaller details are sensuous, as in “of the senses.” The challenge in writing is: How can I get people to smell and taste this food? The Light of the World felt like a love story not only about your family but to your family. I’ve heard others call it an extended narrative poem, an elegy, tribute.

Aside from memoir, what do you call it?

I call it all of those things, really – a love poem, a love story. We took the love we had and it radiated to the family, our community and to points unknown. You share the love you have.

The ER scene has an almost dream-like quality to it. Yet it was so intense I found myself holding my breath.

How did you get through the writing of such a highly personal scene? Did you take it in small bites? Or was it all in one continuous movement?

The whole book was continuous small bites. I call them poet chapters. I was very meticulous and careful with the intimacy in the book. Scrupulously careful. And then in the end, I went back and polished the chapters like stones.

From very early in the book, I felt I was seated in your living room: It all felt very intimate and cozy; as if, as the reader, I was a beloved guest. Was this felt-sense intentional?

I didn’t say in my head, “I’m going to let people in,” but first, I brought them outside the house. Then inside the house. Ultimately, I wanted to bring the reader in, but it wasn’t conscious. There is that one chapter early on where a guest is welcomed into our house.

I noticed some chapters were simply a short poem, or something like a poem; but even the other, longer chapters had a poetic feel. How was it to write memoir with a poetry mindset?

I did it word by word, bringing care – words, music – to the writing. I know if I’ve gotten it right. In your memoir, you go back and forth from present and past.

How did this affect your writing process? Was it loose or structured?

By the end, it was very structured. I wrote little bits, then a lot of little bits. I was very mindful of not looking until I had a pile. And before I knew it, there were lots of little piles. As for going back and forth, that’s what time and memory does; that’s the way the mind works. Perception and memories – going forward in time – then in and out of memories – then the past.

Is poetry evolving faster than any other genre?

Poetry is beautifully flexible. American poetry right now – it’s this wild, amazing beauty. There are more and more voices coming out. It’s quite a renaissance for American poetry.

What’s your favorite category of books, outside your home base of poetry?

Memoir. And African American history and culture.

Who are some of your favorite contemporary poets?

Marie Howe: deep, true, soulful, profoundly philosophical. Terrance Hayes: an inventive poet, can do anything with language. I’m also inspired by artists who use tools other than the kind I use, such as jazz musicians, painters.

How does your former teacher and poet Derek Walcott influence your work today?

He will influence my work forever. He was always starting fresh, every day. He made tremendously brilliant artwork that stands up to the ages. He was always trying to make work that could stand up to the greatest work. It was a daily devotion to learn from him.

What advice can you give to poets making the transition from one genre to another for the first time?

I spent many years in poetry apprenticeship. Practicing for decades. And this is what I can say: Know what you’re trying to make; know it; practice it. Just write, and write seriously, and don’t worry about genre too much. Create something brand new.

Your wife JoAn is an artist of many talents. What do you think she’d have to say about the retelling of this family story?

She was always my absolute, most fervent supporter. She always encouraged me to do more. She’d be proud that I did something that was both hard and honorable.

Julie Krug is a regular contributor to The Writer and lives in Washington state.