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"Finally we all arise from seed celestial,
Because the same sky overhead is father of us all…
From him our nurturing mother, Earth…
And that which was sent down to earth from heaven's ethereal shore
Is taken up again into quarters of the sky."
The above passage from Lucretius, one of several that introduce each section of
the book, provides an appropriate introduction to Sara Burnett's magnificent
collection Seed Celestial.
Burnett weaves poems about motherhood, daughterhood, art, immigrant
forbearers into a complex and beautiful tapestry.
The book begins strong:
"so not from nothing, my yolk
and hatchling, pomegranate jewel
set in membrane, clot and thread,
honey of the hive. I didn't know you,
one of seven million chances
hibernating in a fluid sac
waiting for the signal to implant
yourself." ("Ab Ovo")
The rich language and telling details are typical of the collection's poems. This
poem also introduces the realization that contingency plays a large role in
human life, as exemplified in the poem that follows, "Theory of Probability":
"If the refrigerator hadn't broken
if the train had come on time
if it had been snowing harder
and slick ice paved the black lacquered road
if the loud drunk crowd pushed us down
if I hadn't gone for a walk
while the window was unlocked—
I count it a blessing."
Thus a relationship begins.
A past relationship is wryly recalled in a witty poem that combines ekphrasis
with clear-eyed recollection:
"You should've been there
at the Degas-Cassatt exhibit.
You would've hated it….
Don't you wish you could've been there—
I mean, when they were painting?..."
("After Viewing Cassatt's Little Girl in a Blue Armchair
without My Ex")
The poet even finds a point of identification with the female artist:
"Evident also is Degas's hand in the corner
of the room beyond the chairs—quick, sharp
signature strokes of grayish, silvery brown paint
not found elsewhere, but certainly, his.
What did Cassatt think of it?
And though it's hardly the same at all,
I recall that mosaic pencil holder I made
(the one you said was a fourth grade art project)
and how I did it wrong, the flat shiny glass
should've been facing the front, the rough backside
should cling to the grout you said…."
Evidently even the great Degas was occasionally given to mansplaining.
Burnett returns to Cassatt in "After Viewing Cassatt's The Oval Mirror with my
Daughter Sleeping Next to Me," a poem which also deftly and touchingly weaves
in the recurrent theme of motherhood:
"O the possibilities
of objects and desires
waiting to be named….
—my own daughter
demanding more of myself
to fill desires she doesn't
have words for yet….
When Degas quipped to Cassatt
'it has all your qualities
and all your faults'
he didn't know
how right he was
about mothers.
O the possibilities
of the lips
that form a hole
to make desire
first a sound, then
a word—
how it knows nothing
about surrendering.
Just ask the child."
Another subject that winds movingly through the book is immigration, or rather
immigrants, inspired in large part by her mother's experience of coming to the
U.S. from Cuba at age 9 with her family. In "Pupusas at St. Camillus Church,
Maryland," we meet Salvadoran women selling the Central American delicacy to
departing churchgoers.
"They seal pupusas in Tupperware containers,
portable tabernacles, and set aside extras
on dinner plates for children and husbands,
the same men I might pass during the week
as I drive to work—men standing in parking
lot after parking lot waiting for jobs
many of us haven't done, wouldn't do,
and may never, not for that money….
if I speak Spanish, will she stare in disbelief
at my accent, my paler skin, wonder why I'm here,
though we share this tongue, though we both came
to church unsure we'd get what we came for."
The experience becomes deeper and more personal still in "Abuelo Míó:"
"You're over a hundred now. You must be so tired.
Help me understand what I see when I see you now.
Let me not mistake you for shadow or crow.
Don't let me pass you on the street
and not know that I belong to you. Wear your face
and your body for me, sing to me slow."
And a visit to Hemingway's home in Key West reveals that Burnett's abuela once met Hemingway in Cuba. The visit to his Key West home interests the
grandmother mostly for the furnishings reminiscent of her native country. In
the end
"Cuba lies ninety miles away, give or take,
a floating mirage in a humid haze, cresting and collapsing with the waves.
I remember Abuela's eyes anchored on the horizon as she inched closer to the
precipice,
as she said this is the closest we'll get to home to no one in particular,
as if the wind and the water had a face, had a name before they took her voice
away."
One final motif that needs to be mentioned is the myth of Demeter, which both
particularizes and universalizes Burnett's experience of motherhood. See, e.g.,
"Demeter's Remorse" (quoted here in full):
"All the days, she was mine
alone. That second before
a cut bleeds clean
through a white bandage
red. That summer, we canned
pears. I still haven't opened them."
Or this from "Demeter's Wager":
"At some point, we're all deceived.
Some days I hear her voice
in the kitchen, other days
only my echo. Call it grief
or despair—it doesn't matter;
every day I kneel down and feed it.
Bless this rash of fires, this flooded city,
this cracked, parched earth,
so all the water, all the salt,
all the spoils of this world
hear me say: I am your daughter too."
These observations only suggest some of the richness and beauty of Burnett's
work. This collection is one of the most important—and best—of 2022.
I was interested to learn more about Sara Burnett and her work and she was
kind enough to answer a few questions.
Thank you for taking the time to talk about your work.
How did you get started writing poetry? Was there one defining moment or
did it come gradually?
I've always read a lot of poetry, particularly the British Romantic poets. I
probably never even read a living poet until an introductory undergraduate
course. I wrote my MA thesis on Keats and Wordsworth, and for a while, I
thought I would continue on that academic track. I never thought I could write
poetry though until someone I was close to got into a terrible accident where I
ended up being a primary caregiver in my mid 20s. I was seeing a wonderful
therapist and she prompted me to "write about it." I thought I couldn't possibly
write about the experience, but then she reminded me that after all I taught
high school English and had a MA in English Literature, so yes, indeed I could
write about it. So, always a good student, I did what was asked, and out came a
poem. Then every week I would have an "assignment" for her and it was a
poem. This went on for some time. I was living in Vermont then and I joined a
community of women writers (Women Writing for (a) Change). I kept writing
more and more poetry. I got the courage to apply for an MFA to allow myself
that time to write and make a major shift. To answer your question, it was both
a defining moment and a gradual coming to it. I'm so glad I did. Poetry was soul
-saving for me and it has proved to be that more than once.
What drew you to the myth of Demeter?
Picture me as a fourth grader toting an oversized, gorgeously illustrated book of D'Aulaires' Book of Greek Myths and that will give you a sense of how long that
story has remained in me. If you think about it, the story of Demeter losing her
daughter, Persephone, to Hades, the god of the underworld who abducted her,
is a perfect vehicle for contextualizing the ecological grief associated with
climate change. In ancient times, the myth of Demeter and Persephone
provided the rationale, the story, for why we have seasons. A mother's grief over
the loss of her daughter was so immense that she neglected her duties to the
earth that she was also caring for, and thus brought about the bitter cold of
winter. For an earth which had never seen a winter, this would amount in my
imagination to a climate catastrophe. And, of course, because it's the fault of the
mother, it's richly complicated. Once I gave myself permission to write in
persona, those poems came fairly easily and quickly and I think add a depth to
the book that wouldn't be there without them.
You have a number of poems concerning the Cuban part of your heritage.
Could you fill us in about that? Aside from providing subjects for poems, what
effect has this heritage had on your work as a whole? Do you want to visit
Cuba?
As I wrote in the poem "English II," my mother immigrated from Cuba with her
family in 1960 when Castro came to power. She was 9 years old and while she
had the benefit of knowing some English when she came to the U.S., she was the
first "Hispanic" in her class in Miami-Dade public schools. It must have been
very hard. I grew up in New Jersey, far away from Miami and far away from
Cuba, but all throughout my childhood, I heard these fantastical stories of
hiding china in fake ceilings, a mansion with luminesce Baccara chandeliers,
slaughtering a pig and hiding it underneath a car seat while approaching a
military checkpoint after Castro gained control, packing everything you could in
a suitcase, leaving loved ones behind, and flying on an airplane all the while
knowing that this very act was lucky. And, of course, there was always the
expectation that the stay in the U.S. was temporary, that someday there would
be a return to Cuba, which in my mind exists as almost a fantasy. All of these
stories are like legends passed down, and you can imagine how when I heard
them growing up at the kitchen table or when visiting my grandparents in
Miami over a game of dominoes, I was riveted. These stories, much like the
myth of Demeter, are deeply engrained in me. It's also gifted me a rich and
complex understanding of race, ethnicity and privilege that I believe is
conveyed in this collection. It's not always easy to write about, but I'm always
glad I do.
I would like to visit Cuba. I came very close to visiting once, but I was pregnant
with my daughter, the summer that the Zika virus first became a threat to
pregnant women, so we cancelled our plans. Someday I hope to go, and write
about it, of course.
What poets and/or other writers have influenced your work? Who do you
return to again and again?
There are so many poets that have influenced my work. I will name some that I
return to, and say this is not an exhaustive list and in no particular order:
Natasha Tretheway, Sharon Olds, Tyehimba Jess, John Keats, William Blake,
Naomi Shihab Nye, Erika Meitner, Terrence Hayes, Laura Kasischke, Ada
Limón, Gwendolyn Brooks, Louise Glück, Lucille Clifton.
What's your next project? Is there another book in the works?
I am continuing to write more poems as always. I also write children's books
and I'm going to start sending out some manuscripts soon. I am also planning a
community event bringing children and their caregivers together to imagine
what a sustainable future looks through visual art, poetry and activism. Stay
tuned…
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