Ruth Stone's "What Love Comes To" is a fine book: new Poems (2008) and selected poems from 1959-2004. Her long career of writing poems seems short though when compared with her age (she was born in Virginia in 1915). She lives in Vermont, and her sense of place is crucial to these poems. Kansas, Virginia, Vermont, New York, California, Indiana. Wherever she's been, she's observed her surroundings well, as a naturalist, noting lilacs, trillium, iris, milkweed, and lifting leaves. She writes of woods, mountains, and "bare fields after the snow is gone." Kansas becomes Africa when "The rolled hay is like hippopotami."
"I started out in the Virginia mountains
with my grandma's pansy bed
and my Aunt Maud's dandelion wine."
She's noticed creatures of ground, water, and air - crows, caterpillars, wasps, bears, hummingbirds, bumblebees, flycatchers, warblers, worms, cats, cockroaches, blind baby mice, the hum of spiders, the husk of a locust, redwing blackbirds, globe fish, nightjars, lions, and phantom zebras. Often her poems seem more like conversational meditations than poetry, as if we're peering into the journal of a life, where words flow as if effortlessly.
"One morning you wake up in a trailer
on the Moline River.
Never mind how you got here."
Sharing her reward for an observed life, she reflects contemplatively.
"I read that the left side
reveals the true self.
My true self has been
stitched to another face.
Not even my words fit.
I listen to what the
mouth is saying,
but I write in a small
notebook -
where is the body of
this person?"
And she stays throughout this book remarkably hopeful.
"Memory becomes the exercise against loss."
I also recommend Virginia poet Dabney Stuart's new book of poems: Tables and Fred Chappell's Midquest: A Poem.