The Good Dark by Annie Guthrie (review)

Guthrie, who has been teaching Oracular Writing for nearly ten years, is no stranger to the ebb and flow of good poetry. Her newest work, The Good Dark, is a prime example, in which she writes more with her ears than with her hands. Eschewing page numbers, she opts instead to include four section headings: Unwitting, Chorus, Body, and Epilogue. This allows the writing to flow from beginning to end with little interruption, her words becoming a river, given pause only by the occasional swirl of rocks beneath the surface.

Fittingly, the first page of poetry begins with one word: weather'd (emphasis in the original). Guthrie writes, "the world unwound, shut down / thunder, and a newly reckoned darkness / darkness makes the birds sound otherwise." Foregoing capitalization and most punctuation speeds the waters along, and while the brook babbles at first, it quickly turns to rapids. Describing a coming storm, the poem is rife with tension: "every / lead, cloud, passing, is reaching." The staccato arrhythmia mimicking a fear-filled heart. In that calm just before the thunder claps and lightning strikes, "silence can't be demonstrated / it has no edge."

In a book where "silence is reverence" and lips form "only the shape of zero," it can be easy to lose track of what's occurring. The looser structure to these poems, coupled with more abstract imagery, may disorient those who aren't ready to take the plunge into the icy, dark waters of the later sections. In many ways, this seems to have been the intention: alienate the reader, put poems in unfamiliar territory, and recreate meaning, showing people an inverted world where darkness can be good and light bad.

In the second section, Guthrie writes, "Don't give darkness a face, he says, darkening." Here, punctuation makes itself more pronounced. Those who have ridden downstream this far are rewarded with embankments and islands—little places to pause, breathe, and take stock of the journey. This helps, because "Chorus" is full of allegory and religious discussions, featuring a priest among his gossiping flock and God watching from behind a one-way mirror at how people talk about Him when they think He isn't watching.

Some lines stick out as critiquing society, the personal observation interwoven with the images. In one poem, God invites people to his home, then calls to them from a far room, only for the people to remark, "I'm not good at being very happy, / when not spoken to directly." This surfacing of ego and vanity rears up again as a narrator turns to an oracle for advice, becoming a caution against boastfulness. "One point-of-view may be avoided for many reasons," the oracle cautions, later adding, "Don't make words a ribcage." Yet, there is more meaning lurking in the depths. After she questions her life, and what melancholy is, the section ends with the oracle remarking, "Just remember to feed the family! / Life is putting on shows! / I have to pull on the curtains." These lines create falsehood and distrust. If the oracle is not wise, but merely trying to survive, can anyone trust what they've been told?

"The Body" returns to abstract lines, at times, but also far more pointed messages. One page ends with, "the difference between fantasy and prayer / is innocence." Yet, the following page brings disjointed imagery with stress in each line. In a piece that feels more like an aforementioned prayer coming in a dark hour, Guthrie writes, "on top the night's helm / my howling, starless / stark ahems, the tyrant ahas—/ unmoored from port of stem/ thinkers keep their words."

"Epilogue" is just one single page. This stop is far from sudden, but winds to a close, the river having turned and bent so often that it drifts to a calm resolution. "the body took the blame / for the deeds of the mind / It was this kind of human." With that, the book ends, sending readers on their way.

Much like any force of nature, The Good Dark builds in power, and demands...