From the Fever-World
By Jehanne Dubrow
Washington Writers’ Publishing House Poetry Press
ISBN: 0-93184691-9
Perfect Bound, 68 pages
Link to purchase
Who is Ida Lewin, the narrator of the poems found in From the Fever-World by
Jehanne Dubrow? According to the translator’s note found at the end of
the book, "Ida Lewin (or someone like her) existed in the imaginary
Polish town of Always Winter. “Maybe she was born in 1906." Dubrow goes
on to explain that "She died in 1938, during a flu epidemic" and that in
1986, two schoolchildren found some of her written documents including
"A sheaf of crumpled pages" that appear to be what is left of Ida’s
poetry.
It’s this sheaf
that makes up Dubrow’s second full-length collection of poetry. Acting
as a translator, fictional or otherwise, Dubrow dives into the world of
an early 20th century Yiddish poet, who is sometimes a mystical seer,
sometimes a wife and homemaker, sometimes a mother, and always a woman.
The poems in this
collection do not have specific titles (the acknowledgments page states
that many of the individual poems were published under the first lines),
so it is easy to follow Dubrow’s collection as a single story instead
of a set of individual works. Ida is first introduced to the reader
through the context of a physical place called Always Winter where
"thistles remain needles, each blade / of grass a blade that slices / to
our soles." But it’s not just the harsh outside landscape that
envelopes this main character. We also see her domestic world in
kitchens, in markets and in a woman’s duties: "In a woman’s life / all
lists become her poetry / so that a recipe for cake / is just the verse
form / of desire."
And a woman, Ida
most certainly is. We never forget this, as we read her conflicts with
her religion, her relationships, even her own body. For instance, we see
as the narrator tries "the trick of making honey cake" in one poem and
in another poem she describes how she sleeps in a separate bed from her
husband, "I was bleeding / a white cloth turning red / between my
thighs." Certainly, Ida’s world is one that has been pushed aside by
history, and the narrator knows this. Outside of offering observations,
many of her poems show the struggle of capturing the intimate glimpse
into this forgotten world:
Consider the present
for my mother, a carp
wrapped in white paper
tied with twine –
It held
a poem too,
She never read
my fish scale sentences..
Aside from the
outside conflict, there are also hints that nothing may be what it
seems. In one poem, Ida explains a ceremony: "Before the wedding, a
bride unveils / to prove that she’s the wife / her husband bargained
for." Then, she goes on to offer her own commentary:
Truth is: the face remains obscured,
no matter how transparent the gauze
silk thin a whisper
in the wedding bed, white lace
composed of thread and emptiness.
Ida’s world is a
conflicted one. It is also one of tragedy, for perhaps this poet is one
who can see the future. Her poems ring with dark nightmares and shadows.
In one poem we see "the ash bird / soaring through the squire— / animal
that doesn’t fly / with June, but caws the wind, its prophecy the
daggered beak / its gullet overflowing worms." In another, she dreams
"the myth of men / who lead the living / to the dead." Knowing the date
of Ida’s life, we have to ask ourselves: Are these dark images omens of
personal tragedy or something more widespread? It’s not clear. What we
do know that at the end of the collection, Ida is haunted by the death
of her own child, saying, "I cannot hold her fingers / anymore, those
tiny ropes / that used to choke my thumbs".
Through this
collection, we get to see so much of Ida’s life that it would seem we
know her personally. But of course, we don’t. Because this collection is
a work of translation, pretend or otherwise, we have to allow for the
missing pieces. Of course, not every word has survived. What has been
lost? What has been gained by what has been lost? And what is the role
of Dubrow who is the poet/translator? What does a poet in the 21st
century hope to capture by splicing the pieces of a lost life in poetry
fragments together?
There are, of
course, no clear answers to these questions. And that is okay. Putting
down this collection, the reader should be satisfied to live with the
unanswered questions and relish this surreal and lyrical world that at
times may seem incredibly sad, but mostly is both strangely eerie and
magical.
***
