Weeks ago, searching after poet Matthea Harvey, I found and posted about Octopus magazine. On the contributors list was a familiar name, though so familiar that it could have been any number of people. There are a handful from my hometown alone, and casting out a net for "Julia" or "Cohen" or "Julia Cohen" brings in millions of blinking possibilities. Had she taken up tennis since I saw her last? Become a political activist? If you know this poet, my friend from college, you know neither is entirely likely. We met as dutiful helpers at a summer writers' conference, shuttling authors to and from the train and the bar, and sitting in on workshops in exchange. The poem in Octopus was incredibly different from what I had heard her read that summer. That poem, one of the "Ruby" poems, the collection of which (I am proud to report) will be published in a chapbook next year, was a listening vertigo, perspectives and colors stacked on each other like the vertebrae of a curling stairwell; and it wouldn't be pulled open any wider--the way it landed on my ear, there was no room for me to wiggle in a finger and see what she was trying to do. Unlike the other poems that had been read that afternoon, this poem was done. What lovely seams she made!
A year passed and we became friends. She said she had a low table in her room and pillows on the floor. She is tall and folded herself to the edge of the table to write. Perhaps because I only knew a few of her poems then, I would have had to have said that she looked like a "Ruby" poem.
But these two in Octopus were almost unrecognizable. I wondered and then called, then forgot, until finally, last weekend, we managed to see each other. She said she was writing in an entirely different way now. Her first chapbook, If Fire, Arrival was published by horse less press earlier this year; there's a little more on my friend and her chapbook on a blog called Blatt. I can say that I see the same poet in them now. But comparisons of new and old aside (as I am unqualified), my favorite of the two in Octopus is "For the 'H' in Ghost." I love this poem: the way she unwinds nostalgia back to the innocence of the original moment, but remembering all the while, and especially the closing section, with the lines, "The unspeakable 'H.'/ When the bar// falls away/ 'I' and 'I' stand// face to face,"--it is simultaneously playful and yet with such a note of longing--she weds the two and here, as elsewhere, so gracefully spans the poem's then and now.
Seeing her last weekend for the first time in over a year, I am not so sure she looks like a "Ruby" poem anymore. She looks more like what I always thought she would look like, maybe because she is doing exactly what she knew she would. She looks more like my Julia Cohen, the one and only.
-AH
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