Music for Landing Planes By by Éireann Lorsung

Milkweed Editions 2007
Reviewed by Melinda Wilson

To Recall and Rejoice

Éireann Lorsung’s first book, Music for Landing Planes By, is best described by the title of its final poem, “Prayer.” The whole of the book is an entreaty, but not only to the maker; it’s to all that is made: letters, bodies, darkness, sounds, shapes—it gives the impression of true appreciation, of a growing hunger for human experience.

The collection opens with an epigraph from the Gospel of Thomas that declares the earth an unseen kingdom and precedes the book’s first poem, “Being.” The spirituality is hard to miss: “A letter is holy. A story / is holy hands reaching out into the world.” The poem is celebratory and near its end, Lorsung makes a vow that at her end she “…will live inside whatever flies. / Burning, the brink of all things.”

Although the book maintains the feel of a long ode, it never levels off—in other words, it doesn’t get boring. It rises and falls, twists and turns, breathes. Along the way, an interesting and unexpected preoccupation surfaces: the notion of forgetting. Lorsung deals with memory in a variety of ways throughout the book, but more often than not the act of forgetting is at the heart of the sentiment. Forgetting is sometimes a desire, sometimes a cause, and sometimes a result. This obsession first appears in “How My Name Came to America”: “After some time people want to forget.” The poem isn’t explicit about why one might want to forget, but the ambiguity is a great asset; it allows for the individuals’ variances and allows the idea to be applied to most any aspect of life.  We see in “Knitting” that most anything can be a mode to forgetting: “There is forgetting in the density of raw new wool.”

“And Will Be,” which begins the book’s second sections, is a satisfying sister poem to “Being.” They share similar subjects and the former preserves the pensive, prayerful tone of “Being” and others. In fact, it brings into focus the notion of the spiritual in creation. The impetus—as we learn from Lorsung’s notes—is the Gospel of John 1:1. Perhaps the only downfall of the poem is its ending, which drives home the idea of the worshipful: “(Amen, alleluia).” The penultimate line would have made a finer ending as it exemplifies, in a more practical sense, the act of worship: “Whenever I can I will go out into the world singing.”

The majority of the poems in this collection retain an advantageous sense of ambiguity and craft. They are beautifully mysterious, open-ended and thus accessible. One in particular that lacks this touch is “Exclusion Pregnancy.” After reading the title, I already know too much. Lorsung has a knack for keeping the reader in the dark just long enough; it’s wonderful. This poem obviously misses that. Check out the first lines: “Sister, what is growing / in this body?” A baby…?

The book’s lesser moments are truly a side note here; by and large, Music for Landing Planes By is wonderful. Perhaps my favorite passage comes in an overtly titled poem: “Hail Mary.” Again, we see the spiritual, prayerful context, but the poem surprises us as many of Lorsung’s poems manage to do. This poem contemplates the nature of the universe, or even the earth. It discusses the possibilities of creators or beginnings:

At our parallel, in December, light
dims. To blue. Our star is moving

on the other side. I believe
there is a woman holding the world

like a little girl holds an egg
she finds in the grass in springtime:

Superb. There is an innocence here that is endearing. Imagine the creator as a little girl cradling an Easter egg. Now, I know this isn’t necessarily what’s being said here…but still.

Also in “Hail Mary” is the narrator’s great faith in humanity. Although it can be difficult to muster at times it is nevertheless a valuable and worthy faith: “You can know good will rise / from things, even if you don’t live to see.” These lines end part 2 of the poem and in a way, I feel like they could best end the book. Lorsung proceeds by questioning the creator:  “What is it / to be so large you can love us when we are so awful?” “Hail Mary” emerges as the most inspiring poem in the collection.

Later in Music for Landing Planes By comes a return. A poem titled “Forgetting in Multiple” speaks to our various selves, the individuals that make so many memories and forget them just as easily: “So much flickers here.” And it’s true; what determines which memories are for keeps and which are disposable? This is a somewhat terrifying and unpredictable unknown, but Lorsung takes control of it here. Forgetting can be a weapon—rather than merely a defensive tool—if one is able to control it.

At times Lorsung’s narrator slips into a strikingly internal state. It is as though she is falling into herself, exploring her own interior as it relates to the outside world. “In the Wide World” has a Dickinsonian feel to it, reminiscent of “The Brain is Wider Than the Sky.” As in Dickinson’s poem, we inhabit the undefined insides of things:

    …seven fish swim the air above one child’s head.

Eyes, deep holes, lakes, and ponds. People who drown and people
who do not drown; lovers, unborn children.

In the same way that the brain forgets, opts not to keep certain bits of time or material, it also can contain anything it has the will to contain. In a way, our physicality embodies everything that there is. We are all.   

Inevitably, Lorsung’s poems return to “failing to remember.” Here is the book’s longest passage on the subject:

Things that are hard to forget all at once. Things that are hard
to forget piece by piece.
        All the bridges.

All kinds of musty and fetid smells—wet dog, stale air,
ammonia, a mother slapping her baby.

Waking up forgetful of a death.

Until, in the end, “Everything is forgotten.”