Poetry Review: Father Dirt by Mihaela Moscaliuc
The poet Mihaela Moscaliuc was born and raised in Romania, but came to the United States in 1996 to do her graduate work in American literature. She is now married to an American poet and lectures in world literature, poetry and translation in New England. She was recommended to me by another poet, because in her first poetry collection ‘Father Dirt’ she captures perfectly the ambiguity of living a-straddle between two worlds, two languages and cultures.
Like any immigrant, she has come across the ocean with ‘a saddlebag of ghosts’ from her homeland:
We carry cemeteries on our heads,
in our bellies, round our ankles.
She used to be:
the girl who dreamt her escape…
who now fuels homesickness with immigrant tales.
And what tales she has to tell! She remembers with sensuous delight the rich tastes, images, sounds of a Romanian childhood: the odd astringent friendship of quince, cutting the corn porridge with butter-combed strings, spitting out cherry stones in the graveyard, the wary pleasure of having blood oranges for Easter (an uncommon delicacy in those days), good-natured banter and gossip during the home-waxing sessions among women. There are also aspects of her cultural heritage that she struggles to come to terms with: the old-fashioned beliefs in potions and tinctures, the healing powers of nettle and marigold tea, rituals for the dead, whispered curses and protection against evil. There is both a luminous and an ominous quality to her remembered life.
Yet the shadows hanging over these childhood memories are much deeper than that, for these were the years of deprivation and dictatorship, when abortion was illegal and even young girls were subjected to forced fertility checks. Moscaliuc remembers denouncements of classmates in school assemblies, the arrest of midwives who performed abortions, the suicide of a high-school classmate, the forced sterilisation of Roma women. She remembers fear and innuendo, when a careless word could send you to labour camp.
In the most heart-rending section of the book, there are a series of poems about children in orphanages and on the streets, youngsters who died far too young, for whom Father Dirt was a comforting figure, opposed to the bleached soul of the poet who was trying to help them on a voluntary basis. These are angry, fierce, immensely sad poems, individual stories almost too grim to contemplate. Moscaliuc piles on detail after sordid detail, until they sound almost banal, in a condemnation of society’s collective blindness to the problem.
My orphans grew up and disappeared below the earth.
Twice a day they ascend, cross the boulevard,
Sniffing auroleac, flapping plastic bottles…
Sometimes they’re electrocuted. Come dawn,
they’re carted to common burial…
Come spring, the survivors will honeycomb the town,
each crater strategically placed to absorb warmth and mercy.
These poems come from a harsh, unforgiving place and they brought up painful memories for me. The poet admits that they may not be to everyone’s taste or understanding, but she almost performs an act of exorcism by writing them down.
You ask me where these poems come from.
You traveled my country enough to know…
But this is the skin she wants to shed, the waters of yesterday that she no longer wants to wade through, although she will never completely forget them. She wants to fit in with her new world, with the sweet tomato aroma of her new home, and this is where she truly speaks to that yearning and sense of never quite belonging which every immigrant knows.
I want dreams in the American idiom -
[...] dreams with popcorn plots and slick endings,
dreams with heirloom seedlings, dreams
never in need of translation
An unforgettable volume of poetry (even given my biased reading, being of similar age and background as the poet). I was fascinated, absorbed, dragged into deep pockets of pain and back again. Above all, it has given me the permission to be bolder, more honest, more open about my own past and my cultural influences.