By Arvilla Fee
Every once in a while, a poetry book comes along that imprints itself on your heart—that makes you view the world through a different lens—that makes you reflect on your own multi-layered life, and Record Player Life (the b-side) is one such book. Rachel Turney has an incredible gift of putting pen to page and leaving trails of indelible ink in her wake. From the very first page of this literary masterpiece, the reader is instantly captured by Turney’s observant, expressive views of the world and the people around her. In her poems such as “Getting to Know the New Neighbors,” there is even an undercurrent of humor and frank honesty:
I liked it better when my neighbors were strangers.
When I didn’t know their names were Michelle and Greg.
I had named them Claudia and Edward. That’s much
more romantic
From meeting her neighbors, we then travel with Turney through regions beyond her own front door, sometimes through the eyes of another. For example, in “San Francisco” she observes the city through a deep-seeded longing not her own:
Sometimes I look at him and I can tell he’s thinking about
San Francisco.
The boats in the harbor.
The fog curling under the bridge.
He’s thinking about succulents and the peppers in his
old garden.
About lizards and seals.
He’s thinking about diving and drinks on a patio.
As readers continue to travel with Turney, they receive rich, poignant glimpses of places such as Cape Reinga, New Zealand; Melbourne, Australia; Dhaka in Bangladesh; Szeged, Hungary, and many more. But these poems are not simple travel logs; they are exotic literary dishes:
Skeletons
of what used
to live
stacked
in layers
(from “The Twelve Apostles”)
and
The walk from the train station to the main square
is familiar—
like the taste of poppy paste in a hot sweet roll,
like gundel palacsinta melting in my mouth,
like forralt bor hot in my hands at a freezing Christmas
market,
like walking to high school along the train tracks,
gin and tonic on a Friday night.
(from “Not Here”)
While there are no distinct “chapters” or section breaks, there’s a definite shift or lane change in different parts of the book where the subject matter takes a turn. The next few poems in Turney’s book focus on “things lost or things found”—books, memories, people. In “June’s Book” we see a gorgeous description of a book found in an old bookstore:
The book smells like unwashed hair and smoke.
The binding is torn a little and there are coffee rings
on the back cover.
A fingerprint from another reader rests on several
pages in the eighties.
A red bookmark holds its place on page one hundred
thirty-seven.
There is an inscription on the copyright page:
To June From Bob ‘98
For many poets, the most raw, honest poetry comes from the introspection of oneself, and Turney is no exception. And it’s this brutal honesty that often makes our breath catch as we begin to see our own reflections in various vignettes. From “I Am a Poet,” to “New Clothes,” to “Diamond Ring” and “Nebula” Turney lays out pieces of herself for us to examine. For us to turn over in our hands like little stones to see if we recognize anything.
I take little scissors and cut the dead ends off of my
eyelashes.
I lose three pounds, the nights are hungry.
I talk less and less.
I write my thoughts on paper.
I buy new clothes.
Straight hair, not wavy,
highlights to cover the gray.
Is that the way you like it?
There’s an aching vulnerability in “Crying at Work,” “Lazy,” “Lonely,” and many other pieces.
I cried many days during my first year of teaching.
I ask my husband if he has ever cried at work.
No. That’s insane! Work shouldn't make you cry.
Vulnerable poems. Contemplative poems. Searching the inner parts of ourselves for what makes us—us is an art form not every writer possesses, but Turney certainly does. What ordinary things in life give her joy? What memories leave her breathless? What events have gutted her soul? To be offered a glimpse into a person’s heart is a rare gift indeed, and one that should make us feel genuinely blessed. From “What I Imagine It’s Like to Be My Husband” to “Saturday May Mornings” to “The Cancer Phone Call” and “Catching Death” we feel our hearts beating with this author. We feel ourselves crying her tears, aching with her sadness. And that’s what makes the difference in reading poetry one has to study and analyze as opposed to poetry one reads that reaches one’s core.
There is also a beautiful musicality to Turney’s poetry, something that can reach us after the pain of loss. As we take another turn in her book, we ride the musical waves in “Symphony,” “Piano Keys,” “When He Sings,” and “Favorite Sounds.”
My head on his chest
The salty smell of sweat
The vibrations of his traveling voice
He is singing REM
He is singing Annie Lenox
Off of an old album
(from “When He Sings”)
And of course, no book of poetry would be complete without love and longing—things to which we can all relate. Turney finishes her soulful pages with poems such as “Skin,” “Nocturnal,” “He Is,” “Historiography of Your Body,” and “Dinner and Dessert.” These delectable poems are ones we can sink into like a warm bubble bath. We can feel the tingles of desire.
your finger tracing my spine
frothy milk and espresso
chocolate melting
vanilla bean scraped
open me atop our sheets
(from “Dinner and Dessert”)
When readers close the final pages of Record Player Life (the b-side) they may close their eyes. Take deep breaths. Feel a stirring, perhaps long buried. But that won’t be the last time they flip through these pages. Readers will want to pick up the book again and again, to allow words to settle like rain through cracks of parched earth. Turney’s book will be one to be kept on a nightstand—never shelved, always open to the possibility of discovering something new about the author or about oneself.
