Water the Moon
BY Fiona Sze-Lorrain
(Marick Press, 2010)

Even skimming through Water the Moon, one would notice its gentle pulsation. The poems’ stanza size, their line lengths, start small and grow, undulating between stark white space and a full page of text.

Delving deeper, it does not seem farfetched to claim that Fiona Sze-Lorrain’s first book of poetry has its own heartbeat. In Water the Moon, she has constructed an autobiographical persona: her thoughts and memories are exposed for the audience to make of them what they will. There is a sense of honesty about this — and from that, a charisma — that resonates with the reader: in this work, the reader finds the author herself.

The book is presented in sections, which provide a series of illustrations of the poet as she matures and becomes more attuned to herself and the ways of the world. The first illustration, entitled “Biography of Hunger,” focuses on her family and her past. As the title suggests, a sense of yearning permeates the section. In “Par avion,” a letter

It is the “nothing but” that holds the heaviest feeling of longing. Nothing her father wrote could be seen as an intimate exchange between father and daughter: not, at least, in the way the speaker seems to desire. It is only full of the fragments of “Confucian wisdom” that millions of people already know.

Almost right after, Sze-Lorrain goes on to explore her relationship with her mother:

Something important did occur, and the daughter seems desperate to have it acknowledged. The desire for more conventional intimacy — the same kind she wanted with her father — is here, too. At the enjambed line (“and hit / the floor”), the reader cringes. The verb of violence hangs on the end for emphasis, and, sitting by itself on the next line, the noun’s weight is deadening.

The second section, “Dear Paris,” follows the writer’s establishment of her own being — separate, though not severed, from her family — in Paris and in the world. She remains acutely aware of her past and past self, asking the City of Lights, “Am I still seeking / movement and romance?” (“Dear Paris,” p. 23), and then musing on what her father would think of her “lavishing ten euros” (“Breakfast, Rue Sainte-Anne,” p. 27) on sub-par porridge. Eventually, however, there are portraits of people besides her biological family. Consciously, the poet paints descriptions of those who are close to her, like her husband (“Bathing my Husband,” p. 35), as well as strangers and celebrities that garner her attention.

There are epiphanies, too: her own thoughts take over ones imposed by her past. In “A Brief History of Time,” she writes of a man who, propelled by a cultural revolution, realizes in the midst of incredible uproar that “Beauty is in the street. Write everywhere. / Undefined but pure, spirit is the raison d’etre” (“A Brief History of Time,” p. 30). This, in many ways, parallels Sze-Lorrain’s own experience. Alone and young in Paris, she is in the midst of her own personal tumult; she is unsettled and trying to find her place. Falling almost in the exact middle of the book, this statement seems to be a “turn line” for the poet. From that point on, her focus seems to be her present, rather than her past: her writing covers more ground and her spirit — the essence of her evolving self — shines through.

In “Privileged” (p. 37), a well-balanced amalgam of these new and past elements exists. There are cameos from a Hollywood star and her uncle; her tone spins between thoughtful and assertive. Her choice to forego stanza breaks and the multitude of enjambed lines unites the stream of consciousness style. She starts in the present tense, declaring “Chocolate / is sex on the tongue,” and then quickly switches to past tense:

This is a different Sze-Lorrain: Instead of the wary child, constrained by memories, she is bolder, more certain, flirtatious. Previously, she seemed fragile, solely shaped by her history. Now she has gained authority. Certainly, part of that is her accumulation of experience, but another part is her newfound ability to own both her past and her present. The reader can now see her as a woman to admire, not only as with whom to sympathize. Still, though, her bold assertion is trailed by memories. Most remarkable is one of a “blind beggar boy” in Brussels who

This encounter with the young beggar forces her to understand what other people perceive of her. She is able to buy nice chocolates without much thought, and the realization that this is not everyone’s reality had perhaps never been presented with such blatancy. Most telling is that the title is simply “Privileged,” providing insight into the feeling that has persisted through the years.

One finishes reading this second section with the feeling that she or he has experienced someone’s evolution from childhood to adulthood. Because of this, her third and final section, “The Key Always Opens,” is a satisfying ending. The reader, after learning about the writer’s life, is introduced to the people that shape her thoughts and creative sensibilities. She writes what are essentially odes, and her subjects run the gamut from Edith Piaf to Van Gogh.

The poem to Van Gogh (“Van Gogh is Smiling,” p. 51) speaks of specific works, of his habits, and his eventual end. At the beginning, the poet writes

The reader has a feeling of sympathy — or even empathy — in this first stanza. She recognizes the absurdity and undefined nature of the word “normal.” Her proposal to “suppose” Van Gogh’s normalcy begs the question, of course, of who Van Gogh would be without absinthe or these diseases. Sze-Lorrain seems to believe he would not see yellow the same way. She continues:

Even if one has not seen the painting alluded to, its image is easily visualized. In the third and fourth lines the author suggests that these sunflowers helped the painter — and his audience — understand life, as well as its brevity. In one poem, Sze-Lorrain splendidly manages to confront both her existence as a writer and the existence of herself.

As a finale, she writes a laundry list of directions entitled “Instructions: No Meeting No World” (pp. 73-75). It is not clear if these are suggestions for living her life, or living a perfect life, or simply living. No matter the goal, the images are tangible and the tone is enchanting. The reader willingly follows Sze-Lorrain’s words through four substantial stanzas. As a sample from the first stanza:

Though different in style from many of the poems throughout Water the Moon, the finale of this lucid debut is precisely what it needs to be. It is assertive and playful, echoing her newfound boldness in “Dear Paris,” but conscious and controlled, evoking her very aware but relatively fragile sense of self in “Biography of Hunger.” The reader has witnessed her grow and evolve as a person; her self-reflection has garnered his or her trust.

Sze-Lorrain displays her life with candor and vitality. She enriches thoughts and stories with understated style and tangible description. Throughout the three sections, the audience sees the evolution, most simply, of a little girl contained and defined by her past to a woman freed by Paris and creativity, willing to share her journey with the world.