Valentina Teclici - Alexandra Balm, Transformation

 

Alexandra Balm, Transformation,

Scripta manent Ltd, Napier, New Zealand, 2023

 

 

Foreword

 

Transformation, the debut poetry collection of the Romanian-born poet, Alexandra Balm, is a work of a mature writer who has translated from Romanian into English and vice versa, and whose poems have been published in journals, magazines, and anthologies in America, Romania, Aotearoa New Zealand (NZ), Australia, and Canada. Some of her previously published poems have been selected in this volume.

The title of this collection is given by the poem of the same name and is emblematic of this book. The metamorphoses of the spirit, the stages through which the individual evolves, the changes observed in nature or in the persona’s environment, and especially the dramatic transformations that an emigrant undergoes in the process of adaptation represent the backbone of this collection.

The poet structures the collection into five chapters – Bilingual, Liminal spaces, Longing and other imperfections, Poems of Place, Seasons and other clichés – suggestive of the stages in one’s journey of transformation. To the four seasons of the temperate climate, she adds a new one – a season of the spirit, time for taking stock and for turning inside in search of spiritual reserves of energy that grant meaning, and turn tragedies and storm clouds into life lessons and silver linings. 

The language of the poems is sophisticated and at the same time clear, articulate, coherent, offering near-perfect harmony between the content and the poetic expression.

The first chapter, Bilingual, includes a total of 14 poems in Romanian, with their translation into English, a language mastered in its depth and subtleties by the author, who obtained a PhD in literature and literary theory from the University of Otago, NZ. The poems in the other chapters are written solely in English.

The themes of the first chapter, ‘Bilingual’, are occasionally taken up in other chapters, where they are enriched with new nuances, ideas, and poetic expressions. With each new reiteration, the poet sees and expands on topics through different angles of thought and feelings that suggest the increased complexity of her experiences.

For instance, the condition of the migrant crosses like an artery the entire volume. It is explored in all its intricacies, with the inherent challenges and turmoil of the soul, but also with the lights, the development of survival skills and strategies that are finetuned both in solitude and in the interactions with fellow travellers. All of these help improve the persona’s capacity to adapt to a new socio-political and cultural system, despite contradictory emotions: “I live in paradise and I miss home”, the persona states in the poem with the same title. Her tactics involve imaginative journeys and traces of self-referential humour: “I banished sadness to another country/ you’re not mine, I told her, I’m not yours […]// then I go to visit” (‘Exile’).

Her journeys are not always joyous. The melancholy generated by “the rustle of the rain” on overcast days accentuates the drama of the uprooted persona who feels “barren/ like a tree left in winter/ alone when the whole forest/ has been felled” (‘Yearning’).

The difficulties at the beginning of life as an immigrant only a migrant can understand, as they live them and overcome them, according to the mental or physical support with which they are blessed. The initial state of not belonging reaches deep into existential wonderings and motivations. However, a sense of estrangement might have started even before one left home, even while one would have had the ready support of family: “in the late winter night/ after being caught in the cold sleet/ after failed interviews/ and friends that didn’t call/ your words embraced me/ as warm as the living room/ lined with books” (‘when you are not there’).

An ineluctable condition of the spirit in search of itself, uprooting is not restricted to negative connotations as it opens the self to empathy towards the other, with whom she often shares similar destinies: “He’s a survivor/ washed ashore/ outer and inner wars// he was a teacher once”. In these horizons of convergence, survival is ensured by the individuals’ humanity, expressed in creativity, in an understanding of life that is devoid of illusions but not of optimism, in the togetherness of benign interactions: in “the company of others/ the elation of music/ the epiphany /of understanding/ the purpose of life/ is not success/ but living// the hope his children are going to be accepted/ where he was not” (‘The migrant chef’).

The sadness that her parents, living at the other end of the world, cannot be present at important events, such as birthdays and graduations, accentuates the multiple valences of the price of emigration and the fact that adjusting to a new country is a continuous process, never quite completed: “nowhere to escape/ in the imagination or in books/ other than vertically/ into the world of angels” (‘ruminations’). The idea that “the past will never abandon you/ unless you purge or sublimate it” is a truth perfectly understood by the poet’s son, too, in the poem Et in Arcadia ego.

In addition to the Romanian culture in which she was born and the NZ one that she adopted, the poet is linked to the Indian culture through her marriage to a Bengali from Kolkata, India. This wonderful diversity stretches the self’s understanding and challenges its conditionings, while the reverse of the coin offers experiences in which the bites of racism and discrimination leave scars, physical and emotional: “the scar still visible after years/ as is the memory of the words/ ‘Brownie. / Don’t play with this boy; he’s a gypsy’” (‘Uprooted’).

Nonetheless, the inner resources of the spirit seem inexhaustible. When the persona’s permission to listen to music at work – which had ensured survival in a job lacking creativity – is taken away, the transcendence-offering solution appears as an avenue that opens to the others’ interiority: “but i found the exit/ by listening to the echoes/ in their hearts – / too close/ to mine (‘Lamentatio Ariadnae’).

The persona connects to multiple worlds, and experiences a sense of universal integration: “I don’t know if I belong to one country/ or if a country belongs to me/ more than I belong to the sky,/ or the sun or the moon,/ or they to me”.  Referring to adoptive spaces that offer both challenges and subsequent emancipation, the persona feels that: “Here I’ve grown/ like a bird that hatches/ and then learns to fly” (‘Birthday message on election day - To Jillian Sullivan’).

For the author, music, the beauty of nature, and the interactions with people who touched her soul with their light are benign and soothing. They offer experiences that stimulate her mind and imagination, making her integration journey easier and more enjoyable. They also help her cope with grief.

Fond memories of her father and of her only sister, Adina, as well as of the friends who have left this world are present in several poems, articulating the line forces of a paradise lost: “Adina, a gentle hieroglyph/ on water” (‘signs’); “I kept no photo/ nor painted your portrait/ which would have been a bibelot,/ a landscape, an image of a home” (‘Late Love Letter’); “You were there in our hallway/ a liminal space between arriving/and departing, between being and/ not-being, between being loved and/ being missed” (‘You. An intense dream’).

The poet continues the spiritual connection with her father by choosing his painting, To Fly. The Blue Bird of Happiness, to illustrate the first cover of the book, and Girl, Sun, and Inception to open three sections of the book, a symbolic gesture of gratitude to the one who taught her how to see: “you look for that perspective/ that captures its beauty/ that glimmer of light/that reveals its truth (‘my father taught me how to look at a painting’).

Equally intense is the longing for a dead poet with whom she connected over a book: “that [one] couldn’t have done without”. / for we did meet halfway/ between life and death – mine, yours/ in the heart of a book we shared/ in the affections of a human we both love (‘A matter of time. To a poet of the past’).

Occasionally overwhelmed by or escaping into memories, the longing for the best friend from childhood becomes acute to the point of identification and transcends beyond, into self-interrogation: “Can i absorb any atom/ of your energy/ Or am i blind to everything/ you are/ I am/ am I” (‘Letter to a childhood best friend’).

Combined with the nostalgia of childhood memories, filial love is suavely expressed whenever she sees: “monarch butterflies look for swan trees” (‘present memory’). A symbol of the subtle riches of the spirit and the self’s ability to transform, monarch butterflies symbolically connect her Romanian and Kiwi experiences.

In her poems, the genuine affection for her soulmate is multifaceted. For example, in ‘together’, daily life is perceived spiritually, as offering opportunities to share in the joys of life: “sing to me in poems and/ songs/ in the colour of dawn and the fragrance/ of wind; take my hand/ while the spirit hovers/ over distant waters/ and let us watch the sunset together.” The sense of togetherness derives from an unabashed, unapologetic feeling that “when hearts are connected/ physical presence/ is just a detail,” yet “details make a story,” the persona confesses, adding: “I love stories/ as I adore details” (‘auspices’).

An avatar of what the poet calls “telescopic affection,” whence one attachment slides into another, innocent love seems endowed with miraculous powers: “I offered five stones to you and I/ prayed/ make them into seeds, my beloved/ or, better still, into flowers to bloom,/ for you are the only one/ who can/ [...] or I when /you /hold /my hand” (‘Imagined Sufi prayer. On the shore of Lake Wanaka’).

The persona participates in the act of creation through poetic gestures laden with beauty; she merges with the miracle of nature through “tracing the contour of clouds blue grey/ infused with light/ with [her] index finger (‘something beautiful’). Or she talks to a tree that bloomed especially for her on Birkdale Road, where she used to walk: “I know that you blossomed for me […] and run my fingers on moist bark/ a few leaves turn in the night wind/ a petal falls to the ground/

it doesn’t make any sound” (‘you’).

Existential questions about death and the meaning of life are recurrent themes: “‘what is the purpose of living/ if we die anyway?’ a boy asks”. Possible answers are given, among other things, by the transformations and rebirth of nature, which are seen somewhat solipsistically ̶ and perhaps ironically  ̶  as triggers and pretexts for human creativity: “so we could write/ nature poems/ that mimic the dead great masters/ and learn about poetic license, pastiche, / leitmotiv. Fireflies, fireflies burning bright” […]. Philosophical wonderings, “Who leads whom in this game of a life?,” offer the joy of provisional responses (‘Conversation with a boy’). Meditations on the condition of the poet, who has inspiration in the morning, but “loses” the poems because of the busyness of her professional life and lists of things to do (‘Missed poems’), brings the reader back from the abstraction of metaphysics, down to earth, to a mundane existence that is common enough, yet relatable.

However, looking within returns with some insistence: “My soul thin as a transparent water sticker/ rests in my hands/ translucent spark/ darkened with use and other worries/ softened by love and time/ the forgiveness of friends” (‘Floating’).

Through her holistic vision, the poet defines herself as a particle of the universe, inseparable from nature, from its energy, and wisdom: “at the edge of the world/ I stand and take in/ the spray of waves on my face/ the expanding sky// at the edge of the ocean/ I wait for a sign/ while water licks at my feet/  my body of lead/ turns to salt// in spite of myself/ I surrender / to the wisdom/ of water” (‘Transformation’).

The poem ‘Planning my day’ brings to light the civic spirit of the poet, her irenic vision and desire for harmony, kindness, and authenticity in a world too often dominated by competition, manipulation, and falsehood: “I’ll dream of a time when people will no longer fight/ with swords, or weapons, words or attitudes;/ they will be fighting mental fights/ lest no heart should be hurt.”

Words can, nonetheless, offer solace and inspiration. The poet’s linguistic preoccupations are presented as a declaration of love in the poem ‘Confession’: “i've fallen in love/ deep, irremediably in love/ with words english, italian,/ romanian, french, Sanskrit,/ latin and Greek// if i were given the supreme ontological choice / to be or never be     i'd choose to be a garland of vowels on your chest / bordered by soft consonants”.

The persona’s lyrical discourse springs from lived experiences; the dynamics of her soul, her inclination towards introspection and meditation are resounding of a time of transformation that the author calls metamodern, a time of connecting with one’s self, one’s culture, and with one another. The influence of the cultures that have shaped, reshaped, and polished her individual structure and poetical self has caused tectonic shifts, but it also fortified her and opened new horizons of understanding and expression. The author knows that she carries her spiritual treasures inside herself, like “pinctada maxima” who escaped with life as if by miracle and who “turned on herself/ to nurse her secret pearl” (‘The Fisherman’).

Alexandra Balm’s poems, with their clear, substantial, occasionally unsettling message, distinctly outline a poetic voice of authentic depth and freshness.

Transformation is just the beginning of the outpouring of a poetic work that we expect materialised in new editorial appearances.

 

Valentina Teclici

February 2022