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It’s been seven years since we last had a new collection from Xavier and, as much as I enjoyed 2021’s Selected Poems of Emanuel Xavier, I was looking forward to reading some fresh work. So, this autumn Rebel Satori Press delivers Love(ly) Child, a slim yet weighty release whose sad, slightly angry-looking cover by artist Timothy Cummings (which I now can’t stop thinking of as The Manny Lisa) is as multilayered as the poems inside.
The best of Xavier’s work tempers his propulsive anger with another, more positive note such as healing or justice. In many of these new pieces, he’s added fresh tones of domesticity and a certain elegiac quality when dealing with one of the natural consequences of aging–the deaths of friends and those who have come before you.
It’s a relief the rebellious writer of “Americano” is now trying on sunhats in Target and taking selfies with the husband. I thought the rage was gonna kill that poor guy, so watching his emotional development as he heads “...back to the house to throw a playlist/on the iPad, playing mah-jongg with the kids,/Luna under the table, Duke by the back porch window/and ordering DoorDash for dinner…” (“Labor Day Weekend, Connecticut, 2022”) is immensely satisfying.
There are, however, consequences to settling down in that it affords more opportunities for conflict, such as “Dinner With Apparent Descendents Of The Mayflower” or “Apres Le Feu,” but these skirmishes are minor complete with some battles Xavier (and, indeed, all of us) have fought in the past. Xavier never fails to pay heed to the marginalized, especially in the hard-hitting “Ella,” a tribute to his mother and “Hanging At The Piers With Jay, 1991.” As Xavier gets older and broadens his range of experiences, his voice changes. His rage is still apparent, but it’s no longer as pure. It’s tinted with subtle touches of contentment and a rasp of regret.
Love(ly) Child, then, is both a summation of where the poet has been, and an indication of where he’s going. It will be interesting to see what the next volume has to say.
JW
© 2023 Jerry L. Wheeler