Mari Mazziotti Gillan's new book, When the Stars were Still
Visible, asks us to 'remember.' In her example, memories start 'on
the back steps of the six-family tenement / on 5th Avenue in
Paterson' in 1944, her father dressed 'as a devil for a costume
party / at the SocietA Cilentana'; this opens 'so many memories'
which 'swirl / like bits of color in a kaleidoscope': of Mrs
Gianelli 'who always fainted when she got upset' and of 'Zio
Guillermo's garden / with tomatoes and zucchini and corn' which is
'years later / covered with asphalt and garages.' The poet tells us
that 'children of immigrants pick up bits and pieces / over the
years to create a picture' ('The Children of Immigrants'), that 'On
the street where I grew up / everyone knew everyone else. / We knew
each other's secrets' ('Carrying Their Hometowns to Paterson'),
and, invoking Eliot, that they wore faces that they presented to
the world. She writes about her people, her community, and the
comfort of soothing things 'beckoning me home' ('Even After All
These Years'), the way, perhaps, that all poetry should.
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