This is the Red Door is an apt title for James R. Whitley's beautiful book of poems. Subdivided into five parts, the book takes us on a journey-In, Under, Through, Over and Out the door in a powerful sequence of poems that sear the heart.
In the very first lines, Whitley throws open the door, "opening wide/this is the mellifluous singing/of the hinges in motion/" inviting us in, but almost immediately cautions, "this is the entering/that seems endless," then gently guides us, "This is your first heel, touching down/" and finally, at the last, gratitude, "this is that entering/Thank you."
There was never a doubt that I would step over the ledge of The Red Door and enter, in retrospect, perhaps, too eagerly. I found myself meandering through a maze of emotion, almost reluctant to travel that distant but oddly familiar terrain, yet captured by a deep, lingering resonance. Eight-five pages later, I exited the Red Door, comforted that I could re-enter if I so chose.
Not surprisingly, James Whitley's poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He is the author of two chapbooks, Pieta (Pudding House Publications, 2001) and The Golden Web (Wind River Press, 2003), and two prize-winning collections of poetry, Immersion (Lotus Press, 2002,) selected by Lucille Clifton as the winner of the 2001 Naomi Long Madgett Poetry Award, and This Is The Red Door, winner of the 2003 Ironweed Press Poetry Prize.
Drawing from a steady stream of culinary images—"Habanero," "Wild Berries," "Pumpkin Cheese Cake for One," "Tuber," and "Chai Tea, Raw Sugar"—Whitley delves into the intricacies of love and loss sifting through its inevitability, not with sorrowful aplomb, but rather with the solace of assurance that there is a sweet cadence to life's deepest longings and a richness to its end, no matter the cost. In "Raspberry Pecan Vinaigrette," he writes, "No matter where you are/loss can seep in/in the most cramped corner/in the swankiest bistro/." In "Chai Tea, Raw Sugar," he hones in on the nature of our humanness, a perverse desire to sabotage our own happiness. "Even during the good times—/fruit devoured willingly from/the other's palm, long showers/and longer baths together—/there was always that entitled/fussiness about you,/ that I'm- going-to-be-difficult-just because/ attitude that I first secretly envied,/admired, then could barely tolerate./"
But he also lets us know that we are but a mere glance, a soft breath away from claiming our rightful place. From This Too Shall Pass, "What can this be if not/the fate of all things? This frenzied/hurrying to rid the body of/this bothersome heat and, in time,/to rise."
Filled with lyrical meditations on everyday events like riding the subway ("Wanderlust") or cleaning pet urine off the floor ("Anabiosis"), Whitley presses through boundaries, moving from little, apparently humdrum observations to big, uncomfortable questions. In "Anabiosis," he writes, "And I'm beginning to see now/that flesh rubbed raw is not useless,/just flesh rubbed raw-worn and tender/certainly, but still undeniably vital." In "Wanderlust," he relates loss to the wearied gaze of a seeing-eye dog. "The humbled animal looked back at me with a wearied gaze/as I stared and, for a moment,/I thought I understood why you left/" then goes on to point out that even with the best intentions, a leash is still a leash."
Whitley's natural grace with words shines through the book, exuding tenderness, compassion, acceptance. The book is thick with insights, but luminous, if you angle it just right. "Here, I see only myself, standing alone/atop the steep hill of the present, sometimes/an illusion of you imagined for yesterday,/a dream of you pondered for tomorrow—/you, whom I refer to as merely/the-flittering-once-thought-to justify-my-living,/the-ending-after-which-my-breathing-yet-continues" ("Postcard from Orbis Tertius").
Whitely closes The Red Door with a creak, or so you might think. "Is you is or/is you ain't ma baby?"
"Were I the type to say 'Fuck you,'
I would.
This is the red door,
closing, and this is
the reverberation as it
slams shut, the dark
clang echoing away—
it too somehow red.
This is you, wondering
how you'll ever get in again,
if you'd ever want to.
This is the exiting that
continues even after
the door has shut
this is your mind, calmly
repeating its mantra: assess, assess.
This is you, finally
assessing."
And so we do. And we do because we must.—Lalita Noronha