Recently I came across a charming book of poetry by a young writer named Theresa Sopko. Small Talk is her second collection of poetry.
The book is quirky, and compelling – titles are often included at the foot of poems, striking ironic tones, sometimes hitting like punch lines. Because of the inclusion of script typography, I felt almost like I was reading the poet’s sketchbook.
The subject matter may be “small talk” but the poet takes these mundane subjects, familiar experiences, and magnifies their significance. This is my favourite poem in the collection:
Like a sweater
I get snagged on some jagged
Edge and begin to unravel and that
Loose thread is
Tug
Tug
Tugged
By some unknown weight, by the elements
And
What I want to do
What I try to do
Is to sit with it
Be alone with it, brood over it
Because I know there’s something
Just under the surface
Between my threadbare skin and
The scratchy particles of wool that is trying
Crying
To be addressed and I want
To confront it, rock it to peace
Though
What I end up doing is
Playing dumb
Ignoring
Taking that loose thread and
Tucking
Tying
Trying
To stop the unravel in its tracks
But
The next time I put that sweater on
My body will stretch it
The elements will reach with prickly fingers
And that thread will get caught
Again
Because I never stitched the hole I only
Patched it
The tone of Theresa’s poems is conversational but the language is refreshing and original. She expresses the agitated ennui of the mid-twenties so well that I wish I could tell her that it all gets better and that she is “tough enough” for the writing that is to come.
Many of the poems address an invisible “you”. Throughout the book, the poet plays with the notion of dating/loving herself and I sense that the nuggets of advice and philosophical musings are messages and reminders for herself. She wrestles with living in twenty-first century America (the small talk) while her poetic soul longs to soar to higher realms. The poet is anchored in the world of school, and boyfriends, sisters, parents, coffee shops, and tattoos but writing, an overwhelming urge, is an undercurrent in many of the poems. A poem about tattoo ink could be a metaphor for the exposure the writer feels when writing and publishing confessional type work, such as poetry.
Everyone asks if I’m concerned about regretting the ink
in the years to come
I’m not
I’ve made myself a walking story
A living picture book
And even if the illustrations are not relevant to
60 year old me
They were to 23 year old me
They are a part of my story
And, even wrinkly, that is beautiful
The poet is very young, only twenty-three years old. She writes:
I find that I can’t write about the relationships most
important to me
The ones that are embedded into my bones, a part of my
every breath
I have yet to find the words to encompass their enormity
As a writer, I am familiar with that experience. It takes a lifetime to express a worldview created within a family. The poet is aware that something is germinating inside of her. That is exciting and lets me know that much more will come from this talented young writer.