Review of Aesop’s Eagles and Poems From the Road, by Anne Harding Woodworth, available from Northwoods Press, PO Box 298, Thomaston, ME 04861 (Fax: 207-354-8953 or email: cal@americanletters.org). A companion CD of the entire book read by the author is also available.  Tansy Howard Blumer

 There is no dearth of poets in Washington.  But the majority of them, it seems, are the “open mike” variety.  They are the brave souls who come to hear accomplished poets perform their work in public arenas and then line up eagerly afterwards―when the mike is declared “open”―to read to a captive audience their own earnest, often raw, poetic yearnings. The truly gifted poets are a much scarcer resource.  One of the rarest of these ―Washington, DC resident Anne Harding Woodworth―uses humor, imagination, a lively curiosity, keen observation, a background in the classics and limitless creative energy to delight and surprise with an exciting variety of subjects and ideas.  Her new book, a chapbook entitled Aesop’s Eagles and Poems From the Road is a triumph, a collection of thoroughly original poems peopled with unexpected, fresh images and voices.

            Part One belongs to Aesop. The beloved storyteller “tells himself” and explains that he is on the road to Delphi, a traveler in search of life. Ever the unassuming raconteur, he offers a personal theory to explain why his stories are popular; “They are so simplistic they seem profound.”  After all, to him the “gab comes easily”; in fact, this ancient master of morals confesses, “I can stretch morals as if they’re cheesecloth.” He gives us a glimpse into his imagination― an animated, colorful place where he talks to animals, trees, rocks; “I quite like conversations with fire.” And then the cross talk begins.  The dog that bit the baby Aesop, the bramble, the oak, the eagle, the “other eagle” all offer their yearnings and stories; each has a turn at the open mike. They are, after all, the source of the storyteller’s inspiration and moralistic wisdom. Arguably Aesop’s most famous character, the Tortoise, gives us his take on that ancient success that still exhorts us today: “I should have lost. You know that. I know that. But the expected in fiction is such a hollow vessel.”  This is pure Woodworth; playful, insightful, plausible, unique.

Aesop arrives in Delphi where, according to a “city father” the new oracle not only is not a native to Delphi, “but, worse, she is not a virgin.” A disgrace to previous oracles, she gives “outrageously rational predictions” full of doom and leaving no room for interpretation. The city father then confides that, in the anticipation of Aesop’s arrival, “the oracle panicked” and hastily worked to make herself hideous. Relieved, he reports that her reeking disguise was a comfort to the people of Delphi. For, “Of all the creatures in the universe our oracle must be able to hide the truth.” Facing the oracle, Aesop learns that she is an old love, “the lovely creature that came into my world.” The ending of this tale must not be told in a mere review.  It must be experienced on a very personal level. In fact, by far the best way to learn of it is with the book in hand, following the words along with Woodworth’s artful reading on CD.

Part Two finds Woodworth on the road, a familiar place for this voracious traveler. Walking by her side, we see forsythia blooming along the roadside in Italy and bask in the sun that “heals and dries the fields near Padua and keeps the quicklime crisp.” She swears she saw Elvis on the road out of Syracuse. Or was it Catullus? For Woodworth, this is no stretch. And then, away from the ancient sites and sights of Italy, she takes us to the “town I drove out of” in upstate New York, where Bill Waldron “spared my mother and father agony by teaching me how to drive a stick in a cornfield” while murmuring, “Oh m’god, downshift, girl, easerup.”  In another offering, the poet drives along a faceless freeway and spots a mattress that has “crawled to its resting place like a striped inchworm.” The poet has become Aesop, her imagination full of characters, creatures, wisdom, unambiguous oracles, and stories with morals.  Even Mr. Rosen who “makes crates, enters them, he tells us, to feel roughness from within” has a purpose in the retelling. With all this traveling, all this seeking, all this telling, the poet’s feet have started to hurt.  She tells us to take off our shoes and “spill out the day.” It appears the source of the pain is one small stone. And then the poet asks:

Is that what caused the pain,
this fossil-grit from the red shale creek
that reminds you of crossing over,
limping, from water to land
like the fish with legs,
estranged, cold
and having to breathe
in a way the others don't?

The poet is no longer Aesop.  She doesn’t offer the easy moral. No cheesecloth stretching for her.  She’s still searching for the source of the pain. We want to sign on for another journey with her.  And soon.