Sarah Mnatzaganian’s first pamphlet, Lemonade
in the Armenian Quarter (Against the Grain Press, 2022), is as refreshing
as the fruit it evokes and invokes. Of course, as its title immediately
indicates, a key theme is origin and identity, but this is not wielded as a
statement. Instead, it’s explored via fierce curiosity.
And then there’s Mnatzaganian’s use of
language. This might initially seem slightly formal on the spectrum of lexical
registers, as in the following choices: ‘whom’ is
used instead of ‘who’, ‘until’
instead of till’, and ‘if I were’ instead of ‘if I was’.
However, any lazy accusations of stiltedness can easily be dismissed due to the
clarity of her sentences, which flow naturally and are easy to read. They’re
far from old-fashioned, simply acknowledging a linguistic tradition behind
them.
One key poem in terms of the
above-mentioned theme of identity is undoubtedly ‘Juice’,
dedicated ‘To my father,
Aphraham’. Its closing
couplet reads as follows:
…Now I want to watch your dark throat
dance
while you drink.
The metrics and aural patterning are
especially interesting here. Three trochees are followed by three strong
syllables in the penultimate line, thus imitating the dancing movement of
drinking, while the open vowels and closed consonants also follow suit. And
then the final line, made up of a single anapest, stops the poem in its tracks
as Mnatzaganian suddenly accelerates to its climax.
Of course, the key adjective in the
above couplet is ‘dark’,
especially in the context of the poems that comes immediately after it in the
pamphlet, which is titled ‘Made
in Hemsworth’. The
penultimate stanza resonates and reflects back towards the previous poem…
Now mum knows she’s one-third Viking,
she’s proud of her pale and ageless
skin,
her North Sea gaze.
In this case, the pivotal adjective is
‘pale’. By juxtaposing a father’s dark
throat and a mother’s pale skin, plus the contrasting proper nouns of Aphraham
and Hemsworth, Mnatzaganian is portraying the two elements of the blend that
creates a person. Rather than claiming or declaring an identity, she’s working
through it, portraying it, unravelling its roots, reconciling its differing
facets.
The clarity, freshness and light touch
of this pamphlet are the qualities that lift it out of the hubbub of contemporary
poetry, especially when considered alongside Mnatzaganian’s refusal to take
short cuts or reach facile conclusions. For not much more than the price of a
dodgy pint in a flash London pub, Lemonade in the Armenian Quarter encourages
the reader to pause, breathe in its vitality and return to everyday life, newly
invigorated. Get hold of a copy for yourself and you’ll
see what I mean…
