Quiet City Commentary

The reader needs only to look at the cover of Susan Aizenberg’s Quiet City to soak in the mystifying qualities of the book—a muted blue surrounding what appears to be an impressionistic view of a place (of which, with what is presented, we are not certain, but we do get a title: “Untitled No. 124,” by Michael David). The crafting of a poet’s book often affects the reader’s impressions. Though the art is almost just as fun to talk about, the writing is the real meat of the analysis. This is especially true when taking a look at the book as a cohesive unit and considering the arrangement of its poems. In Quiet City, the placement of the poems and particular images within them creates a spirit, a spectral tether that undulates between every line and every page, guiding readers through speakers’ memories and recollections. The journey begins on the heels of “Wind,” which lays the foundation for this spirit to rise, really, from the routine activity of a night at dinner—akin to the way an idea just hits the writer, and lingers until it has been completed. On this foundation, the spirit begins to move, with the driving vowel sounds of, “This evening rough winds blow the surface of the river,” and, “...all that answered / the water’s slow passing was the swish of wildflowers / in the long prairie grasses.”

Closing the book this way is effective because of the threads it binds together. Suddenly, after being presented with things that rise, all of the dust, the mist, and the wind coil skyward. This effect is almost soothing, and at the same time, captivating, shown in the line, “the wide gulf, a lowering astonishment of yellow moon” (72). The line is effective because of the cinching quality of the image. After wracking memories and places (as Aizenberg emphasized at her reading), Quiet City is opened and calmed. The spirit succumbs to the humbling sky, and is taken away, far