Coming in at a whopping 137 pages of poetry, Linda Hogan’s latest collection A History of Kindness looks like a daunting read. Any expectation of density or convolution that contemporary poetry is notorious for swiftly fades away as your ear rests on the clarity and cadence of Hogan’s words. In many ways, A History of Kindness feels like a majestic book, both in its length and its sweeping perspective. Hogan’s words are laden with a history that gives monumental weight to the simplest of images. In “We Used to Have Pearls,” look at how much meaning is given to pearls in the first three stanzas:
I once asked Old Mother what became of the pearls / that decorated our oldest roofs.
She said the Spanish stole them in bags too heavy / to carry. Some of our pearls spilled over.
But in truth it was their own souls they carried. / No longer did they shine.
In three short stanzas, we get an images of ancient ancestral pearls, the historic trauma of conquest, and a reinterpretation of what humanity and dignity mean in the face of loss and defeat. The Chickasaw kept their souls through their defeat, the Spanish did not in their victory.
Hogan’s words find strength in softness. Whether remembering a joyful moment wading in the water with loved ones (as in “Recuerdo”) or interrogating the moment when a police officer kills yet another Black man (as in “Tulsa”), Hogan asks the reader to slow down, to embrace the pace of her line breaks, all of which break on moments of breath at logical points in the sentence. In contrast to the explosive bombast of Natalie Diaz’s work, Hogan’s poetry isn’t pretentious or enamored with its own form.
Hogan’s documentation of the kindness, that of loved ones and animals, is a much needed medicine for the present moment. In a time dominated by grief, illness, chaos, confrontation, and catastrophe, Hogan reminds of not just of the sacrifices and strength of our ancestors, but also their joy and love for life. In her poem “A Need for Happiness,” Hogan shifts from describing the havoc wreaked by Buffalo Bill, the trauma of starvation and the near extinction of buffalo, to remembering “Those great leaders, even with grief, / they laughed together at night / when the light-bearded man left. / They talked and laughed together. // They still loved life, / so why don’t you?”
This book held me through many days when I needed an embrace to hold back the hopelessness and fatalism. I worked my way through this book slowly, much slower than I usually read poetry books, which is voraciously. There is a spaciousness to Hogan’s language, a matriarchal authority in her voice, that can’t be crafted, only gifted after years of wonder and worse.
I recommend this book for fans of Ada Limon, Mary Oliver, Ross Gay, and Alberto Rios. I recommend it to those interested in Native American literature, environmental literature, and contemporary poetics.