All Beginnings Are Hard: Review of Flyway by Sarah Ens
Sarah Ens, Flyway.
Turnstone Press, 2022. $18 CAD.
Order a copy from Turnstone Press.
In her latest work Flyway, Sarah Ens creates a narrative about what we do to survive—what our instincts are to carry forward, amidst war, violence, oppression, displacement, loss, and grief. These themes are explored through the central idea of “home” as we follow the journey of the main character Anni, the author’s Oma.
The book is a long poem, divided into five parts: Tallgrass Psalmody Part One, Flight, Tallgrass Psalmody Part Two, Un / Settling, and Tallgrass Psalmody Part Three. A “psalmody” refers to the singing of psalms in worship, and each page in these sections reads like a song rooted in the tallgrass prairie ecosystem. Almost every psalm begins with a question, like: “How do you unfold bones for flight?” (16) “& how do you sleep?” (17) “Will you get on your knees?” (10) and “Will you stand in the switchgrass exalting?” (13). Although they seem like open-ended questions, each page contains its own kind of response—a psalm in answer to the question posed.
Ens uses descriptions of birds, nests, and flight patterns to interrogate her own family history, and to provide a framework for the many questions and answers found throughout the book. The family’s flight path mirrors that of the strings of endangered migratory birds referenced often in the poem—in fact, the term “flyway” denotes a route regularly used by large numbers of birds. It begs the question: who is singing the songs of praise in these sections? People living in the tallgrass prairie, the birds who sing their melodies in this unique ecosystem, or the grass itself?
The songlike qualities make these psalms seem like they could really be sung, with lines like “All knotted sorrow!” (8) and:
“Come frailty,
come fledgling—
O think well
of your meeting &
cast all lines for
flyway!” (13)
In fact, sound is central to the language of the book. The section “Flight” is the beating heart of this long poem, and spans nearly forty pages—it anchors the reader in sound and memory. Boots stomping, children screaming, and a variety of noises provide a concrete backdrop for the action. Visual, tactile, and other intimate details also make the reader feel as if they are right there, witnessing the story in person: “Look, these Soviet boys jumping, / legs wide, stomping to ground, quick as drums […] / this blur of leaping and leaping and loud in the landing”(26).
There are maps and placenames mentioned throughout, allowing the reader to easily follow the family’s journey over the decades. Ens writes about loss and memory: “The first Lydia came loud and red, fists and feet,” and after she died, “The minister prayed in our language and my shoulders ached / with the memory of her weight and I do not remember release, / only that the second Lydia rolled, sat up, held my fingers” (21).
Among the vivid and horrific realities of war, home is a refuge—like the corners of the dough they are folding together, the safety of four walls is their protection from the outside world, where they dream “the house all corners / and squeezed tight / as a fist” (25). In a societal landscape of fear and abduction, Ens paints a picture of their day-to-day life as “the village emptied of men” (22) and “that year / our churches closed” (21). Their own father has also gone missing—in the back of the book, Ens explains: “An estimated 10,000 Mennonite men were arrested and executed during Stalin’s purges in the 1930s” (106)—they were abducted by trucks known as “black ravens” and most were never seen again.
There are all-too-brief moments of joy and happiness to be found even in these times: “A blur of hands and skirts and curls. Did I laugh? / It spun from me like smoke, hot and full. If I laughed, / I ached with it […] / The storm we knew, kneeling” (26). But the storm does not stay away for long: “To have danced, / to have ever danced, / when the next day, the Germans invaded” (26).
They visit their home one last time, see “the old stain on the tablecloth” and “the garden where the first Lydia sleeps” (28), physical reminders of the memories they are forced to leave behind. Always “learning to pick up and go / and go again” (43), the fear of what’s coming next: “Terror / a long river cringing through the earth” (31). The first-person chronicles, narrated by Anni, feel very immediate—in a dream, her brother appears to her: “He said my name until I looked at him. / How do you remember home?” (48). The reader can imagine everyone described in detail, even a stranger with “her eyes red seams across her face” (53).
The ultimate question is: how do you start over when you have “no home / to return to” (54)? What’s left of the family, three women, fly with what they can carry: “The war ended but the world unended. Mother said / Keep your eyes and ears open and everywhere” (54). Ens suggests that some people can end up like nightingales, in their “endless impossible / efforts to go / home” (92). What can you carry with you? What do you forget?
Life is primarily about relationships—with each other, with the land. This book thinks about what happens when those connections are severed. How do you find home? How do you rebuild with what is left? In the section “Un / Settling”, Ens writes “Aula Aunfong ess schwoa / All beginnings are hard”—and ultimately, the book ends with hope, as “Here / is still something / of home” (102).
Jesse Holth (she/her) is a writer, editor, and poet living in Lekwungen (Songhees/Esquimalt) and W̱SÁNEĆ territory. She previously served as Assistant Poetry Editor at The Tishman Review and Editor-in-Residence at The Puritan’s Town Crier. Her poems have appeared in Grain, Room, CV2, and other publications, and she is currently working on two full-length collections. Say hi at jesseholth.com or on Twitter @jesseholth.