April 29, 2021

Good morning,

It’s not yet 8 am and I find myself already engrossed in Rachel Mennies’ the Naomi Letters.

This surprises me, not because I was questioning the greatness of the book, I wasn’t— I’ve known Rachel is a brilliant poet since the summer we met, when we were both seventeen…

It’s just that I had assumed this morning would proceed like the long string of others before it. I’d quickly finished a routine bowl of cereal, and filled my favorite, cracked mug with coffee —on which I both consistently depend and- with equal consistency— absentmindedly let cool beside me—

I then picked up and began the Naomi Letters.

What I mean when I say that I was surprised is that I have not been engrossed in poetry for a long time. 

In general, it would seem that I had resigned myself to being an absent reader, until this morning.

Poems tend to call for a quiet and open attention. It’s true that I’ve always had a somewhat unreliable attention span. However, it’s been particularly scattered and panicked for many months. Perhaps yours has, too.

It is therefor an unexpected and powerful realization that occurs to me now: Rachel Mennies’ poems are somehow calmly, effortlessly & yet actively holding onto my attention. 

They’ve called me to be present. I cannot help but sit in awe as I think about it.

It’s been so long. I wonder if perhaps I’d subconsciously decided that my capacity as a reader had recently become permanently diminished…

So much has happened. I’ve heard from a number of sources that we’re all—to varying degrees—grappling with “cognitive fog.” While I guiltily felt reassured hearing this news, the worry at its permanence also ran in tandem over the weeks and months.

With all of this in mind, it kind of stuns me now that I am focused on Rachel Mennies’ poems, even captivated by them. 

I love being hit by a thrilling line. Hers are knocking me out one after the other, and yet they're quiet and intimate. To feel such intimacy in my solitude, such frightening honesty--it really is thrilling.

It is a gift in itself that I get to read the published work of a friend; especially now. But on top of this I find another powerful discovery-- that I did not realize how badly I needed to read poems like these at this tumultuous and untethered point in my life.

I feel like a lost part of myself has been given back to me.

I didn’t realize this until now, the joy it is to quietly read and simply trust in the author’s direction. This demands from the writer a tremendous and vital quality of warmth. I feel it right away, an opportunity for connection, perhaps because I have been suppressing my own desire to be understood.

I’m sitting here reading the Naomi Letters and I trust the writer completely.

Thank you Rachel—not only for the honor of having my drawings on your cover,

but also for reminding me of my own need for poetry.

Love,

Frances