The No One Poems by Christien Gholson
“Despite all odds, the soul finds redemption by witnessing, naming, and appreciating those aspects of the world which still have meaning, are lasting, and can’t be bought and sold. ”
I don’t know that these poems were penned in 2020, but they certainly feel that way. Stripped of power, voice, and arguably, feeling, the “No One” of Christien Gholson’s 2021 collection The No One Poems (Thirty West Publishing) could be the sole survivor of the Covid apocalypse if it weren’t for the fact he still works the cash register at the local grocery store.
“If you’re looking for a peaceful place, this is not it,” cautions our egoless narrator in the very first line of the very first poem. Rather, this is a place called Cold Mountain, harkening back to Tang dynasty poet Han Shan (lit. Cold Mountain), who took his name from where he lived. According to poet Gary Snyder, “When Han-shan talks about Cold Mountain he means himself, his home, his state of mind.” (Riprap & Cold Mountain Poems, Four Seasons Foundation, 1969).
On No One’s Cold Mountain, “words mean nothing” and “illusion eats you.” Naturally, this results in a failure of communication. No One is alternatively seen by those around him as either “speaking in tongues” or embracing “the sound of emptiness inside stretched to its limits.” After an apocalypse, though, the beauty of that which remains is heightened. In the face of so much loss, No One is newly astonished by the steadfast, immortal natural world. The Moon, a Geminid shower, Orion’s Belt—all persist in the brilliance of their design, prompting “spontaneous noises - whoops and sighs” to once again emerge from No One’s throat.
Just as “the stars have finally broken free of all law, spinning round each other,” No One gets a box in the mail containing “signed letters, smoke-damaged . . .ghost loves.” While presumably comforted by the reunion with meaningful possessions, No One has to “wonder if there is anyone left alive out there who knows their words are being read once again.” One certainly hopes the answer is yes, because the words are exquisite: “The sound of ice wrapping itself around a spider’s husk”—“moonlight tightening its grip on bare apple branches.”
In “Spiral: Self, Community, World, Cosmos,” there seems to be some movement toward an improvement in No One’s Cold Mountain state of mind. Instead of being written in self-effacing third person, a first-person “I” finally emerges, “swinging across an empty mind . . . creating a way in.” No One may have “been no one most of his life,” but at least now it is by choice and not writ in Upper Case.
In the end, The No One Poems read like a gorgeous koan, fitting because many of them are inspired by or written after Zen and Daoist master poets: the aforementioned Han Shan, Li Bai, and Du Fu. Gholson’s voice is almost painfully aware and full of heart. These poems attempt to make sense of our modern world as seen through the eyes of an ancient soul. Despite all odds, the soul finds redemption by witnessing, naming, and appreciating those aspects of the world which still have meaning, are lasting, and can’t be bought and sold.