[In the following review, Brumm offers a positive assessment of Waving From Shore, contending that Mueller has “succeeded in creating a complex and eloquent canvas.”]

In her latest volume of poetry, Waving From Shore, Lisel Mueller uses the complex lens of her language to focus on the contrast between the larger world offering infinite possibilities and the circumscribed patch which she inhabits. In “Large Jigsaw Puzzle,” after struggling to explore the mystifying universe, she chooses to remain “back in the middle, / absorbed in the local order / of leaves and thorns and blossoms, / my vision confined to the limits / of a manageable patch, / the world at large still full of holes.”

In describing this disparity, Mueller conveys in many poems her acceptance of a minor predictable role in life and the relinquishing of excitement and adventure in the larger world. In “Poem for My Birthday,” she yields the role of heroine in the melodramas of her dreams to “wake up grateful / for an unexciting life.” “I'm not the one / who swims too far out to sea; / I am the one who waves from shore / … Life is what happens to someone else; / I stand on the sidelines and wring my hands.” In “Great Performances,” she acknowledges the limitations of age, “Now that our acts of magic are numbered,” and celebrates the only great performance still possible—to submit daily “to the locks of absolute darkness” and “stand up stretching.”

And yet in the poem “Joy” Mueller clings to the hope “inside us, in some place / that is still wilderness.” This yearning for wilderness often leads her into the realm of fantasy. She desires to transgress the boundaries of possibility yet is forced to remain within human limitations. Only language and imagination can trespass on the grounds of the infinite: “Or that I could believe in the stars / as radiant bodies of the dead.” In “Bedtime Story,” she creates a myth-like atmosphere reminiscent of Homer's Elysian fields, in which anything could happen; even trees “stop shuddering and speak their first word.” “Film Script” narrates the story of a tall redheaded woman who finds a mysterious bottle on the shore and eventually, “her contours blur / dissolve at the edges until she becomes / a low flying cloud, a delicate shred of fog. …” Many poems like this often begin with a seemingly simple statement, then suddenly swerve down a dark profound road. The language, too, is at first commonplace, starting with the color and energy of colloquial speech and then gently taking flight.

The poet also flies into the past through the art of remembering and escapes from it through the art of forgetting. How vividly she recalls her grief after her mother's death, a sorrow only language would share. Her first opera, the pleasant friendships of adolescence, a dead elm are recaptured through the magic of her words. Memory offers comfort and protection from the present.

If reality is too painful, one may also pursue the art of forgetting. In the poem “Virtuosi,” dedicated to the memory of her parents, she meditates, “People whose lives have been shaped / by history—and it is always tragic— / do not want to talk about it, / would rather dance, give parties / on thrift shop china.” “The Art of Forgetting” presents the more extreme example of the Empress Carlotta, who “wiped out the unbearable, / erased her husband's execution / and lived for sixty oblivious years.” So concerned is Mueller with the phenomenon of forgetting that she even explores temporary blackouts such as the “mock-deaths” which occur in petit mal epilepsy and the “lost day” of multiple murderer Richard Speck. She builds a wall “as clean as forgetting” and defines “real death” as “being forgotten.”

Throughout the volume, the poet has harnessed the power of language to erect her luminous landscapes. She admits, however, that language is often inadequate to depict all things, such as the Buddha's smile, or that it “will fritter away the world.” Language is a delicate, elusive thing; one must cherish and guard it. “The habit of speech / is not like riding a bicycle / something you never forget; / it dries up like the habit of tears, / like playfulness.” The poet laments those who are voiceless or without language—the woman who does not speak English, the strangers’ rejecting non-verbal language, the one who borrows the voice of the saxophone. In the latter instance, moreover, the poet also evokes the power of music which can serve as a substitute for language. “A voice made human, a language / all of us, shoppers, browsers / and purse-snatchers, understand.” “In the end it is music that saves us,” she reveals in “Families and Friends.” Her maturing voice sings with clarity and resonance.

Lisel Mueller is at her best when she carefully modulates from simple quiet tones to deeper, profounder chords. In “Magnolias,” she begins by describing magnolia buds that opened too soon in the spring and thus died “like cast off petticoats.” Then she surprises the reader with:

Remember how long spring used to take?
And how long from the first locking of fingers
to the first real kiss? And after that
the other eternity, endless motion
toward the undoing of a button?

The book abounds with such sonorous juxtapositions and leaps into the mysteries of intense experience. Sometimes she leads the reader slowly and gently toward apprehending the truth. Here and there, there are quick flashes of rich, intense thought which are expressed in images attempting to probe the beyond. She is excellent at conveying a sense of personal blight, the agony of communication and the insecurity of daily assumptions. In “Scenarios,” she wonders, “How do I know I'm protected / by a lifetime of assumptions? … The letter / will tell me I'm not who I think I am.”

Occasionally, however, a slight straining for the profound is apparent and the reader is left in limbo. The leap falls somewhat short. “This Winter,” “Lost and Found,” and “Moulin Rouge” are examples. If the book has any serious shortcomings, they lie in its limited and narrow focus. In this respect, I was reminded somewhat of the Biedermeier period in German literature, when narrow domestic, local, and personal concerns predominated. Although the scenes were exquisitely painted with intense detail by writers like Stifter and Keller, they nevertheless lacked the all-encompassing lightning world view of the German Romantics. Moreover, in our contemporary world racked with so many social and political problems, to dwell so exclusively on one's own personal vistas—no matter how insightfully it is done—seems to be short-sighted, even foolish.

Yet Mueller is aware of this. In “Triage,” she writes, “To speak of one thing is to suppress another.” “But to celebrate them [the elm trees] is to be silent about the people who sit and sleep underneath them, the homeless poor who are hauled away by the city like trash. …” And again in “Late Hours,” she admits:

In winter we close the windows
and read Chekhov
nearly weeping for his world.
What luxury, to be so happy
that we can grieve
over imaginary lives.

This a luxury poets cannot afford!

Although frugal in her choice of words and themes and demure in her deft strokes, Lisel Mueller has succeeded in creating a complex and eloquent canvas.