Admission Requirements by Phoebe Wang

Bodies are difficult. Bodies of work often more so. Phoebe Wang’s debut collection of poetry follows several bodies—her own, her family members’, plants, animals, rivers, lakes, buildings—and asks them all a pertinent question: what does it mean to be admitted? Welcomed? Allowed space within spaces with parameters to breach? There may never be a complete answer to this, but Wang seems to think it pertinent that we keep asking these questions, and I’d have to agree.

An important part of being anywhere at all lies in the fact that you cannot possibly be anywhere else. But this is only true in terms of the physical. The mind wanders, the heart strays, whatever turn of phrase you like—regardless, the point is that it is an intensely human desire to be in two or more places at once. Even (and often) in small moments, we are incredibly aware of how large everything is, how we diminish in comparison. ‘PSA’ starts with:

It’s hard to imagine the world could be
so far gone when the neighbours are doing their best

to keep their Highland terrier from ruining someone’s
freshly painted exterior.

And carries readers through a day of details, all normal parts of checking the news, grocery shopping, etc., but with them comes the quiet realization that you are so small in this, and you often feel much smaller in comparison to everything you might encounter.

Since I read the majority of this book in a public park on a particularly nice day, I was aware of how I was so small, surrounded as I was by so many others, in the shadows of trees and city buildings. Being aware of your surroundings is difficult when one is drawn into a book, but Wang’s work often had me looking up, observing, distracting myself—not because it wasn’t enthralling, but because it was encouraging me to observe. I wanted to be like Wang, who pays attention to the space around her with astounding detail. From carefully curated gardens to sites of historical reenactments, her work takes you to a new place with the turn of a page. But this isn’t travel writing—the focus is not on the place itself, but the details there, tied to emotions, memories, problems one may face with family, friends, themselves, society as a whole. If you spend too short a time reading one of these poems, you’ll miss the details. Three poems about invasive species in Ontario—‘Scotch Broom,’ ‘Jack Pine,’ and ‘Invasive Carp’—offer a reminder that while some things are welcome in spaces, many others are not. ‘Scotch Broom’ in particular addresses the fact that:

We hold your success against you.
Each spring is a trial by fire. Yellow flags
highlight a cautionary tale.

However, there are no ruins or wastelands in Wang’s poems—maybe a few reconstructions, perhaps some revivals, but everything feels full, well-worn, lived in. Even dealing with the difficult spaces, as she does in ‘Wreck Beach’ when encountering a littered beachfront, there are traces of people, plants, animals. Wang doesn’t leave anyone stranded. There is always something or someone to keep the reader company.

What does seem absent from Wang’s collection is a sense of comfort. Despite the poems ‘Yard Work’ and ‘Conversation Pieces’ that bring forward images of long-gone childhood homes and travel anxiety, readers are reminded that the sense of being alien to, and often alienated from, one’s surroundings never fades. But in ‘Application Form,’ a poem that mimics what one might see on an official form for entry into any given space, we are told Don’t limit yourself to the space provided, a strangely soothing line in an otherwise worrisome work. Wang’s poetry assures us that wherever we are, for however long, spaces linger long after we have moved on.

McClelland & Stewart