It’s no secret that these editor’s notes are written weeks, sometimes months in advance. So here I am, trying to think of who we will be, how we will feel in October. The only thing I am sure of is that I have a lot of hope. If September signaled a time of change and shifting into something new, then I hope the October issue finds you on more steady ground. I hope that you’ve settled into a new routine or perhaps you’ve worked hard to maintain an old one. And if you have yet to feel grounded, even for a moment, as I have yet to feel, I hope you can find solace in the pages here.
The voices in this issue are curious, searching for something we have yet to name or will never be able to name. These poems grapple with the idea of our origins, where we are from, where we are going, how we have arrived, and looking back at what it all means. Sometimes there isn’t an answer and the process of looking back is just as beautiful. Each writer reckons with their most intimate selves and transformation occurs.
Here is something a little different:
If you are satisfied with this introduction, feel free to turn the page and go to the first poem, or wherever you’d like to begin. If you’d like to participate in a little exercise with me, go to the paragraphs below.
I want to leave you with a simple task. Observe your surroundings—yes, where you are right now. Take note of what you sense then jot it down in the margins of this page or wherever you’d like.
For example, I am in a new living room. There is a box of packing paper and bubble wrap I can’t bear to throw away because I know I’ll move again. A crumpled up to-do list turned into a to-purchase list. My face masks. The creaking of the wooden beams on the ceiling that takes me by surprise each time. I am waiting for someone I love, which makes me think of everyone I love.
What about you? Where are you now?
Once you read a poem or a few or the whole issue, I ask that you, again, take note of what you sense. Perhaps something different? The same? As we get lost in one another’s poems, when we surface, I like to think that the world is a little different. Perhaps you’ve moved to a different place or are being called in a new direction. I think of these marginalia as a way to mark the journeys poetry can map for us, however small.
We can create our own archives of marginalia that capture where we were and the observations we made. Maybe you can preserve this moment by taking a picture of your own words or even of the place where you’re reading the magazine. Even when we’re apart, we can create a world together in these pages.
Finally, I’m grateful for the writers in this issue who not only bring the light to these pages but also show us how to mold what seems unmoldable. Each writer has shifted my perspective just enough to notice something new inside myself, which is what poetry does best. I can’t wait to delve into this issue again and into the marginalia archive we create together.
Su Cho is the author of The Symmetry of Fish (Penguin, 2022), a winner of the 2021 National Poetry Series. She has served as editor in chief of Indiana Review and Cream City Review and as a guest editor for Poetry magazine. Her work has been featured in Poetry, New England Review, Gulf Coast, Orion, the 2021 Best American Poetry and Best New Poets anthologies, and elsewhere. She was a finalist for...