We are All Sharing the World: Carlene Gadapee reviews The Soul We Share by Ricky Ray

The Soul We Share
Ricky Ray
Fly on the Wall Press, 2024
159 pp.

The Soul We Share by Ricky Ray is a love letter to the pure joy and wonder of living, both in relationship with the natural world and with his beloved dog companion, Addie. The text is arranged in movements in musical fashion, starting with a prelude, followed by two movements, an interlude, movements three through five, and ending with a coda. This is an interesting way to present the poems; each section is its own, discrete piece, but taken together they create a lasting impression, one of deep love and affection as seen through the connections between the human speaker, his environment, and the companion whom he loves so well.

We are given a glimpse into Ray’s philosophy right from the start, when the speaker-poet states in “The What of Us,” that “I have chosen to be human/ more days than I wish to admit. / I have chosen animality too few.” Already, we are aware that this speaker has a specific teleology, and he will lead us to the end goal of being aware of the way we, and nature, and those whom we love and are loved by are all intrinsically involved. The soul in the title of the collection is not just shared between the human and his dog, but more, it is found among humans, nature, and the readers: we are all sharing the world, and we might need to be reminded of this fact.

In the first movement, there is a painful but beautiful poem titled “The End of My Brother.” In this poem, the reader is introduced to the poet-speaker’s childhood best companion, his dog, Rascal. When Rascal died, there was “a hole the size of a pawprint” in his chest. The situation is an emotional one; Rascal had to be put down, and the speaker says “my father didn’t tell me/ until after he put my brother to sleep--/ a kindness I never wanted, still don’t: take it back.” It becomes clear through the narrative that the dog was far more than just a family pet; he was a necessary savior: “He was my brother, my guardian, / my teacher, my guide, and he raised me// on a savage hunger for every morsel of this world.” This poem is part elegy, part eulogy, and is entirely composed of naked loss.

There are several prose poems and short memoirs in the collection as well, and they serve as a counterpoint to the more traditionally-composed poems. They are interwoven between, and they provide a welcome measure of introspection, relief from the pain of losses, and an explanation that invites the reader further into the philosophy and mind-set of the poet-speaker. The first poem in the second movement, titled “Walk with Addie: Redeeming the Midnight Invitations” shows us what this whole collection is about. The surface narrative tells us that the situation is a familiar one to most people who have older dogs, in that there is a need in the middle of the night to go outside. However, the setting—time, place, and emotion—becomes the backdrop to the introspective moment. The poet-speaker says, midway through the poem, that “I’ll complain in the morning// but I’m storing these moments as presents for when she’s gone. / I’ll take them out, sniff over them, and cry.” This calls out to a deeply human thing, doesn’t it? We complain about the inconveniences, but then, in later times, we would do anything to have even these mundane things back. This collection is exactly this: an opportunity to take out these little memories and “sniff over them.” We are lucky enough to be invited in by the poet-speaker, to share these moments with him.

Other poems in the collection speak to the poet-speaker’s personal struggles with relationships, substance misuse, and other very relatable concerns. This poet is one of us, it seems: he knows that he, like most of us, is imperfect, and he has chosen to share these concerns with us in such a way that we can offer ourselves, like his speaker does, a wide margin of compassion. In the poem “Love is a Drug Passed Shyly between Fathers and Sons,” the speaker addresses an imperfect father, one who drinks too much. He recalls a terrifying moment from childhood that almost ended in tragedy: a boat, too much alcohol, and his father who managed to save him. The speaker says, “I kissed death. How could I forget?” In the last section of this beautiful memoir/prose poem, he says, “there’s love in quiet, in keeping apart.” Some relationships need distance. In this poem, the speaker treats his past self with compassion born from hard lessons learned: drugs, loss, poverty, and spiritual crisis. This is a powerful poem, and a very gentle poet-speaker talks to us.

The Interlude is an essay titled “Identity Earth: A Brief Biography of Our Planetary Self.” This section is a love letter to the planet, a gentle lecture about stewardship, written with humor and focused on serious topics with a wry smile and deep earnestness. Ray challenges the reader with this: “How amazing would it be if we followed the lead of the trees, if we outgrew our rebellious, destructive youth and helped usher in a new era…fueled not by fossil fuels and self-interest but by communion and symbiosis?” In our present times, this is a thought-provoking challenge, one that requires human beings to consider the life of the planet, of all of humanity, and, indeed, the soul we are sharing with other living beings.

Movement III is a series of contemplations about the Self, nature, and the nature of one’s Self. The last poem of this section, titled “XIV” says, “the flowers bowed/ their heads/ in heavy gratitude, / so I bowed too….” The reverence for life and for nature and our shared experiences is almost palpable.

In Movement IV, we return to the poet-speaker contemplating aging, Addie, human relationships, and the inexorable passage of time. In the poem “Family,” the speaker says, “and yet here we are, / devastating/ a beautiful planet, / looking for reasons/ to acknowledge our destruction/ and the inevitability/ of our undoing, / and still somehow concluding/ that the correct response is love.” Ricky Ray’s narrative voice in this poem reminds me of Wallace Stevens in his iconic poem, “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,” when Stevens’ speaker says, “A man and a woman/ are one. / A man and a woman and a blackbird/ Are one.” There is a metaphysical need for wholeness that is amplified in the poem, and the poet-speaker urgently wants the reader to see it, hear it, feel it as much as he does.

Movement V returns the reader to poems about Addie, Rascal, and complicated relationships. This is followed by the Coda, which begins with the poem, “The Last Walk.” It is reminiscent of a prayer, with the repeated “let it…” for the first half of the poem. The use of anaphora is heartbreaking:

Let it hurt to breathe, to swallow, to exist.
Let it hurt to feel cold dirt
when I forget she’s gone
and reach out to pet her in the dark.

The poem’s volta occurs shortly after this passage, and appears in Addie’s voice, all in italics. Addie reassures the speaker, affirming her devotion to him. Addie says,

…you can cry, and you can smile,
and you can fall to your knees
when I turn around to look at you,
wagging my tail and waiting for you to join me…

and you can let yourself
let me go.

This final poem in the book is a benediction. We should all have the blessing of such a love for the planet, for nature, for treasured people and pets, and finally, and maybe most importantly, for ourselves.

A poet-teacher both by vocation and by trade, Carlene M. Gadapee’s poetry and critical reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in many publications, including English Journal, Waterwheel Review, Gyroscope Review, Smoky Quartz, Think, Allium, Vox Populi, and MicroLit Almanac. Carlene also received a “Best of the Net” nomination in 2023. Her chapbook, What to Keep, will be released by Finishing Line Press in early 2025. Carlene lives and works in northern New Hampshire.