On Eigengrau by Steve Brisendine
by Janice Northerns
Hi, This is Janice Northerns, coming to you from Wichita, Kansas, for Poets on the Plains. Today, I’ll be sharing a poem by a writer whose work I’ve long admired, Steve Brisendine.
Steve lives in Mission, Kansas, but he grew up in Liberal, where I spent a quarter of a century. We both worked for the local newspaper there, though not at the same time.. Steve is the author of five collections of poetry. The piece I’m reading today is from his first book, The Words We Do Not Have, published by Spartan Press in 2021. The book’s title is literal: Each poem is about a foreign word for which there is no equivalent in English: it’s a word we don’t have.
This is such an interesting premise for a book and one of the reasons I love it. I’m going to read a poem called “Eigengrau,” which is a German word meaning “grey in its purest state; the deep grey seen by the eyes in the absence of light.”
Eigengrau German: Grey in its purest state; the deep grey seen by the eyes in the absence of light. I worked in darkrooms, back before ones and zeroes took over. High school yearbook, hometown newspaper, a half-improvised set-up in my own basement— the routine is still fresh: a careful pop of the canister; (Don’t bend the lid; you’ll need it for your next roll) taking the film leader with one practiced cut, s cissors returned to place; that quick back-and-forth ratchet of moving film from roll to reel; another cut, to free film from spool; (Don’t pull the tape; might be static, and sparks will fog the negatives) one delicate stroke with the right thumbnail; to make sure everything lines up; reaching ahead and to the right to grab the top to the developing tank. (It was always there. I did not need to fumble. Muscles remember.) To say I could do it with my eyes closed was less cliché than necessity. I kept them squeezed tight, pressure enough to fire optic nerves. They showed me illusions: sudden auroras, clouds ringing transient stars, streaks of a shade just shy of grey raining from upper left to lower right. Once, I left them open for ten seconds. That was as long as I could endure. Something intangible came out of the blackness, struck me with a thought. This is the view of the blind, this flat and boundless expanse of not-anything. My eyelids slammed shut on knowledge. White spots flared and receded. One deep breath. Another. Then I screwed on the lid, flicked a switch, blinked hard, glad for a sting of light.
“Eigengrau” is used with permission.
The title word, Eigengrau, and its definition prepare us for “the absence of light,”and the writer takes us there in the first line when he says “I worked in darkrooms.” This opening is followed by a detailed description of removing a roll of film from its canister in the darkroom.Whether or not we have any actual experience in developing film, these concrete, vivid images allow us to visualize the process; we see it, which is somewhat ironic since it is an operation that is carried out in the dark. The poet cannot see what he is doing—it’s all by feel and muscle memory.
After the author describes the process, an interesting shift occurs when he adds “To say / I could do it with my eyes closed / was less cliché than necessity.” He’s working in total darkness. Why must he keep his eyes closed? The remainder of the poem answers that question as we veer into philosophical territory. Squeezing his eyes shut produces at least the illusion of light, while the one time the author keeps his eyes open for ten seconds, the darkness is so overwhelming he can’t tolerate it. What he sees during that time is eigengrau: “the deep grey seen by the eyes in the absence of light.” Brisendine perceives this absence as a “flat and boundless / expanse of not-anything.” If we can’t see the world around us, does it really exist? Logically, we know it does. We have four other senses that we can use, after all, not just sight. But experiencing eigengrau perhaps calls up deeper questions about our existence, the universe, and maybe even the after-life. What is out there, or more to the point, what isn’t out there in the darkness?
If we return to the title, we can appreciate how centering his poem around this German word helps the writer express a concept in a slightly different way and also makes us think about the limits of language. If we don’t have a word for a particular thing, how do we talk about it? If you are curious about similar words, check out Steve’s first book, The Words We Do Not Have.
This is Janice Northerns, coming to you from Wichita, Kansas, for Poets on the Plains.
POETS ON THE PLAINS HOST
Janice Northerns is the author of Some Electric Hum, winner of the Byron Caldwell Smith Book Award from the University of Kansas, the Kansas Authors Club Nelson Poetry Book Award, anda WILLA Literary Award Finalist in Poetry. The author grew up on a farm in Texas and holds degrees from Texas Tech University, where she received the Robert S. Newton Creative Writing Award. Her poetry has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net prizes. After living in southwest Kansas for 25 years, she and her husband moved to Wichita in 2023. She is active in the local chapter of the Kansas Authors Club and presents workshops locally and at the state level. Learn more on her website: www.janicenortherns.com
FEATURED POET
Steve Brisendine, born in Liberal, Kansas, lives, works and remains unbeaten against the New York Times Crossword in Mission, Kansas. He is the author of five collections of poetry, most recently Full of Old Books and Silence (Alien Buddha Press, 2024) and Behind the Wall Cloud of Sleep (Spartan Press, 2024). His poetry has appeared in Modern Haiku, I-70 Review, Connecticut River Review and other journals and anthologies. He has no degrees, one tattoo and a deep and unironic fondness for strip-mall Chinese restaurants.
