Jeffrey Yang’s latest book is Line and Light, a title that rhymes in a way with the title of his second collection, Vanishing-Line. Line and Light, his fourth full-length work, is sprawling, vast, like a city of poetry. It’s composed of five sections, all of them serial in form or spirit. The first and most ambitious, “Langkasuka,” spans sixty-three sections and a third of the book. It grows out of visits the poet took a decade ago to Kuala Lumpur, and takes its name from an ancient, creative utopia of a kingdom—one that disappeared, possibly because of self-induced catastrophe. No one knows. But the possibilities haunt the poem, and the poem’s poetics are all about haunting: about history and the pulse of the living individual, about the relationship between memory and the present, memory and the enduring song. Yang begins his poem with this couplet which, I think, beautifully stands in for the poetics he’s worked out of his entire career:
I open my eyes to forget
I close my eyes to remember