Completely Subjective: Kameryn Alexa Carter’s “Antediluvian”
Kameryn Alexa Carter’s “Antediluvian” seized my attention amidst my perusal of various poetry publications. Its unusual formatting, intentionally constricted, paragraph-like, amid a sea of poems often indulging in unconventional line breaks and expansive white space, drew my focus. Such aforementioned experimentation, ubiquitous to the point of banality, rendered the poem’s compactness a notable departure. This compression evoked a sense of claustrophobia that aligned with the overall anxious impression of the poem. Beneath this tightly woven structure lay beautiful language and a feverishly neurotic fervor upon closer scrutiny—this feeling persisted after multiple readings, beckoning me back to its verses. I encountered within this work a reflection of myself, a recognition that resonated without immediate explication.
Regarding “Antediluvian,” in a paragraph just about as lengthy as the poem itself, Carter describes that the poem was written during “a period of agoraphobia”: a state of being that is reflected in the structure and language of the poem. In the same paragraph, Carter describes her decision to create a single-stanza “justified” poem after considering the etymology of the stanza itself: “room,” “stopping/standing place,” saying how this choice created both a literal and syntactical “room” within the poem. She considers the limitations of enclosed space in text. Accordingly, the poem’s structural entrapment mirrors the cyclical patterns of agoraphobia, encapsulating the paradox of seeking refuge within the confines that suffocate.
I have experienced “episodes” of noticeable agoraphobia twice in my life (so far). During the tail end of the pandemic’s throes, I first found myself entangled in the suffocating embrace of the condition. I was comfortably trapped in my home, within my “room.” Whenever I would leave it, I would feel overwhelmed with shame. I would cry in doctor’s offices, school hallways, the classroom—I was petrified of being perceived in public spaces. My yearning was singular: to remain within the confines of a “safe” known. Carter’s depiction of the cramped stanza as both a sanctuary and a confine resonated with my own experiences as I sought solace within familiar spaces, sheltered yet ensnared by their limiting boundaries.
The passage of time, as depicted through the decaying external elements in the poem (i.e the Black Mission figs rotting, flowers wilting—”this is how I tell time”), contrasting sharply with the internal stasis, frozen in an indeterminate “half-past soon”. This temporal dissonance echoed in my attempts to reconcile the external passage of time with the internal stagnation characteristic of agoraphobia during the pandemic.
Moreover, the poem’s exploration of the prelude (and aftermath) to an apocalypse (“antediluvian,” meaning before the Biblical flood) parallels with my second notable agoraphobic episode: in Florence, my mind confined within the cramped walls of a hotel bathroom, seeking refuge from the overwhelming presence of others. I locked myself in the bathroom and waited for hours until the night came. I only came out when I knew the others had fallen asleep, assured of solitude, and I could sit out on the balcony, again, alone. After this experience, despite little effort to alter my mindset or my actions, I felt profoundly changed.
The nature of articulating a time “before the flood” implies the existence of a time after the flood. Carter’s imagery of destruction in the “before” period also implies the prospect of a new beginning, a new genesis (not necessarily auspicious, but novel nonetheless). Consequently, “Antediluvian” emerges as a meditation not only on the concept of “before” but also as a contemplation of apocalypse and its aftermath—pondering what is lost, limited, and what new pathways might emerge amidst such destruction.
ashberyland 