Victoria Redel

The Psychic

Photo © Sigrid Estrada

Victoria Redel was my professor at Columbia University and I think it’s safe to say she’s my favorite teacher of all time. She’s also one of my favorite humans. Kind beyond measure, wicked smart, wise, funny, generous, the list goes on. I’m not going to say too much now because there’s an interview with Victoria in the works, so I’ll gush properly then.

For now, suffice to say, Victoria is a wildly gifted writer. She writes fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. Her novel Loverboy, was turned into a feature film directed by Kevin Bacon. Her essays have appeared in The New York Times and O, The Oprah Magazine, among others. The electrical charge of her words and the magnificent way Victoria sees the world consistently bowls me over. Gentle to the core but not to be messed with. I’m so grateful I’m able to share this poem, The Psychic, from her latest collection of poetry, Paradise (check out this starred review from Publishers Weekly). The Psychic is a particular favorite of mine. It brings me comfort and feels wide and pure and clear as the sky. It reminds me that everything can be held.  

Also: When the pandemic began, Victoria read a poem written by a dead poet for 176 days and posted them on social media. Occasionally she still does so. Before each reading, Victoria shares a little something on the form or poetics of the poem. It’s pretty wonderful!

What do you throw around yourself in the spin of the world?

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The Psychic

He said I must pay special attention in cars. He wasn’t, he assured me, saying that I’d be in an accident but that for two weeks some particular caution was in order, &, he said, all I really needed to do was throw the white light of Alma around any car I entered & then I’d be fine. & when I asked about Alma, he said, Oh, come on, you know Alma well. You two were together first in Egypt & then at Stonehenge, & I nodded though I’ve never been— in this life at least—to Stonehenge; then I said, Shouldn’t I always throw the white light of Alma around a car? & when he said, Well, it wouldn’t hurt, I said, What about around planes, houses? What if I throw the white light of Alma around anyone who might need protection from the reckless speed of driving or the reckless swerve & skid of the world? & the psychic opened his hands & shrugged up his shoulders. So despite your doubt or mine as to why I’d gone there, to a psychic, in—I kid you not—a town of psychics—in the first place, right now, as you read this, let me throw the white light of Alma around you & everyone you pass close to today, beloved or stranger, the grocer, the bus driver, the boy on his longboard, the lady you stand silent beside in the elevator, & also I am throwing it around anyone they care about anywhere in the spin of the world, because, we can agree that these days, everywhere, particular caution is in order &, even if unverifiable, the light of my dear sister Alma, couldn’t hurt.