The Mathematics of Mercy: A Review of Carol Smallwood’s “In the Measuring”

Carol Smallwood

In the Measuring, a substantial collection by Carol Smallwood, presents readers with a specific, curious arithmetic: seventy-seven poems. To the casual eye, the number might seem arbitrary, but in the realm of poetic structure, numbers often carry weight beyond their sum. If seven represents the perfect union of the spiritual triad and the earthly quartet, then seventy-seven suggests a double measure of that span—an overflow of the sublime into the mundane.

More significantly, this number evokes the biblical instruction on forgiveness: not merely seven times, but seventy-seven. There is a profound tension here. While the title In the Measuring implies the cold precision of judgment, the count of the poems suggests an infusion of infinite mercy. It is within this duality—between the stark assessment of reality and a compassionate understanding of it—that Smallwood’s work resides.

The Axis of Earth and Heaven

The collection is architecturally sound, divided into sections that mirror this dichotomy, moving from “The Domestic” to “Sea-Change.” It is a structure that attempts to bridge the gap between the kitchen table and the cosmos.

Admittedly, the “earthly” poems occasionally risk becoming too pedestrian. Pieces like “Black Ants Came,” which chronicle minor household invasions, can feel inconsequential, slipping away as quickly as the “midnight news” they describe. However, when Smallwood elevates her gaze, the results are often luminous.

Consider “A Brief Look,” a poem that functions as a circular meditation on the nature of epiphanies. Smallwood writes of beauty arriving “full grown,” echoing the myth of Pallas Athena springing armored from the head of Zeus.

Beauty comes at ordinary moments full grown,
unexpected and leaves us gasping – suspended – caught off guard.

The poem’s structure reinforces its theme; the opening lines spiral back to become the conclusion. It suggests that true beauty, like wisdom, is axiomatic—it requires no proof, only presence. It arrests the viewer, leaving us “gasping” in a moment of suspended revelation.

The Blacksmith’s Hammer

Smallwood’s strongest moments occur when she acts as a smith, hammering language until it is unbreakable. Her mastery of form and rhyme often creates a mimesis, where the sound of the poem enacts its meaning.

In “How Could Early Life,” a short reflection on the origins of existence, she observes stromatolites with a mixture of fear and wonder. The technical brilliance lies in her use of para-rhyme:

Seeing stromatolites living today makes one stare
in equal fear and longing – to fathom the beginning.

The pairing of “longing” and “beginning” is masterful. The rhyme aches to resolve fully but cannot, just as the human mind aches to fully comprehend its origins but remains forever at a slight distance. It is a precise, exacting measure of the human condition.

The Mirror of Myth

While Smallwood is clearly writing from a perspective informed by the female experience, she avoids the trap of ideological rigidity. Her feminism is not a blunt instrument but a scalpel, dissecting the behavior of both genders with equal sharpness.

In “Examples,” she juxtaposes the ancient Chinese practice of foot binding with the modern Western obsession with stiletto heels.

Western women believe themselves free of such things…

She dismantles this illusion of freedom by confessing her own desire to match the footwear seen on House of Cards. The poem cuts to the bone of the issue: “our tale of Cinderella’s small slipper.” Smallwood suggests that we are not merely battling political systems but ancient archetypes. You may outlaw a practice, but the underlying myth—the human desire to conform to a painful ideal for status—will resurface in a new guise. It is a utopian error to believe we can legislate away human nature.

A Sulphuric Reality

Ultimately, In the Measuring is a collection defined by its grounded wit and startling clarity. Smallwood has a gift for the “pointy” line—the observation that catches the reader off guard.

Perhaps the most evocative example is found in the poem “Knowing,” where she dismantles the romanticism of the cosmos with a single scientific fact:

Venus, the admired morning star, is a sulphuric hell

It is a line that does double duty. Literally, it describes the planetary atmosphere; metaphorically, it warns that the objects of our adoration—love, beauty, desire—can conceal a burning, toxic core.

Carol Smallwood proves herself to be a poet of both the ground and the sky. She measures the world with a ruler that records both the domestic dust and the starlight, offering a collection that is structured, insightful, and quietly merciful.