Monday, March 31, 2008

RAPID DEPARTURES by VINCENT KATZ

JOHN BLOOMBERG-RISSMAN Reviews

Rapid Departures / Partidas Rapidás by Vincent Katz, Trans. by Regina Alfarano
(Ateliê Editorial, 2005)

Rapid Departures is a bilingual volume of poems by Vincent Katz (with facing-page Portuguese translations by Regina Alfarano), with art by Mario Cafiero. While it would be wrong to say that the poems are Brazilian-themed, it would not be wrong to say that they are to some degree embodiments of his Brazilian experiences, since they were all written in Brazil. In his endnote, Katz calls this book “an essay in poetry of the city”, and claims in that sense lineage with “Catullus, Propertius, Baudelaire, Apollinaire, and O’Hara”. “City” here must be taken in a Platonic-archetype sense, since this in fact a book of poems of several cities, and sometimes of the highways and byways between.

Katz’s inclusion of Propertius is not fortuitous, as Katz is Propertius’ translator. In his introduction to his Propertius translations, Katz writes of the Roman poet’s “highly compressed phraseology”, how “[i]t was in his character to write in a way that was half-challenge, half-insouciance”, how he had “a highly literary and subtle approach to both subject and language”, and how, “with all his literary and verbal sophistication … [he had] the ability to write lines of the most down-to-earth frankness”. He might as well be describing himself.

As Katz mentions in his endnote, when commiserating with his translator, the poems in Rapid Departures “range from the deceptively transparent to the turgidly opaque”. But isn’t that, as they say, life in the big city?

There are echoes of many poets in these poems (which isn’t to say that Katz is derivative; it’s just to say that wherever we go with senses open we can’t help but hear echoes of others who have passed by … and that novelty is an invention of modernity, and if it ain’t got that swing, well …). I hear a bit of Blackburn in the following:
                              In a couple of years, his girl
will look weathered, maybe bitter. Her breasts
will be sad. But tonight, while the boys play, she is perfect.
               -“Rehearsal

And I hear Apollinaire in
Christ is caught up in antennae
the city is beautiful in the rain
it washes its sins away
               -“Validade

And so on. But that doesn’t mean I don’t hear Katz. It just means that these poems are indeed highly literary.

Of course the literary can be deeply felt (I don’t know why I need to say this, it’s not as if the literary cannot be felt; but there does seem to be some sense still alive in the culture that there is a binary, “real/artifice”, and I feel myself wanting to say no no no … tho I’m guesing I don’t really need to say this to GR’s audience …):
My emotions can’t keep
pace with the beauty,
drops of water on roses
in my wife’s hands
as she stands with me
in front of the world
in a tiny, private, spot,
which passes instantly
and never goes out.
               -“Quaresmeira

So far, I’ve made no mention of what Katz calls his “turgidly opaque.” There are several such poems, though to my ear they seem equally as urban, literary and felt, and in no way more artificial than the “deceptively transparent” poems quoted so far. “Rapid Departures”, the long poem that give the book its title, is one such poem. It begins:
September
SP
Caravaggio
Krates crawl
endemic
underlay
Wander lay
attuned
breaks
in syntax
wavy
articles
sax by
summer
let-in
pistol
shots
at 1:38
a.m.

Later mention is made of “incessant unkempt prattle” and how “here, our manuscript / turns to mush”, but, while normal semantic meaning may not be easy to extract and it very well may not be meant to be, there is nothing unkempt or mushy about this poem (or any of the others in this volume). Katz is in as much control of his materials as he wants to be. This, again from “Rapid Departures”, is for me the funniest moment in the book (and perhaps the most “moving” and “literary”):
to bloom, to be in one’s
prime, to foam, ferment,
be eminent, abound in,
swarm with clutched
story, this’ll be as good
a spot as any to tell
this little tale:

Once, four men entered
a carriage. It headed
over registered half
rising setters rough

And away it goes … expectation set up, expectation denied, only so something better can happen.

It occurs to me that a poem like “Rapid Dapartures” couldn’t have been written before the so-called “linguistic turn” of the latter half of the 20th century. But this is where a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. I’ve just been reading a creation myth from early First Dynasty Egypt, in which, as in Genesis, logos precedes world. Which makes me wonder: have we always been living under the sign of the linguistic turn? Have we ever set foot outside the “prison-house of language”? I’m not the person to answer this. I still don’t know, and probably never will, how language relates to consciousness, how consciousness relates to body, how body relates to world …

Katz is willing to live with it both, or more than both ways (perhaps this enables his range). Sometimes consciousness (logos?) precedes world:
any view is ultimately
your view, where
you grow up, sun
in the bathroom lands
on your significance
               -“Suco Integral

Sometimes world doesn’t need consciousness/logos for anything:
The shape of a palm tree
A large dead cricket
Scuttling clear crabs
Detritus of tiny shells
The beach paints itself
Before you have seen it
               -”Beach

(I take “paints” here as a poeticism, so to speak, rather than a bit of epistomology.)

As Katz puts it at the end of “Rapid Departures”, “I think I’ve found a way of fitting it all in”, and while no-one fits it all in, what this having it every which way adds up to is a very big book (in only 40-odd English pages) indeed. I take this as a lesson in poetry and in living. As they say, when forced to choose between two good things, choose both of them. (Obviously, this “philosophy” has limited applicability (e.g. certain choices and my wife will literally – literally – kill me), but that’s a different sermon/essay, isn’t it? In any case, it’s often possible to choose and over or, and not a bad poetic strategy.)

Besides Cafiero’s accompanying illustrations (rather gentler than some of the poems yet still pleasing), there are four full-color collaborations between Katz (and Cafiero?) and a number of uncredited LP sleeve artists. Fans of e.g. Raymond Pettibon’s disjunctions between image and text (of which I am one) will get a kick out of them.

*****

John Bloomberg-Rissman's most recent publications are World Zero and No Sounds Of My Own Making. Work of his will soon appear in The Hay(na)ku Anthology, Vol. II. He is one of four collaborators on the recent hay(na)ku sequence "Four Skin Confessions", which has served as a seed project for a number of other collaborations also to be anthologized. His current project is called Autopoiesis, of which he has completed 100+ parts and though he expected it would be time to move on to something else when he put paid to no. 100, surprise! 2008 seems to be the year of the sonnet-shaped thing.

IMAGINING A BABY by BOB MARCACCI

EILEEN TABIOS Engages

Imagining a Baby by Bob Marcacci
(Dusie, 2007)

The art of drawing has come a long way from the idea of putting pencil or charcoal on paper (or cave wall) to create an image. One artist stretches out thin lines of black ink across a wet white field (or vice versa in terms of color), then picks up the panel and swirls it about to create forms with simultaneously biomorphic and galactic implications (her name is Maureen McQuillan). Another artist takes a wet brush and “throws” the ink at a page tacked up against the wall in a result that could be considered a “watercolor” as well as “drawing” (her name is Pat Steir). Another artist superimposes layers of rice paper against each other so that the “final” image is the sum of images on two fields (her name is Theresa Chong). Another artist uses hair to create line-based forms (her name, uh, will come to me...) Another artist dribbles water across paper and lets the puckering form the marks to create the drawing (her name is Laurie Reid). Another artist placed a small piece of paper across a page in my journal, scribbled furiously across the whole page, then took away the small piece of paper to show "negative space" (his name is Phil Sims). Another artist places wet ink at the edge of a page that’s held up so that gravity does the “drawing” (I might have imagined this artist, but if so the approach is a combination of Theresa Chong’s, Pat Steir’s and Laurie Reid's). These are just a few innovative visual artists addressing drawing...

...who came to mind as I read/perused Bob Marcacci’s single-poem chap, Imagining a Baby. For I consider this project as much as, if not more of, a(n innovative) drawing rather than a poem. Facilitating this conclusion is the Acknowledgements’ note that
The words in this poem are largely comprised of words from the About.com: Pregnancy & Childbirth and Babies Online websites.

Thus, I thought that Marcacci used the borrowed words to place texts on the page -- thus creating a drawing by showing vs. saying something (it can be similar to the way one sculpts rather than writes poems by rearranging text garnered from internet and other third-party sources). Given the e-sources for the words to Imagining A Baby, it’s logical for the poem to contain passages like
this week / beginning \
of the 2nd
trimester
you don’t look like much
while your intestines
migrate / & 20 teeth
wait under gums
you swallow
amniotic fluid \
you can smile /

But note the insertion of the forward and back slashes: / and \. These "marks" (a drawing term, certainly) are critical as they become more prevalent throughout the chap as one goes through its 16 pages. Each subsequent stanza also grows more shaped (through indents and caesuras), in the same way that a fetus develops within the mother’s uterus, for instance
you continue to
put on weight                /\\
as layers\of fat//                \
pile on & help \/ /
               /regulate\body/
           /temperature &/
develop immunity in prepaeration
for life/outside
the womb & the womb
               gets/cramped/\\
your \mother feels
               more your\ knees
               /& elbows &\
it is painful/
               \ sometimes \
as\ you continue
                              to grow &/
               snuggle down
               into the pelvis
               your mother
breathes more easily

Note the slashmarks because the last “stanza” of the poem is comprised of no words but only such slashmarks. And the slashmarks outline a baby dropping out of a womb. Well, it outlines a baby but the image, with the head towards the bottom of the page, denotes said dropping out of the womb. That is, the text finally disappears altogether for a picture which, after all, can be worth a thousand words. The drawing holds sway over the poem.

Imagining a Baby is also a fine conceptual act. For the future parent, can words ever really capture the reality of a baby forming within a belly? I suspect that one can only imagine what it will be like, thus the appropriateness of Marcacci lifting words from other sources if he is not able to articulate the “Imagining (of) a Baby.”

There is also an appreciable warmth in this project -- appreciable if only because of what the poem is about. I don't know if Marcacci lifted some of the lines in this stanza below from the referenced websites but they feel personal, as if they might have been generated from his own life experience; in any event, their narrative is welcome here:
these days it rains often &
we stay inside \ & \ watch TV
you mother \ often takes \
a nap in \ the \ afternoon \
she \ can’t \ sleep \
on her \ right side \
hormones from \
the placenta \
activate \ milk
in your \ mother’s \
breasts she has \ contractions
at the dinner table & winces \
you can \ grasp \ firmly
you open your eyes \
when awake & close them
when sleeping \
your skin continues
to thicken & you \ develop
antibodies you urinate
               almost \ 1 pint each day
                              where does it go \

Ultimately, Imagining a Baby is a lovely feat for capturing in both form and content the theme as defined by its title. What a unique way to approach the topics of pregnancy and birth about which millions of words certainly have been stated all through the centuries. This project is birthed from a beautiful mind.

*****

As remuneration for editing Galatea Resurrects, Eileen Tabios doesn't have her books reviewed here ... but she's pleased to point you elsewhere to Thomas Fink's review of her SILENCES: The Autobiography of Loss.

PRAU by JEAN VENGUA

JOHN BLOOMBERG-RISSMAN Reviews

Prau by Jean Vengua
(Meritage Press, St. Helena & San Francisco, 2007)

It occurs to me to say: read the book; to direct those of you who want commentary to Tom Beckett’s “Notes on Jean Vengua’s Prau” at Slim Windows, and to his interview with Jean in E-X-C-H-A-N-G-E-V-A-L-U-E-S: The First XI Interviews (Otoliths, 2007) (an indispensable volume, by the way, as is its followup); and to sign off.

That’s tempting. Tom’s commentary is really good. But. Or perhaps I should write: and.

On 8 December 07 I was in Berkeley, and heard Jean read at East Wind Books, and now I can’t read Prau without hearing, no, feeling, her voice, no, her presence. I don’t want to read Prau without that presence. Without that calm. Very steady. Very steady. This is a passionate book written by one who, in her poetry at least, seems equal to what comes.

(Jean, if you’re reading, I’m sure it all feels different in “real life”. But. And.)

I don’t know how important it is to have heard that voice before reading. I liked the book before I heard her read. I thought it was very good. But it’s a different book now. I read it much more slowly, quietly … The main reason I’m writing this is to share what I experienced and how it affects my reading. My advice (Yogi Bhajan once told me: never give advice): take your time with these poems. As Eric Burdon assured everyone in “San Fransiscan Nights”, “It will be worth it.”

Prau is divided into four sections, the titles of which suggest a journey, an odyssey, perhaps without an Ithaca: “Momentum”, “Displacements/In Place”, Ghost Vessels”, “Rowing/Breathing”. Though “life is a journey” is a commonplace, it’s never been truer nor has it ever connoted more intensity of experience than in this, the Age of Dislocation.

Yes, every age is an age of dislocation. And. But.

According to one authoritative source, “Between 2000 and 2005, 13.1 million persons migrated from developing to developed regions.” (Tak Wong, Dept. of Political Science, UC Riverside). How many migrated from one part of the “developed” world to another? How many people migrated from one part of the developing world to another? Is anybody counting? At best, life must have become strange for all of them …

And this doesn’t touch on the number of “internally displaced persons” (IDPs). As defined by the United Nations,
internally displaced persons are persons or groups of persons who have been forced or obliged to flee or to leave their homes or places of habitual residence, in particular as a result of or in order to avoid the effects of armed conflict, situations of generalized violence, violations of human rights or natural or human-made disasters, and who have not crossed an internationally recognized State border.

According to “Internal Displacement: Global Overview of Trends and Developments in 2006” (Internal Displacement Monitoring Centre (IDMC), April 2007, as found at Wikipedia), “At the end of 2006 estimates of the world IDP population rose to 24.5 million in some 52 countries.”

We’re talking about a lot of people. So is Jean. (Jerry Jeff Walker: “When I remember your life / I remember mine”). And for all of whom “things” must have become very strange … (I’ve set myself the oulipean constraint of talking about this without using the words pain and suffering …)

Commonplace. Common. Place. Let’s take a closer look at the (rhetorical and actual) notion of place in what I am calling here The Age of Dislocation (I could, as could any of you, adduce any number of reasons why we experience dislocation these days, even if we still live in the home that’s been in the family for x generations). I’m going to quote at some length from Grant Boswell, “Non-Places and the Enfeeblement of Rhetoric in Supermodernity”, Enculturation, Vol. 1, No. 1, Spring 1997 http://enculturation.gmu.edu/1_1/boswell.html (see the original for notes, etc.).
Not only is the concept of place very prominent in rhetoric, it is central to Western discourse generally. … space is the key concept of Western philosophical discourse: “Since the time of its Mediterranean inception, Western philosophy has essentially presented itself as a philosophy of the center. This notion, questioned in various degrees by European thinkers from Hegel to Derrida … concerns itself most profoundly with the concept of spatiality” … In order for something to be recognized as knowable, it has to make its way from periphery to center … and thus what is knowable and therefore meaningful has its place: “meaning is understood in terms of knowing the place of things, of objects and entities, in the given order of the cosmos”.

Think what this must mean for immigrants and IDPs, etc. … and then read Jean’s “This Isn’t Kansas”:
… and the sky is too thin and there
is no tether, no reality. I mean, no flattering munchkin

and, particularly, her “Momentum”, which opens with
Gustav Mahler died in 1911. He saw himself as an outsider.

and which ends (and here I do quote Tom B) with a “skin prickling denouement in which Vengua’s father witnesses, from the rail of a ship, a nuclear explosion on a coral atoll.” Clearly, an event (in Badiou’s sense of the word), which has made us all at least a little bit less at home.

Back to Grant Boswell:
… the relation of place to discourse is one of familiarity and knowledge; one knows and therefore can speak about what is familiar in the place one occupies. This relation is called “rhetorical territory” by Descombes. “Where is the character at home? . . . The character is at home when he is at ease in the rhetoric of the people with whom he shares life.” … Home is the familiar place from which one speaks to one's neighbors about what they share in common because they occupy common places. The question then becomes what happens to discourse when the concept of place as the familiar place one knows and lives in changes?

These poems are one answer. This is the last line of “The Aching Vicinities”:
leuchtendes grun a la pagode lightfast

Is this an example of “supermodernity”? Boswell:
… supermodernity accelerates the transformation of space. Virilio argues that the acceleration of history actually makes possible the transformation of space in what he calls the “shrinking effect” … by making remote distances and places accessible to us by travel or by electronic media, supermodernity compresses space, changing the scale of things such that the world can fit into one's vacation or living room. Thus supermodernity works on the principle of “spatial overabundance” in which the unfamiliarity and expanse of space is compressed into the familiarity and knowability of place. This compression results in excessive possibilities for assimilating spatial overabundance as knowledge within one's home, one's rhetorical territory, because the home becomes the focal point into which knowledge from all over the world is funneled.

Or is this an example of its opposite? Even if we live under conditions of supermodernity that doesn’t mean we’re “supermodern”. If we became postmodern because we never became modern (Bruno Latour) and posthuman because we never became human (Donna Haraway), then perhaps a state of supermodernity and the “shrinking effect” explains why so many of us are on antianxiety meds and antidepressants …

It’s not that every poem is “about” diaspora and dislocation. Not at all. It’s just that life is lived under that sign. Jean does run her own riff on the shrinking effect, I think, by seeing the world in a grain of sand and in the pea under her mattress, and by finding the significance of the world via her senses (which include memory and intellection). Everything counts (Wolfgang Tillmans: “If one thing matters, everything matters”). Here’s all of “This is Not to Explain”:
What did all that traveling mean, and why
can’t I remember? I remember. This is not
nostalgia. There was cool light misting
over the slough near Crescent City; I counted
red barns. There is a prison at Pelican Bay,
a town named Trinidad, a town named Samoa.
What does this have to do with you.
Now the snow crunches under my boots, now
sand and heat scrubs the skin on my heels
dry and bleeding. There were many deserts.
Please explain why. No; I’d forgotten:
there are no more explanations left.

There may be no explanations left. But what are explanations? Do we need them? Perhaps not, when “I am all yours, O”: this is the way “The Paper House” ends. And it must be remembered that “O”, besides being “a natural exclamation, expressive of sudden feeling”, can (and here does, I believe) also “[stand] before the subject in the vocative relation”, as in
O Muse, tell me the story

Of all these things, O Goddess, daughter of Zeus

Beginning wherever you wish

(not Jean’s words; remember, she lives in a world without munchkins). The key word here being “relation”. I DJ a little to show what I mean:
I am all yours, O
cool light misting over the slough

etc. and mix in a sample from “Wednesday, August 25, 2004”:
Once, on some opiate I confused
that street lamp for the full
moon. Tonight, stone sober,
I almost make the same mistake.

O street lamp, o moon …

And to think: I haven’t even begun to talk about the love poems yet …

*****

John Bloomberg-Rissman's most recent publications are World Zero and No Sounds Of My Own Making. Work of his will soon appear in The Hay(na)ku Anthology, Vol. II. He is one of four collaborators on the recent hay(na)ku sequence "Four Skin Confessions", which has served as a seed project for a number of other collaborations also to be anthologized. His current project is called Autopoiesis, of which he has completed 100+ parts and though he expected it would be time to move on to something else when he put paid to no. 100, surprise! 2008 seems to be the year of the sonnet-shaped thing.

WHEN A WOMAN LOVES A MAN by DAVID LEHMAN

THOMAS FINK reviews

When a Woman Loves a Man by David Lehman
(Scribner, 2005)

Nearly three years after it appeared, in late 2007, I came across When a Man Loves a Woman and quickly wondered why I hadn’t encountered it much sooner. David Lehman’s sixth collection is formally daring and full of trenchant social and aesthetic ironies. Lehman has authored an important book on New York School poetry, and this volume of poetry displays a strong inheritance of the pluck, wit, and elegance that the School’s admirers cherish.

At first glance, Lehman gives us six sestinas here. Only one, however, a collaboration with Jim Cummins (89-90), abides by nearly all of the form’s strictures. In “Sestina: When he called the lawyer” (30-31), one of the end-words is used twice, and “The Old Constellation” (38-39) shifts among different grammatical forms of end-words and even uses “anybody” to get away from “body.” “Big Hair” (62-3) goes as far as to include “gin,” “gym,” “Jim,” and “tonic” as a “single” end-word. While every single end-word in “Sestina” is the name of an American poet, and five poets are repeated in every sestet and in the envoi, seven different bards are placed in (what starts as) the third position.

Since the sestina is one of the more challenging traditional forms to pull off, it takes a special audacity to mar it deliberately—to break a rule or two and relinquish bragging rights. Yet the development of slight, subtle variations can be an exciting exercise of imagination; it seems more “nude formalist” (a la Charles Bernstein) than “new formalist.” For me, the result is most intriguing in the very simple end-words (“her,” “said,” “him,” “worst,” “him,” “for”) of “Sestina: When he called the lawyer,” in which Lehman strings together, not Ashberyan clichés, but, more often, fragments of them that register an eerie withdrawal from context-specific dialogue into a sense of ordinary language’s potential for both anxious hollowness and pathos: “But it wasn’t about him./ The money wasn’t meant for./ Their luck went from worse./ Everyone came home when mother” (30). A similar effect occurs in “The Double Agent”; detective fiction’s plot architecture is left out, and what remains is a conventional repertoire of images and abstract phrases that stands and also founders on vague suggestiveness:
The man reading the paper in the hotel lobby
heard every word. There was a short silence.
Suddenly he put the paper down.
“I am the stranger of whom you speak,” he said
in the formal English of a Spaniard
in a Hemingway novel. That was the tip-off. (18)

The reference to Hemingway indicates layers of textual borrowing that result in a signature style—like Raymond Chandler’s. There may be a “tip-off” of some mystery in a text from which Lehman has collaged, but our access to it is permanently deferred.

Aside from the modified sestina, Lehman also makes skilful use of the pantoum, Villanelle, stepped lines that can be found in the work of Mayakovsky and late William Carlos Williams, anaphora reminiscent of Kenneth Koch’s work, stanza patterns ranging from couplets to octaves, stanzaless poems, prose-poetry, and jagged strophic arrangements. One kind of ingenious experiment not involving a fixed structure is “Poem in the Manner of Wallace Stevens as Rewritten by Gertrude Stein,” where the fact that both precursors are mad about repetition creates a dizzying verbal excess: “If night were not night but the absence of night/ an event but not the same event twice then I would be I/ and this would be nice very nice as I write I write” (85).

Repetition in a pantoum should probably haunt a little, and “Space is Limited” (whose repeated lines are not always precisely the same as the first ones) surely does. Here are the first two quatrains and the final one:
You’re both going to die.
Have you remembered to adjust your asset allocation strategy?
You haven’t got any, as Marlene Dietrich told Orson Welles
When she took his palm in her hands and examined it.

Have you remembered to adjust your asset allocation strategy?
You’re supposed to do it once a year, like having a physical.
She took his palm in her hands and examined it, saying,
Are you on track for retirement? Is the window open?. . . .

What do your money and your future have in common?
You haven’t got any, as Marlene Dietrich told Orson Welles.
What do you and your money have in common?
You’re both going to die. (44-45)

In Touch of Evil (1958), Dietrich, playing a fortune-telling madam, informs the detective played by Welles that she won’t read his fortune because he doesn’t have any future. Not only does Lehman link material fortune and lifespan by not rushing to attach the adjective “any” to a specific noun, but there is also an implication of anxiety about sexual status in the pun-friendly terms “die” (coupled with “both”), “asset,” “do it,” and even “any” (as in getting any). The pantoum’s title emphasizes scarcity, as well as the idea that the form’s doubling almost halves the “space” of potential utterance, and reiterations bring home nagging doubts that a security measure like the adjustment of an “asset allocation strategy” will do any good. One cannot outsmart the stock market any more than one can ward off death or ensure one’s sexual potency and appeal. The poet’s final quatrain comprises an inversion of the repetition that occurs in a traditional pantoum, thus allowing the ominous declaration of mortality, with its accompanying connotations, to have the first and last word(s).

Like “Space is Limited,” many successful poems in When A Woman Loves a Man rely a good deal on the force of cultural allusion, along with the problem inhering in the questions that begin “Denmark: A Tragedy”: “Who’s there?/ Who is it that can inform me?” (64). “Poem in the Manner of the 1950s,” a prose-poem, uses a mass of allusive detail that could be said to build a commemorative wall for white, male, middle- or upperclass accounts of this time in the U.S. against revisionist or subaltern counter-histories, except that Lehman, an undergraduate at Columbia University during the anti-Vietnam War protest, is actually parodying the wall and building it with cracks: “There were no homosexuals yet one of them was expelled and no heroin addicts except jazz musicians and no card-carrying Communists except nondescript men in suits carrying briefcases with film canisters in them” (93).

Joseph McCarthy’s HUAC’s attempted purge of supposed Red influences in Hollywood stemmed from the sense that the multitude of Americans’ genuine ideological purity (i.e. faith in unbridled capitalist expansion) must be protected from contamination by a small group of misfits. While Lehman’s speaker, of course, does not mention how the Civil Rights movement took shape in the fifties or how the Southern backlash against it became especially vicious, the stereotyping of “heroin addicts” as “jazz musicians” not only serves as a favorable comparison of the “squeaky clean” fifties to the drug-infested sixties but, since jazz is a major form of black expression, implicitly restricts African-Americans to a pathological margin so that they are not part of a characterization of “healthy” mainstream fifties “America.” As for the assertion of a gay-free America, one irony is that Roy Cohn, Senator Joseph McCarthy’s main henchman, was a closet homosexual, and the fiercely anti-communist J. Edgar Hoover is another example. Surely, many found to be homosexuals suffered “expulsion” from good positions in U.S. society. In the fifties, Allen Ginsberg included openly gay references in his anti-establishment poetry, and three of the founding members of the New York School (O’Hara, Ashbery, and Schuyler), which started to gain poetic momentum during the decade, were gay. “Poem in the Manner of the 1950s” derives thematic energy from the tension between what it includes as “things that made America great” (94) and how it signals the matter excluded by its limited perspective. This is especially true of the treatment of gender in the text’s opening sentences:
Meet Doak Walker, the last of the all-American glamour boys. Say a
prayer for Gil Hodges, who went 0 for the World Series. There was
one big secret that separated the men from the boys, and that was
what a woman looked like without her clothes on. A naked girl in
1959 was not the same as a naked girl in 1939 or 1919, wasn’t that
true? It was indubitably true, but how would we get the girls to prove
it? (93)

The hyperbolic advertising for fifties NFL football star Doak Walker—as though “all-American glamour boys” would not continued to be manufactured by the mass media!—is comparable to the exaggerated pity accorded to baseball star Gil Hodges, whose slump during a World Series early in the decade prompted a Catholic priest to urge his parishioners to pray for him. If athletes like these men exemplify adult masculinity for the era in question, the “one big secret” (perhaps shared in the locker room) that ridiculously provides a big part of the definition of maleness has a significant crack: is a man defined by his possession of carnal knowledge or by an access to pictorial knowledge conferred either by age or stealth?

Playboy magazine, emblematic of the mainstreaming of pornography, emerged in the fifties; it may be accurate to say that the specifics of the visual presentation of “a naked girl in 1959” in erotica or pornography differed greatly from the one two or four decades earlier. Yet the speaker’s rhetorical question is even relevant to women’s bodies. As Susan Bordo and other scholars have documented, patriarchal culture’s demands on women to develop particular kinds of bodies through diet, exercise, and the use of many consumer products tend to fluctuate, along with fashion, from generation to generation. The cheerful “voice” that Lehman gives to his speaker states norms of gender socialization as though they are “natural” propositions. Such dubious “knowledge” is not only so dated but so inescapably “socially constructed” for most contemporary readers who were not adults during this period that we can wonder what current mainstream commonplaces will seem ridiculous to educated people in another half century. (Note the reference to “the camel route to Iraq,” which must have simply meant romantic wanderlust to Frank Sinatra’s listeners in the fifties but now signifies ominous political adventurism as Bush Junior’s second Gulf War continues disastrously years after he declared victory.) Further, even though the prose-poem’s coda may play on an understandable nostalgia for drive-in movies, “a red Coke machine” that “dispensed green eight-ounce glass bottles, and certain comic books, the idea that a bunch of particular consumer products established the U.S.’s “greatness” is a fatuous hyperbole that serves to point all the more strongly to the anxiety, authoritarianism, and unjust exclusion that the serene “manner” of the historical collage would glide over and thus occlude.

A rawer social parody than “Poem in the Manner of the 1950s,” the sonnet-length “Jew You” is equally effective. The singular or plural or false past tense verb form of “Jew” is used in every line, sometimes twice, and if we also count the name “Judy” (and Judith derives from Judea) which is attached to the ultra-Jewish last name “Levi,” we have 18 instances of the key-word, including six end-words. Such words are repeated often by anti-Semitic characters as curses in plays like Marlowe’s The Jew of Malta and Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice to reinforce a badge of negative identity. This excess of repetition, though it does not necessarily support the overgeneralization that “Jew” is “the one irreducible word in the language” (112), does emphasize how virulent and irrational the anti-Semitism that, historically, has kept flaring up at certain points has been and continues to be:
Dear Jews: We liked you better as victims.
Jews were chic in 1946 and West 12th Street.
The car was a lemon how come you bought it he jewed me down. . . .
Judy Levi was a vandalism major in college then she went to Jew school
and became a lawyer for the criminally insane. She defended the Jew
who said: the Jews are behind everything and you know who’s
behind the Jews? The Jew fucken mafia in Jew York City.
I am a Jew and my mother was a Jew
and when Lionel Trilling asked Allen Ginsberg why he, a fellow Jew,
had written “fuck the Jews” in his dorm room window,
Ginsberg sighed: “It’s very complicated.” Now there was a Jew. (112)

A full appreciation of the poem’s ending requires background information. Ginsberg was expelled from Columbia University in 1945—a year before “Jews were” allegedly “chic” in the lower west side of Manhattan and the same year that the Shoah ended—for writing the sentence cited above, as well as a slur against the University’s President, and for allowing Jack Kerouac to spend the night in his room. The literary critic Lionel Trilling, twenty years Ginsberg’s senior and probably one of Lehman’s professors as well, was the first Jewish professor tenured at Columbia, yet he identified strongly with the British-American culture of the literature he studied and downplayed his Jewish origins, perhaps because the university tended to marginalize Jews. In other words, when he tried to assist his student in this crisis by speaking to Columbia administrators on his behalf, Trilling would have found Ginsberg’s words disturbing but might have understood both his sigh and the complexity of his motivation. Of Trilling, it could also be said, “Now there was a Jew” (of his time and social context), and thus, the teacher and student are not merely “fellow Jews” but fellow Jews working through somewhat similar issues of assimilation and identity. If the future Beat poet could not precisely be called “a vandalism major” like “Judy Levi,” who went on to defend “the criminally insane,” including anti-Semitic Jews, Trilling counseled Ginsberg to plead insanity during Columbia’s review of his case, and the latter took his favorite instructor’s advice.

Much has been written on this incident, including an account by Trilling’s wife Diana, and there are various interpretations of Ginsberg’s motivation. The most obvious is that Jewish self-hatred involves the internalization of mainstream prejudices and a desire to negate one’s cultural identity to gain the advantages of fitting into society. However, if oppressors (perhaps including many Columbia administrators, faculty, and students) “like” Jews “better as victims,” to use irony to beat them to their denigration, pretending to put oneself down, is to refuse victimhood by taking the authority of interpretation and thus to thwart their perverse desire with one’s own canny perversity. Thirdly, Ginsberg’s cleaning woman, the one who reported Kerouac’s overnight stay, was reputedly anti-Semitic, and some have supposed that Ginsberg wanted her to have to confront her own prejudice and be forced into the position of erasing it by cleaning the window. Finally, especially because it was the goyish Kerouac who was staying in the room and whom Ginsberg evidently desired, it has been advanced that the word “fuck” is intended to mean “make love to” Jews rather than to discriminate against them.

The range of interpretations of Ginsberg’s shocking gesture can be plugged back into Lehman’s poem as a whole. We can say that Lehman is a Jew who is simultaneously giving voice (perhaps with a mixture of fascination and horror) to the virulent tones of hatred against his people and wondering aloud why some Jews are “insane” enough to believe in the omnipotence of some “Jew fucken mafia” and, with various techniques, enclosing this danger within the corrective frame of parody and putting it out there to hold the mirror (window) up to those who “like” Jews “better as victims” and to goad anti-Semites into cleaning the filth from the window and perhaps even calling for Jews and non-Jews to embrace what is “very complicated” in Jewish self-fashioning as it negotiates with others and otherness.

The humorous, deliberately simplistic “A History of Modern Poetry” begins: “The idea was to have a voice of your own,/ distinctive, sounding like nobody else’s/ The result was that everybody sounded alike” (66). A major “idea,” exemplified by “Jew You,” in When a Woman Loves a Man, is to realize—and one could invoke Bakhtin—that what you think is your own voice is inhabited by other voices, and so you should let those voices surface and challenge each other rather than repressing them. It’s not a question of everyone sounding “alike” or different but to allow both similarities and differences in a kind of dialogue to produce effects with multiple consequences for social and cultural interpretation and behavior—and to have fun while doing it.

*****

Thomas Fink is the author of "A Different Sense of Power": Problems of Community in Late Twentieth Century U.S. Poetry (Fairleigh Dickinson UP, 2001) and five books of poetry, including Clarity and Other Poems (Marsh Hawk Press, 2008). His paintings hang in various collections.

PUBLICATIONS by MAGGIE NELSON and Edited by JULIET COOK

KRISTI CASTRO Reviews

Something Bright, Then Holes by Maggie Nelson
(Soft Skull Press, Brooklyn, 2007)

and

[Growling Softly], Edited by Juliet Cook and "drilled" by David Foster
(Blood Pudding Press, 2007)

Something Bright, Then Holes. This is the title of a book of poetry by Maggie Nelson, but it also is a description of the world Nelson creates. Something bright. Then holes. Nelson’s book expertly weaves the brightness of life and desire with the holes that come with loss and salvage. It is the feeling of seeing but not being able to see or not seeing and being able to see.

The book divides into three main sections. The first part of the book, “The Canal Diaries,” compares the life and decay around the Gowanus Canal in Brooklyn, New York with a decaying relationship. The middle section of the book is called “The Hospital for Special Care”; It was written at the bedside of a hospitalized friend. The last section of the book is made up of shorter poems that return to what happens at the end of a relationship and afterwards.

The most compelling things about Something Bright, Then Holes are the holes in the stories. The actual details of the relationship become less important than the imprint of loss. A reader never really knows the details of her friend’s accident. We are left with the remains, the imprint of loss. This unrevealing makes the story more powerful.

Throughout the book, readers catch glimpses of the story being created in front of them with lines such as “Insert lyricism later” and “when did/ this become a narrative of captivity.” Nelson wants a reader to be aware she is creating a story. Nelson writes, “This story may end/ much sooner than I thought/ It may end today.” There is the feeling of being in the moment with Nelson even though she is writing about something from the past.

Two ideas that run through this book are landscape and water. Nelson writes, “I’m not going to write/ about anyone. Only the canal”(34). Of course, in only writing about the canal, others things come into the story in waves. The canal also becomes a metaphor for what is happening in her own life. Nelson looks at the canal and writes:
                              I don’t see
why they don’t just fix it
instead of leaving the water
to rot. Yet I know

it’s so much work
to dredge it, to face a century
of muck. (p21)

This image can stand in for the relationship also. The book obsesses about those tiny moments in relationships and in life. Nelson notices those little bits of society that most people might overlook or might have intentionally tossed away: a desk in the weeds, “marigolds glowing in the white, industrial light,” and the barbed wire.

This book draws a reader in not only because of the details Nelson captures but also because it weaves desire and despair reminding a reader these two things re never far apart. This is seen in the salt in the book. Sometimes the salt is from tears. Sometimes it is from cum. In this world, these two things exist together. On one page, Nelson places a towel on her paralyzed friend’s face.
You can’t wipe away your tears because your hands
don’t move, and I can’t wipe them away either
because it’s too abrupt a motion, everything now
needs to happen very slowly. So we place
a wet towel across your eyes and the tears
must soak upwards. (p44)

On the next page, she is reminiscing of seeing “photos of you and your lover/ naked in your kitchen, you both looked/ happy and free" (p45).

Desire and despair are shipmates in life and Nelson’s book. Everything exists in flux. To have light, there must be dark. Nelson writers, “You close your eyes and say waves/ Yes, everything happens now in waves.” (p75) The lapping waves return a reader to the water which has a constant presence in the book, but the waves also mirror the flux of life. The book ebbs and flows between ideas. The waves and lines such as “37 days of feeling lost and found” help show this. (p22)
Fell asleep in the East Broadway subway station last night
until the Mobile Washing Unit spilled water mixed with bleach
on my feet, as if I were just some sludge (p11)

On page 33, Nelson writes, “But I/ should have/ remembered, the rain// always brings in the sewage.” Rain is usually thought of as cleaning, cathartic. Rain equals a good cry. For Nelson, this doesn’t happen without the complications of “sewage.” Nelson is the gold miner dredging through stories, pulling out the shiny bits and the muddy sludge and dumping it all onto the page. Her words are all shining even when she is talking about the dirty water.

This is a book to which readers will want to return. Each reading reveals something new, something bright. Even the cover art (“Heartattack City” by Tara Jane O’Neil) pulls a reader in and makes a reader think of something each time he or she holds the book. A pieced together shell of a partial body with a stitched up heart and emanating lines making a person think of loss, desire, hope, robots, and flux. On page 43, Nelson addresses her hospitalized friend’s reconstructed face, “Now your skull is literally shining.” Something bright. Then holes. Maggie Nelson’s Something Bright, Then Holes shines with each encounter.

+++

Reading the zine [Growling Soflty] from Blood Pudding Press simultaneously with Something Bright, Then Holes enriches both texts. These texts share the same sand box of desire, loss, flux, and salvage. Many of the pieces in [Growling Softly] use color, landscape, and body in the same ways Nelson does.

The most seductive thing about [Growling Softly] is how it is packaged. Mine came with a lavender cover, a metallic inner page peaking out, a long soft ribbon binding, and a textured patterned rectangle on the back cover, but each one is unique. Opening the front cover reveals an admission ticket pasted inside that says, “Rendezvous Admission.” This ticket invites a reader into this zine. The table of contents is called, “*the sticky innards” that hints at what’s to come. The title deceives a reader. Most of these poems growl, but most of them are not soft. These poems confront and kick at a reader; the poems are not shy, slicing into their bellies, pulling out intestines and throwing them down in front of a reader.

Reading the pieces in [Growling Softly] alongside Something Bright, Then Holes makes certain things stand out like these lines from Amber Nelson’s piece “April 28”:
                              It’s the imprint of a human body
on your body.                All skin and kidneys.

Or the lines “The horrible spill of my heart cherries jubilee/all over his dirty white linoleum and him” from “Unrequited Breakfast in Bed” by Misti Rainwater. Lines like, “I must write about sea things:/ dry docks and sludge barges” from John Rocco’s “The Maritime Industry” mean more when put with Nelson’s book. Most of the poems become more special when a reader keeps Nelson’s poems in mind. Almost all of them have at least one image to hold onto like this one from “The Angel of Death” by Juliet Cook
My aborted baby has been salted away
inside an old cigar box
with a handful of blue crayons—

One of the most interesting pieces is “Fleur and the Phantom Limb” by Melissa Culbertson. This poem expertly captures what it means to miss a limb. The ideas of desire, loss, and salvage float through this piece in lines like these below:
Today a man will try to trace his way up my skirt,
but all he’ll find is a smile of skin, more grimace than
scar, tinbent teeth grinning over all that is
missing.
I am the artifact of cartwheel, double-dutch.

The poem captures that feeling of loss, but does not want a reader’s pity. Later in the poem, Culbertson writes, “I’ll make you forget symmetry.” This line is the only line that doesn’t start at the left side of the page. It disrupts the page and makes a reader pay attention to the space where a leg used to be.

Two pieces near the end of the zine “symmetrophobia fear of symmetry” and “ornithophobia fear of birds” both by Kristy Bowen are also gorgeous. The reference to symmetry might hurtle a reader back to “Fleur and the Phantom Limb,” but this poem will take a reader in other places also.
It begins with auguries. Three starlings. Three forks. The faucet
running milk in the mornings and my handwriting hinting at some
independent disaster. I’ll speak in third person when we come to the
part in the pay where the house is on fire. The part in the car where
my ribcage blooms like poppies. Where we die, are revived, then die
again. When the terror is exquisite. A slow, beautiful throttle.

In “ornithophobia,” the speaker actually turns into a bird. For someone who fears birds, that must be the worst thing in the world.

In [Growling Softly], a reader has more of an idea of what happened in most of the pieces. Some of the poems tell a little too much of the story. More gaps and imprints would have been welcomed. Some of the pieces aren’t as successful as others, but the energy and love of the creators come shining through all of them. They are honest and raw. This zine introduced me to Blood Pudding Press, the murmurists, and some writers I want to get to know more about. All in all, this was a rollercoaster of a zine that improved by being read in the shadow of Maggie Nelson’s Something Bright, Then Holes.

*****

Kristi Castro is an archivist, English 101 instructor, and occasional barista. Current projects include a re-mixed deconstruction of The White Album and the small press Fret Punch. Her work can be found in silent actor, not enough night, and Why We Write.

TEXT LOSES TIME by NICO VASSILAKIS

NICHOLAS MANNING Reviews

Text Loses Time by Nico Vassilakis
(Many Penny Press, 2007)

It reposes on the rug like a dark weight, spangling its cover’s bright oblongs. Here more than ever, in the objecthood of book as object, is suggestive a first and stone-like materiality, soon itself to be “unearthed” as Nico Vassilakis’s most weighted language:
            magnets
            pictures
            snaps
            what falls
tumble, yellow area

Each of these terms, we feel, develops a dialogic between spatiality and promised, potential mass. There is an equivocal tension here between what holds and what threatens to drop away. Our language, in general, so often seems fixed, “magnetized” -- by the very visuality of its signs, by the histories of its references, by the groundings of our speech -- into some sort of weighted permanence. Yet what to make of such apparent intransience? For how easily our language may “fall”, snapping off into its own weightless nowheres . . . How swiftly our language can abandon its status as reciprocal magnet, becoming a “mere” picture, tumbling, in this instant, through structured voids of sound, sight and sense.

The poem quoted is from the sequence “IN( )BETWEEN: and how powerfully those disturbing central brackets mark the falling space of language I’m attempting to describe. Within the brackets, a space develops. But what is its status? We will see. For the moment we can remark how Vassilakis’s syntactic compression, evidenced strongly here, is what allows this writing’s many tensions to develop. Such contrast of language’s simultaneous weight and weightlessness would not be possible without this careful lexical reserve, which fashions this space into an almost sculptural arrangement.

Sculptural, yes -- for the poem not only visually recreates the “falling” of its words, but makes them culminate, and then accumulate, in an eventual horizontal spread of disorder, colour, “area”. The magnet of language holds, but then, transformed to “pictures”, tumbles. Yet what is this end “area”? It is, as we’ll see, not an entirely negative space, for though simplified, flattened, it is also coloured, and bursting with the potentials of a new spectral light.

We are dealing then with a language which falls, or risks falling, or defies falling, into its weighted middle, its bracketed “between”. Not only a language though – also, a subject:
“your light is…”
                       never
more of me
in the middle

From light-filled consonants we descend into the heavy material m’s, round and slightly foreboding in our mouths. The initial fragment of speech trails away, and its speechlessness is replaced by a silent centrality, a subject standing in an entre, which the tone of “never” has tinged with regret. This “never” recurs again shortly after in the sequence, and is again spatially determining: “I’m never anywhere.” This language which seemed so heavy, this subject which seemed so established, and this book blissful, in its latent weight: is nothing left of this organization? Is all stripped away now, so that only, as Vassilakis puts it: “chaos works”?

There is of course, we have felt it, an extraordinary benefit to our “tumbling”, a new kunderian lightness of being which accompanies this removal of self and space’s “blocking in”. For holes are also windows, and in “the middle” of the eye, where the hole of the pupil rests, is the possibility of a new perception. Nick Piombino’s lucid Afterword underlines this ambitious perceptive project in Vassilakis’s work: this is, as Piombino says, “image, emotion and meaning, not banished or distorted but reconsidered, reinvented within a visual/verbal nexus of focused perception.” After this reconsideration, there are, as Vassilakis puts it, “Pieces missing” and “Eyelids lowered”: but out of this new darkness and disorder, something else may begin.

It is like a process, then, as Vassilakis says in “Flat Out”, of an “organized dying”, in that such falling may make us feel that we are inexorably led into the absence of textual and referential decomposition. Yet we see, and feel, immediately and intensely, in Vassilakis’s constant and vigilant constructions, that this decomposition of writing can lead, albeit sometimes circuitously, to its subsequent recomposition. It is recomposed via points of new perceptions. These perceptions are formed from out the horizontal debris we initially arrived at after all “tumbled” away. In this new space, language finds itself, perhaps, with difficulties, under the aegis of a freer form: “It reveals itself. It putters along. It thrives too. A wonderment, also torment. Would you lean in and rummage about?” The rummaging is necessary; the torment too is necessary. And in this new state: “The details are obvious again.”

Even more than a phenomenology, this poetics is also, then, an epistemology. It is about the acquisition not only of a new perception, but also of ways of knowing via such new regards. As Vassilakis says in his interview with Piombino:
“As you stare at text you notice the visual aspect of letters. As you stare further meaning loses its hierarchy and words discorporate and the alphabet itself begins to surface. Shapes, space relations, visual associations emerge as you delve further. Alphabetic bits or parts or snippets of letters can create an added visual vocabulary amidst the very text you’re reading.

As when you are perched on a mountain’s peak though the panoramic view is fetching you tend to focus on an interesting pebble at your feet. Something quantum about it.”

A perceptive victory arrived at then by an arduous stripping away: “The embedded text is unreadable”, and must thus be “unbedded”. Crucially, Vassilakis’ predominantly visual pieces, such as Negative Alphabet Alphabet, as well as being of a simple and achieved beauty, also importantly carry out this “displacement”. A displacement which is not so much, however, between words this time, or even between letters, as it is truly within the very letters themselves. For here is the arc of an “R” disrupted, here the upper curve of an “O” which does not meet its kin. Of course, we still recognize these new base elements of the language: but how strange they have become, how unlike the forms we traced, made familiar, during childhood. This is indeed the “new pebble at your feet” which Vassilakis has signaled for us. It is an even smaller type of disruption, to show us language’s strangeness; a minuscule act of ostranenie, displacing a supposed “essence” of letters in regard to themselves.

Let us be under no doubt then that this is a total poetics, though this does not imply, importantly, that it is a poetics of totalities. It is rather a wholistic vision in the sense that its diversity of positions and multilayered multiformities serve to reposition those stable linguistic and visual structures which stick, “magnetized”, to the self. This is in some sense, then, Pound’s melopeia, logopeia, phanopeia; but it is not the building of a Poundian ideology on those three pillars of poetic hermeneutics. It is the modification of perception via a wide-ranging poetics of sense and data. It is, in this way, closer to Zukofsky’s sight, sound and intellection, but somehow even more aware than the (ever-adorably) optimistic Louis of the dangers of language’s manipulations. Though the future is thought through here, this is no Marinettian Futurism; and abuse by influence, technology and imposition is never far from Vassilakis’s concerns: “I see you losing focus. It has something to do with the machine you’re using.” With this new space, after our falling, comes thus a new and combative freedom: “The liars are finding themselves wingless in these abundant winds.”

Lost and tumbling, we have not then the old forms to cling to, but rather the newer details made salient by a renewed sight: “The next tether is close at hand. It’s not about being different; it’s about being alone. Forever. A configuration makes sense, but geometries shift.” Thankfully they shift, and they must be made to; for the new configuration makes new sense, in turn. “Nothing remains of our talking” affirms Vassilakis in “The Colander”; but also “In the darkest of times you associate with anything.” This propensity towards association is important, for it is the way to climb, link by link, from out of one of language’s many pits.

A decomposition, then, of writing’s very material sense, sight and sound: but of what order is this “unmaking”? What else, on a grander scale, is it for? It is not quite, to my sense, though this is debatable, the very explicitly social underwriting of language accomplished by a Bernstein, Silliman, Notley, Kinsella. It is perhaps rather more the creation of that “opening” so dear to Hejinian : its political possibilities are palpable, but latent, and appropriately they come into effect later. Even in the impressive “Iraqed”, we are not here abruptly in the realm of the discursive attack. Rather, the act of taking to language spatially, sonorously, referentially, acts in Vassilakis as an initial appropriation, and the subject may then, more than ever, move within a new space of liberties, or even ideally, of acquired perceptive awareness.

All of this repositioning, however -- we have guessed it already -- importantly takes place, fundamentally, in time. For coinciding with the vertical -y axis of space, Vassilakis has set up a contingent x- axis of duration. And yes, text loses time, as the title says: the seconds slip, and the language ekes towards decomposition with the advancement of reading in a temporal march. We may build, however, our language up again, from the chronometric rubble of our readings. This is, then, a veritable Cartesian coordinate system, and the four quadrants thus developed are a map of poetic form .

We can build then, through the poem’s spatial propensities, our own Bergsonian durée réelle: a privileged time in which to read the poem, to make it ours, and to make it at once an integral part, and an agent, of our perceptions. Vassilakis’s vital, intelligent, complex poetics, is nothing less than a chance to unlearn some of our learnt ways of seeing and being, opening our eyes to a spectrum of possibilities which promises, albeit in an often uncomfortable way, to keep opening, and falling, forever:
            open your eyes
one time
            opens again
another

*****

Nicholas Manning teaches comparative literature at the University of Strasbourg, France. In 2004 he took his MA in twentieth-century poetics from the Sorbonne (Paris IV), and from 2003-2006 held a scholarship at the Ecole normale supérieure of the rue d'Ulm. His poems, articles, translations and reviews have appeared in Verse, The Argotist, Fascicle, Free Verse, Cross Connect, BlazeVox, MiPoesias, Parcel, Cordite, Dusie, Eratio, Otoliths, Shampoo, among others. In 2006 he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His first chapbook of poems -- Novaless I-XXVI -- is out now from Achiote Press. He is the editor of The Continental Review, and maintains the weblog The Newer Metaphysicals.

WHAT'S IN STORE by TREVOR JOYCE

STEPHEN VINCENT Reviews

What’s In Store by Trevor Joyce
(New Writers Press / The Gig, Dublin, Ireland / North York, Ontario, 2007)

It’s impossible to read Trevor Joyce’s poems without being intrigued by their combination of formalism and lyric power. Each poem can be seen as a kind of latticework or trellis, in which lines often appear to be constrained by a systematic, yet variegated word and/or syllable count. Whether this is done consciously or not, I am not sure. Each line or group of lines may be a self-contained perception, or, alternatively, a counter-reflection, counter-weight or counter-rhyme to another group of lines on the trellis. This technique allows Joyce to give a seemingly predictable surface a sudden torque:
several channels
tonight aired
footage

streets deserted
shuttered malls

rectangles
of freshly
turned earth
are visible

certain
voices
exist

it could not
be confirmed
whether
an atrocity
had in fact
occurred

an unidentified
vehicle is
approaching

The “unidentified / vehicle” arrives in the poem as a kind of “spook,” a potential saboteur that betrays the apparently authoritative reportage of the news channels. The illusion of being in control as a reader/viewer is disrupted by the sudden appearance of this “unidentified” force.

When I asked Trevor in an email about his formal intentions he moved my sense of intricate forms to a larger, structural level:

My own view of them, both in the initial writing and in the overall organization, was as rhymes of different sorts: phonetic, conceptual, structural, thematic, etc., etc…

Without asking, from reading the book closely, I am sure he means “rhymes” of a variety of sorts – slant, off, or just down right contrary. Whatever the specific process involved in a particular poem or series, his subversion of forms has the effect of an enormously compacted playfulness that functions on several different levels:
Hey, brown-haired girl,
your bed looks wild,
and a brown-haired man
left his hat behind.

Hey, girl, fetch my hat,
fit it firm on my head,
so that bright moonlight
won’t dazzle my eyes.

(Page 193)

The intense, contrasting rhythms, the individual words and lines create a variety of frictions, moving with a skittering quickness as one reads them. Bartok’s transformations of Hungarian folk music come to mind, or Charles Ives’ contrary, yet sympathetic re-interpretations of nineteenth-century American marching-band music. Indeed, many of the sequences in What’s in Store are counter-foils to snatches of folk tradition and anthropological and archeological lore drawn from the Chinese, Hungarian and Irish. Neither sentimental nor mimetic, Joyce’s arsenal of constraints and rhymes becomes a means of penetrating and exploring the suffocating crust of traditional formal devices and cultures. He can be as relentlessly impersonal with work that emerges from his own daily sphere. What is the intention? In my reading, the poems are intent on securing a space that is fresh and contemporary, while still bearing an echo of their original sources.

Throughout the book, these forms & re-workings vary from the hauntingly simple to the extremely complex. In some cases, such as the poem “Stillsman,” Joyce’s pages are thick with language – a relentless masonry wall in which texture is achieved by the correlation of stones of different textures, colors, shapes and implicit histories. At other times, the works fold out into a more relaxed, traditional lyricism. The variety of forms – either stretched or compressed – creates the impression of a poet who is relentless in his drive to explore the ways in which multiple constraints can compel the play of intelligence and imagination:
We, all impassioned
               suffer
                              grief

feel no
               passions, know
                              no grief.

If not already
               snarled
                              why covet
further
               traps
                              and goods?

Minor
               vortices
                              approach
the utter
               limits of
                              the atmosphere;

in light
               the rain
                              -bow
glitters
               and grows
                              parched

Heart
               to ash
                              exhausted

settles
               in a ruined
                              house…

Say, why
               should I
                              experience

nostalgia
               for the forms
                              of men?

How,
               rid now
                              of all familiar

Fixes,
               slough
                              myself?

(Page 170; translation from the Chinese of Ruan Ji)

Despite the formal variety, the book achieves a strong consistency of tone. Why do so many of these poems -- including those contemporary in reference -- have a ‘one step removed’ chill, even a hard-hearted sense of objectivity? Over time, modernism, science, and other utopian practices notwithstanding, the force of the fates appears not to have changed at all. In these poems, phantoms continue to threaten the collective and private psyche; courtships spin out of control, marriages falter, wars spread destruction, children disappear, someone’s death is always nearing, while strange, elusive, possibly threatening messages clamor from the edges of the darkness. Beauty – brief appearances of paradisiacal white birds, peacocks and liquid, transparent stone – is never less than transient:
torrential
penetrates
and rots
the sight

starved
memory
lives off
the store
and wastes

letters? no
correspondence

changes? yes
necessarily
it occurs

subdued
of little
consequence

am
out of
harm’s
way
here

stone
streaming
glass
opaque

(Page 218)

The only order in the universe appears to be the order of song. Without song, one remains as vulnerable as ever. With these songs, however, we are given the rhythmic energy and heightened awareness that allow us to be -- at least, for the length of the song -- liberated from the burdens that inevitably bear down upon us.

The title of the book may be taken on two levels. “What’s in store” is what we each hold in storage in our lives -- our memories and belongings. It’s also what’s to come, in the sense of prophecy or fate. Yes, there is definitely a kind of blues here. No matter the dexterity of the poems’ formal inventiveness, things often turn out badly, or contrary to intentions. Yet, like all good blues, these poems are suffused with the optimism and joy implicit in of the acting of creation or listening (or both). Trevor’s lyricism and variety, his formal invention and sheer velocity, not to mention his sharp sense of humor, are a wake-up call, a joyous alarm to the living, a kick in the butt to the sleepers among us. It’s as if the work is saying the only way we will, at least briefly, get out of here alive is to make poetry, listen and, no doubt, dance to become a member of the race.

A longtime Irish acquaintance says of Trevor, “I love his recent work and think that paradoxically he only found a voice when he lost his own.” I do not know Joyce’s early work, though the comment’s suggestion is that it was, perhaps, overly self-absorbed, autobiographical and/or sentimental. Ironically, through various conceptual systems of constraints -- in the way of Oulipo -- the work has become familiar in the most public sense of that term. The writing’s obligation to arbitrary forms liberates the poem from autobiographical intention, while the poems themselves become a measure of a world ultimately and simultaneously much more personal and universal, tragic or comedic as that may be. That is not to say this book will make Trevor Joyce any more recognizable on the street, or anywhere else. But he has constructed poems that speak much more clearly to a shared condition of human presence.

Yes, I highly recommend What’s In Store. And would suggest that Trevor Joyce is one of most remarkable contemporary poets among us.

*****

Stephen Vincent - a long time resident of San Francisco - is poet, essayist, bloggist, photographer, editor/publisher, teacher, walker, etc! He is the author of over 10 books of poetry, most recently the much praised Walking Theory (Junction Press, 2007). Vincent leads private walking and writing workshops in the Bay Area, as well as classes at the Fromm Institute (University of San Francisco) where he is a member of the writing faculty. His popular blog of commentary, photographs, poems, haptic artwork, and walks may be found at http://stephenvincent.net/blog/