|
You are
alive and can think
The Clockwork Gift,
Claire Crowther (81pp, Shearsman)
Forest Music,
Susan Connolly (106pp,
Shearsman)
Shelter, Carey
Salerno (64pp, $14.95, Alice James Books)
She Had Some Horses, Joy Harpo (73pp, $13.95, Norton)
|
|
Claire Crowther's
poems are of that happy breed that are readable and challenging at the same
time. I've banged on about poems so often in the past I'm afraid I'm
repeating myself, but I have to say (even if it's for the millionth time)
that the poems I find myself giving the thumbs up to are those that somehow
manage the trick of having one foot in this world and one in another
completely original world of the poet's own making, as well as, and this is
the even trickier bit, being well and elegantly and intelligently written.
Which latter quality, I think, suggests that the poet expects the reader to
be capable of reading without fully understanding, each party fully
understanding that there is a quality of reading and of writing that is more
than a little special, and this is where the best poetry lives.
Crowther's poems don't always make themselves clear as regards where they
come from and where they're going, largely because they see no need to explain or justify
themselves. Take, for example:
Here in Hob's
Moat we know
a thike is
not a species of devil
but, unhappily,
receives attention.
A mammal, the
small-lifed thike,
flourishes in our
dry moat
among those
buried outside graveyards.
Ranked first of
unknown fauna,
a thike is easily
seen from the A road,
fooling near
its wood. The number of thikes
Casually shot
is high.
(from'The Thike')
I have no idea, and especially not much idea what a thike is supposed to be,
and after several attempts at explanation I'm not much nearer than that
string of rail besieging the funfair closed for winter or May's tour of air
(more words, bricks, chunks of language, I stole from another poem) to
knowing more than I knew before. But, before, I knew nothing and what matters
is what matters (a somewhat slightly drunk person told me this, and I
believed her) and what is poetry, anyway? Answer: I don't know but I do know
that I don't want to be told what I already know. And actually,
'The Thike' is among my least favourite poems in the book; some of the poems
from the 'St. Anne's Apocrypha' sequence are much more beguiling:
The phone
slipping off the end of the desk, its wire dangling
Into a
half-open drawer. Lever Arch files labelled
Strain
Balance.
(from 'Joachim Emeritus')
When someone tells you Claire Crowther's book of poems is 'about' the place
of older women in society, or a meditation on age, or something of the sort,
shrug your shoulders and make a cup of tea and help yourself to one of your grandmother's
angel cakes. This is what matters:
Let the
Cassandra dogs be warned off now. Let
every
sibilant from your moiderer's mouth be
bleached. Let
teeth crowd out your think aloud
with heavy
metal crowns that do not fit. Let
each word as it breathes burn
you an ice-capped
ulcer. Let
syllable-streams wandering miles from
where they start
clam up with choke weed to
the throat.
(from 'A Curse
On Your Moider')
Something here takes you to somewhere you've not been before or, arguably, to
a place you half-recognise and look around you with senses that are engaged.
It may well be my task here to tell you more about these poems, to explain
them a tad, or to shine a light upon their strategies and show you that I
'got them' and that therefore I'm really quite clever. If that be the case,
I'm not earning my (imaginary) fee. Rather, here's a door and I'm opening it and suggesting
that were you to go through it into Claire Crowther's pages with whatever you
call your mind 'open' you may not be disappointed. Remember (we forget it so
often) poems have a duty to remind you that you are alive and can think.
|
|
But now
I've said that, I realise that even crappy poems can do that, in a perverse
kind of a way. Take, for an example, this from the first poem in Susan
Connolly's Forest Music:
Everything
that's brought you
To this day is like
a song
You want to hear.
(from
'One Thousand Autumn Oak Leaves')
Reading (oh yes, my God, I read it, more's the pity) this book I have to
admit that we didn't get off to a good start. I took issue with this first
poem. Not everything that's brought me to this day is a song I want to hear.
In fact, much of it's a song I never want to hear again and wish I'd never
heard in the first place . But perhaps I'm taking the poem too literally; I
do that sometimes, and misunderstand things. However, Ms. Connolly is a poet
who, as far as I can figure out, thinks that 'feeling is everything', so
we're destined to argue. Feeling is some of it, but not all of it. (Discuss.)
'Feeling is everything' is how she puts it in the poem 'Piano Lessons', which
I read as suggesting that feeling is more important than ability, which idea
when applied to a poem and a poet suggests that 'feeling' makes for a good
poet and a good poem, and I'm sure you're way ahead of me so I'm not going to
go there..... We're only into the second poem of the book, and turning the
pages here is already difficult.
To give Connolly her due, she admits in the title poem that 'The intricate/
pathways/ of my life/ have led me/ to inhabit/ a deep forest/ sadness.' but
I'm not convinced that excuses the poetry. An alternative strategy would have
been to keep this sadness to oneself or go to a support group. (Oh, Poetry
World is a kind of support group, isn't it? Yes indeed.) Yet another poem
begins with 'I have had enough sadness', and one senses a theme developing,
sadly.
Another theme of the poems, if one can call it a theme rather than something
Ms. Connolly writes about when she's not saying that life is sad, is place
and landmarks and history. This
takes the form of poems about monuments and towers and gravestones and the
idea that the names and words are poetic in themselves, especially if we
can't say them: Bru na Boinne, Tobar an tSolais, Poll na bPeist and all the
rest. I say 'about' these things, but I meant to imply (but couldn't muster
the enthusiasm) that I'm not sure exactly what they are truly 'about', and
what I really want to say is how poems of this sort, and here I quote a brief
example:
DOVETI MAQQI CATTINI:
friends -
I am Dovetos
son of Cattinos
Strokes and
notches
climb tall
stone.
Lines in sets
of five
or less
thud across
the edge.
Finger
alphabet.
Frozen invocation
(from 'Ogham')
- poems of this sort seem to me always to sound like they've been written by
a kind of generic poet with little personality, and I can never quite fathom
why someone feels a poem about this thing or place is necessary. Guide books
seem often to serve as good a purpose, and often a better, and don't come
with such smug literary overtones or unnecessary line-breaks. Often they're
written better, too.
I've said more about this book than I intended. (It's so much easier to be
critical than to praise. I t comes much more naturally.....) This book
depresses me. But I should mention a bunch of poems at the end which, to
quote the cover blurb, are 'more experimental in form. These poems involve a
typography in which the visual pattern corresponds in some way to the sense
of the word or phrase represented...... A poem about an early Christian high
cross adopts the shape of the cross. Another imitates a pair of wings.' And
so on. And I think I would be insulting your intelligence were I to continue
this paragraph, never mind finish it.
Move on. Life's too short.
|
|
And
speaking of life, here's a book - Carey Salerno's Shelter - based on the poet's experiences
working in an animal shelter where most of the time (at least, the time that
she wrote poems about) it seems was spent killing (or, as we say, putting
down) unwanted pets. Well, you
can guess, I'm sure, the dominant tone:
I lay my forefinger
along his vein like a splint,
needling a fixed
line from the tissue.
In my other hand,
twist a syringe, bevel up.
Press it down into
the Weimaranar's
silvery skin. A
tiny string of blood
leaks into the
loaded cylinder.
(from 'A Business of Killing')
It's not a job where the laughs come with much frequency, I suppose.
I have to admit I rushed through this one, which is not at all the way to
read poems but sometimes needs must, especially when after a slow and
resolute and conscientious start it's becoming quite clear that you kind of
know where you are, what you're going to feel, and there's a couple of cold
beers in the fridge that need your attention.
'Any person with a pet will want to read these honest poems,' says one critic
quoted on the back of the book. I'm not so sure. Another says something even
more contentious: 'Abu Ghraib haunts these lines as the shelter takes on
harrowing, allusive dimensions, and as the narrator weighs her burden of
complicity.' I almost admire
this leap of association, but only almost. I think it's a book about killing
animals, but as I said earlier, sometimes I'm way too literal.
And finally, finally, to Joy Harpo's She Had Some Horses, a volume that almost resists
review from the outset, as the back cover informs me that this is a re-issue,
the book having been first published in 1983 and that it is 'now considered a
classic'.
What the fuck is a classic? And who says so? What I've gleaned is that Joy
Harpo is of Native American descent, is regarded as a leading Native American
poet, is a musician as well as a poet, and has won lots of awards and is a
busy person, for sure. But I'm afraid I've tried really hard to find much
beyond the banal and the obvious in this so-called classic, and I can't come
up with anything worth mentioning.
It's perhaps not a good idea to start in on a book of poems with certain
expectations, but I was, I admit, expecting a smattering of unimpeachable
Native American traditional good sense, oneness with Mother Earth, a belief
that there is a tradition of life to be upheld here, and perhaps some good
strong womanhood for good measure. I don't want to appear cynical, my
cynicism is a matter of record after all; I'm simply and honestly explaining
what I was expecting and, as it happens, describing what I got.
It's like
And we go on, keep
giving birth and watch
ourselves die, over
and over.
And the ground
spinning beneath us
goes on talking.
(from 'For
Alva Benson, And For Those Who have Learned To Speak')
-- I mean, doesn't this say it all? And hasn't it been said before, and isn't
it still being said? Not that it shouldn't be said, but I'm kind of bored,
you know....
Elsewhere, what I take to be more personal poems are so dull I'm lost for
words:
I am next to you
in skin and blood
and then I am not.
I tremble and grasp
at the edges of
myself; I let go
into you.
(from 'Motion')
This may not sound dull to you but it sure as hell is dull for me. Sometimes
I think I'm hard to please, but while I'm writing this my attention is taken
by a poem I have stuck on my wall next to my desk. It's a poem I found at The
New Yorker, by
Dean Young, and thank God for it, because it reminds me why how wonderful and
inspiring and inspiriting poetry can be. You are alive and can think, no matter
what the evidence to the contrary.
© Martin Stannard,2009
|