Since we've been reading lots of fine work lately, this month on Poetry Matters, instead of an in-depth review or interview, you’ll find four quick posts filled with book-candy:
- Barbara offers an overview of a chapbook by Sarah Freligh.
- Caroline touches on her work with Writing For Your Life writing circles and takes us into a book by Elyse Fenton that concerns one woman's experience with war.
- Karen gives us a mini-review of Alison Luterman’s second book of poetry.
- Nancy shares a sampling of what has captivated her in the last few weeks: two debut books, one from Jennifer Chang and the other from Ryan Teitman, as well as a quick nod to a few of her favorite journals.
Barbara's Chapbook Recommendation
by Sarah Freligh
Accents
Publishing, 2012
2012 Accents Publishing Poetry Chapbook Contest Editor’s choice award winner
ISBN: 978-I-936628-14-8
Accents Publishing, Lexington KY
http://www.accents-publishing.com
A Brief Natural History of an American Girl by Sarah Freligh is all that the title promises, and then some. Brief (alas!), offering a wholly natural first person portrait of a girl in literary landscape vividly American and tangibly reminiscent of the 50’s and 60’s. The references, evocations and vignettes summon my own American girlhood of that same period. Here is the post WWII era deromanticized, an engaging subversion of the Nelsons and the Cleavers. The book is a stunner, in every sense of the word. However, no matter the decade or cultural window through which the poems are framed, most any reader can relate to the awkward, the confusing, fraught, exhilarating nature of youthful self-discovery.
This is the true stuff of growing up: languishing in the back seat during the endless family car trip, fantasizing about Davy Jones, about “doing it,” teenage pregnancy, the naïve response to sexual harassment (“I was sixteen and didn’t understand/yet how life can kill you a little/at a time. Still, I kissed him back”): all moving parts of girlhood. Freligh presents her journey from a wry perspective; looking back on her particular yet universal tender years from a middle-aged woman’s knowing wink and sensitive edge. Her voice is authentic, unyielding, carrying a great sense of spontaneity. Yet beneath the seeming automaticity of the lines lay carefully crafted poems: analog, ekphrasis, the boom of prose blocks, couplets, tercets, free verse. She achieves the tricky pairing of the natural speech line and considered technique rendered inconspicuous by the immediacy of lines like “. . .clatter of engine,/rev of cells: oh axons : oh dendrites.” (“Old Flame”).
A Brief Natural History sketches a life journey whose point of departure is girlhood, whose mode is memory, and whose imprint is indelible. The poems are freshly rendered yet tempered by the wisdom of a mature speaker (self-deprecatingly yet affectionately described as an “Old hen: all fruitless//tubes and bristled/chin” in “Depending”). The collection is a compelling narrative which this reader drank in in one captivated sitting. Freligh has given us an entirely original collection whose coming-of-age theme knits these poems into a throw of unadorned retrospection, at once heartbreaking and humorous.
Caroline, Writing for Your Life, Poetry of Witness
For several years now, I
have, at different times and in different places, offered ongoing writing
circles called Writing For Your Life © for active duty troops, veterans and
their family members. Currently, I lead
a weekly circle for women veterans at the VA hospital in Albuquerque, NM and am
preparing for two structured programs about women’s writing and war. * As a
teacher, veteran and military family member myself, I am always on the lookout
for poetry about these experiences.
Currently, I am reading
clamor, by Elyse Fenton. The book won the 2009 Cleveland State
University Poetry Center First Book Prize.
In 2008, Fenton also won the Pablo Neruda Award from Nimrod International Journal. clamor’s fifty love poems explore a woman’s feelings
and pre-occupations from the beginning of her fiancé’s Iraq deployment to his
return and the lingering emotional aftermath of the deployment.
The book begins with
the speaker’s contemplation of a combat related experience her fiancé reported
to her, in the book’s first, stand-alone poem. “Gratitude, “previously
published in Best New Poets 2007.
Wreckage was
still smoldering on the airport road
when they delivered the soldier—beyond recognition,
seeing God’s hands in the medevac’s spun rotors—
to the station’s gravel landing pad. By the time you arrived
there were already hands fluttering white flags of
gauze
against the ruptured scaffolding of ribs, the
glistening skull, and no skin
left untended, so you were the one to sink the rubber
catheter tube.
When you tell me this over the phone hours later I
can hear rotors
scalping the tarmac-gray sky, the burdenless lift of
your voice.
And I love you more for holding the last good flesh
of that soldier’s cock in your hands, for startling
his war blood
back to life.
Listen. I know the way the struck
cord begins
to shudder, fierce heat rising into the skin of my own
sensate palms.
That moment just before we think
the end will never come and then
the moment when it does.
Section I consists of lyric
poems concerning the time of the fiancé’s deployment. Most have to do with an event in Iraq. Several
relate the speaker’s concerns to those of Dante’s classic and Greek
Mythology. One such is “Refusing
Beatrice.”
Dante needed a whole committee—
Beatrice, Lucy, Virgil—to guide him
down
and back, even though hell
was a known descent, a matter of pages, a book
ending in certainty with a hero seeing stars.
You’ve got no itinerary. Just an
armored car
to ferry you down the graveled
airport road, a Chinook
gut-deep
in the green swill waiting to dislodge.
Maybe it’s time to stop comparing—
I could never be Beatrice, couldn’t harbor such good
faith.
And I won’t be there in the Tigris
basin to watch
heat flake cinders of paint from the
Chinook’s body
like a rug shook out
or see it hasten to sky’s surface
like
an untethered corpse—
My curse or gift is blindness;
I’ve never read this story before.
And if the updraft’s whirlwind
doesn’t make the sniper miss, if
your helicopter lifts
From
Baghdad as doomed as the Chaldean sun,
I won’t be there to see the wreckage
or
papery flames, the falling arsenal of stars—
Section II consists of
prose poems about the realities of return, reunion and ruminations about loss
endured and escaped. Section III begins
with an epigraph from Dante’s Inferno when he returned from hell to
“once more [see] the stars.” It deals
with the joys and challenges of picking up a life and relationship after the
separations and traumas of war and worried waiting for the lover’s return from
war. The joys, as small and bright as
stars, and the challenges, as large as the night sky, are lyrically explored in
poems that take the reader on a PTSD type roller coaster. Grief and guilt contaminate even the happiest
moments of reunion. “Infidelity,” the
section’s last poem is startling in its conclusion.
When you were in Iraq I dreamed you
dead, dormant, shanked stone
in a winter well, verb-less object
sunk haft-deep through the navel
of each waking sentence. I dreamed
myself shipwreck, rent timbers
on a tidal bed, woke to morning’s cold
mast of breath canted wide as a search light
for the drowned.
Dreamed my crumbling
teeth bloomed shrapnel’s bone light
bricks mortared into a broken
kingdom of sleep where I found you
dream-sift, rubbled, nowhere.
Forgive me, love, this last
infidelity: I
never dreamed you whole.
The last poem, “Roll
Call,” stands alone at the end of the book, just as “Gratitude” stood alone at
the book’s beginning. I read it as a tribute to loved ones who did
not return, a testimony to the never ending fear of losing the beloved and a
reverent acknowledgement that, for each of us, that loss will come, even if not
premature or through the vagaries of war.
No matter the details. It always ends
at the sweat-salt metal of your un-
answered name.
Twenty-one triggers
and twelve-hundred bit down tongues.
Last clamor of the swan-beaked rifle.
Last unmuzzled
throatful of air.
clamor contains poetry of witness touched by the proximity of the
loving witness. Many in our country give
little to no thought to the fact that we are still at war, still sending troops
into harm’s way, still calling on their loved ones to wait in near despairing uncertainty, still bringing
home traumatized troops home to bewildered and differently traumatized loved
ones—parents, siblings, lovers, children.
It is my hope that these graphic poems, tenderized by lyric beauty and loving tones, will invite
readers to share in the realities which they witness.
* WRITING FOR YOUR LIFE: A Writing Circle for Women with Ties to the
Military is a six hour workshop I will offer as part of the Women and
Creativity celebrations sponsored by the National Hispanic CulturalCenter. Women,
Writing, the Military and War is a six week review and discussion of
women’s war related writings offered through the University of New Mexico’sContinuing Education OSHER Institute .
Karen's Mini-Review of See How We Almost Fly
The poems of See How We Almost Fly cover a diverse range of subjects such as poverty, homelessness, greed, bullying, rape, quilting, Olympic gymnastics, massage therapy, fireworks, relationship problems, grief, prison, and capital punishment, in such varied locales as Alaska, Africa, and Haiti. But there are common motifs that thread throughout this collection to give it a pleasing sense of continuity: privileged vs. deprived; innocence vs. worry, fear, shame; love vs. loss and grief; joy and hope vs. despair; and success vs. failure.
Music, dance, and art are also weaved into many of these poems, as a means through which the poet and her personas find release, solace, and hope. There are also repeated images of flying that connect with the collection's title, See How We Almost Fly, just one example of how the poems celebrate the resilience of the human spirit.
Luterman's poems are full of beautiful and unusual imagery, as in the poem "Rooster": "At the first crack/in dawn's black eggshell,/my neighbor's rooster crows/with a voice of rusty tapwater." In her poem "Liar," she writes, "Sun lay a lascivious tongue/along the blonde hairs of my arm." "Song" honors a woman singing while she cleans an airport restroom, in a voice "thin and sweet and a little blue,/like the first spurts of a new mother's milk." She describes a gymnast in "Young Girl at the Olympics" as "Like a salmon leaping upstream to spawn,/Her sleek body unfurls/ Impeccably through the absence/Of matter." But what I found most compelling and at the same time haunting in Luterman's collection, See How We Almost Fly, was her compassion, her sense of longing, and her unflinching honesty that resonated throughout the poems.
From Nancy's Bookshelf
As
for literary journals, I’m making my way through a few, currently catching up on
back issues of Rattle and Ploughshares, and reading the latest issues
of Ruminate and Michigan Quarterly. Here
are a couple of favorite poems from issue #37 of Rattle: “Property,”
by Ace Bogess and “Honeysuckle”
by Lyn Lifshin.
