Elizabeth Cantwell’s poems defy the poet’s task of producing art. That is not to say the poems do not qualify as art; quite to the contrary. They are filled with subversion and dangerously figurative language. They approach beauty not through its representation but against its representation. “And I Picked It Up and Held It” varies on this theme: the speaker undoes everything introduced. Watching Hoarders becomes not the typical spectacle reality television offers: scores of voyeurs/viewers watching how consumerism and what Marx called “the fetish of the commodity” put people into a symbiotic relationship with needless possessions, disallowing them the impulse to just get rid of junk. Cantwell’s speaker not only understands this fetish, but seeks to bed with it by declaring: “I think there is a betrayal / in abandoning a thing.” Betrayal, of course, is the deepest circle in Hell, but what do we ever make of our own moral barometers when our lives are polluted with the need to consume, to possess, and own useless things that we inevitably “betray” by ridding ourselves of them because of their obsolescence?
In this series of letters and poems by Garth Graeper, one could return to the discussion of the relationship of William and Dorothy Wordsworth and specifically of William's poems circumscribing Dorothy out of his lyric, Romantic visions. One could discuss Graeper's own circumscription, calling for Dorothy to enter his lyric circle and ostensibly leaving William out in the cold. But as we read these letters and lyric poems, what we realize is that Graeper himself is not the one setting the boundaries of circumscription. Rather, it is Dorothy who has drawn the circle and Graeper who is wandering (writing) within that line: "Dorothy, I hope you will see these poems as a longing and as a record of kinship. I have always had trouble keeping myself in my writing, but your journals changed something. After walking away again and again from dismembered texts, I find myself still carrying your words with me, below the surface, like flashes of memory." We could look at this acknowledgment and say Hey, let's return to William, let's look and see how he writes within the world Dorothy delimits! But why return agency in this process to William? Haven't, for the moment at least, we said enough about him and his poems? Instead, Graeper asks us to consider Dorothy as the high point of inspiration, as the end point of the English Romantic creation: "Isn’t that what we want? A stranger, more splendid world."
To call something—anything—an explanation is to explain. Let me explain: I’m sitting on the roof of a new city tonight, looking over the water at this glittering and impressive skyline. I make out the different shapes, but I’m not familiar enough with the city to know what any one of them contains. I cannot explain them, but I could sketch a drawing if you asked. This week’s poems by Jackson Wills are architectural. Their math is visible, their forms accumulated and layered upon each other like some great cityscape. The words which take the shape of their containers remain, nonetheless, uncontained; “the field of apples / is filled with things not exactly apples.” A word may never mean the same thing twice, its sound (reading aloud is a must) endlessly reinvented with practice, wear, repetition. If I call this explanation, let it be explanation. Thus is the logic of Wills’ poems this week. Form—the sonnet, the tortuous patterning, rhyme, and repetition—imposes itself as an explanation for chaos inside. This poet has built structures upon which we may gaze and be moved. But where to, and for what, the poet leaves to us.
Dina Hardy's "Folklore" explores the geology of our collective consciousness. God and Satan, Adam and Eve, Cain and the moon: these subjects are both ancient and immediate, typical and individual. I imagine Eve in the first poem of this selection (already we're at page 2,651). She has partaken of one fruit but not the other, the knowledge of good and evil and also of her mortality awakening desire. In this folklore, Eve is only innocent insofar as she still seeks a period before the "wreck," before compromise and frustration and, of course, the transgressions that desire brings. As Hardy's pagination suggests, such searches are ultimately futile: to desire is to already invite calamity.
I think of end times often. It’s difficult to live in New Orleans and not: the roads have man-sized potholes that puppies and toddlers disappear into with startlingly regularity, teenagers with baseball bats randomly attack bicyclists on the main drag, and every three to six months, there’s no potable water—someone fell asleep at the pump. It’s usually after my third glass of water and second shower that I hear the alert on the radio. A little too late but I always end up fine. When discussing the bicycle attacks, a friend says that’s why he rides faster and doesn’t stop at lights. The children and puppies, well, leashes. The answers to our apocalypse are simple ones. Although said tongue to cheek, there’s truth in sarcasm. This week’s selection from Darren Jackson would find itself well at home here. Jackson knows that darkness does come, but that’s ok. Our ferryman through the swamp, Jackson balances his gallows-humor with sincerity, and he’s going to guide you through the end just fine. We may not all make it out alive but at least we’ll have a good laugh.
These prose poems by Chris Kennedy come from a place of terror and beauty. Their speaker is both depraved and deprived; he indulges the companies of the flesh and makes due with little. In doing so, these prose poems reflect our contradictory natures, our failure to reason when instincts are clearly failing us. The title of this series alone elicits this; they are “Love poem[s] for people who hate themselves.” In an America that is internationally embroiled in wars against faceless enemies (be they against drugs or terror), Kennedy’s vignettes focus on the war within, where the stakes are much larger and the payoffs are far more beautiful and tragic.
In "Tulare," the third poem below, Julia Bloch writes: "Too much space between the objects." In "Fourth Walk," the second poem, Bloch writes: "Because she wrote it down and it was used as evidence." In "Right Ovary, Left Ovary," the first poem, Bloch writes: "Some of / the jars were labelled S / and some of the jars were labelled W." In "Strathmore," the final poem, Bloch writes: "it is a punctuation device." In all of these poems, the idea of the object comes to the fore. In the form of these poems, the statements, lines, and words are presented as objects for consideration. The poem is itself an object, and the pieces that make up the poem are also objects. In the content, the object-ness of things is considered—fertility and pregnancy, Dan Flavin's art, herbs in a glass jar, the thoughts and experiences generated on a walk, a small county in central California, ice, a small town of less than three thousand in Tulare County, lights, wives, seatbelts, and bodies. Bloch's poems remind us that words both are things and refer to things and, in that space between, the poem emerges, becomes evidence—is made to be seen.
These selections from Toby Altman come at a time when I am nose-deep in a book about ventriloquism. In the first chapter, the author explains that the world of sound is often much more disorienting than the world of sight. Sounds emerge and dissipate, reflect and echo. Sounds are notoriously more difficult to locate for the human ear than landscapes are for the human eye. It is this quality of disorientation, or perhaps, aporia, that Altman hopes to achieve in these poems. For Altman, the avant-garde at this moment in history threatens to become predictable, an academic exercise of formerly radical techniques. To break out of this predicament, Altman proposes a kind of "rescue," discovering in materials diverse as verse plays and Petrarchan sonnets a poetry that hopes to achieve a kind of "placeless" effect, an aporia that at once liberates and frustrates traditional and avant-garde aesthetics.
In the old song, “Lydia the Tattooed Lady” could give you a tour of the world and a history lesson to boot with the pictures inked across her body. In Meryl DePasquale’s riff off the old Groucho Marx ditty, the tattooed lady gives us an historical tour through the world of tattooed ladies—their innerworkings and the ways in which they are perceived. There’s nothing surprising among the stories of women’s bodies as consumable or as for sale, but through the lens of the inherently sexual, penetrative and proprietary nature of tattoos, DePasquale’s tales disrupt our familiarity with these stories. As readers, we step up to the sideshow tent and look deep inside.