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Public Poetry, Kevin Walzer's meditations on poetry, publishing, business, and other creative pursuits
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Kevin Walzer, a poet, poetry publisher, husband, and father.
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Mon, 16 Apr 2007
Book of the Day: The Dreamer Who Counted the Dead by Robin Chapman
What I admire most about The Dreamer Who Counted the Dead by Robin Chapman is Chapman's careful, patient exploration of the intersections between memory and history. Her understated lyrics methodically unfold these intersections,these connections, until a deeper insight dawns upon the reader.
Consider this aptly titled poem:
Let’s Imagine Each Room Is an Entire World
This
one, for example,
The anonymous drapes and spreads,
Dust-streaked windows
Overlooking the heating vents—
Each
of us amazed
To find it holds the other;
Haven’t we
slow-danced
To the big bands of the ’thirties
As the city
sirens
Cried the blocks?
In childhood it was enough
To throw
a blanket
Over the cardtable
And pull the flap
Slowly
aside to enter
On hands and knees
Another kingdom,
While outside
The wind howled, rain beat,
Or the sun shone,
pitiless
On the endless sand dunes—
And we alone, in
those
Vast rooms, arranged
Our imaginary friends.
Stepping through its images, line by line, the poem does indeed create "an entire world" in a single room. This fine poem is characteristic of Chapman's work.
Book of the Day: Tahirih Unveiled by Julia Older
Julia Older's Tahirih Unveiled is a compelling narrative collection, one that approaches a novel in verse: it is a character study, developed in lyric poems, of Tahirih.
Here is a sample poem:
Tahirih
In this small room waiting for death
my childhood returns, child bride
of nine bearing babes, one a year
grabbed from my arms by female servants.
They would have me sew pearls on velvet
and send for the sorceress to read my fortune.
They would have me carve fruit and look
with downcast eyes into the pool in the garden.
They would have me live in great silence
behind a piece of cloth, my mouth stained
by pomegranate and the kisses of a strange man
who shared my bed in the fragrance of jasmine.
Who asked me to give a body grown devout
and then no longer asked, but took.
I was born to throw off the chador,
to question the Mullahs on their superstition
even when my father, himself a priest,
sided with the fitting of the Word
to worldly custom. But I, who they call
Qurratu'l-'Ayn, Consolation of the Eyes,
grew beyond my father's protestation.
I go to Allah in white,
joyous and hopeful. I go
to love anointed while my murderer,
a cord in his unclean hands,
rushes to the Shah's bidding--
the Shah who once pierced these kohl-lined eyes
and pleased his fancy with a comely face.
How well I knew his Majesty's persuasion.
He said: "I like her looks so let her be."
He tried to dissuade me and yet--
it was my duty to announce the Bab.
One might as well ask
the nightingale not to sing.
I was born to serve
the New Teacher and show my sisters
that we are equal.
With their multiplicty of perspective and voices, these poems draw me in, and immerse me in the fascinating life of this woman.
Book of the Day: Amigo Warefare by Eric Gamalinda
Eric Gamalinda's Amigo Warfare is a powerful, emotional collection about connecting with other human beings, about transcending our individual isolation to enter the larger world of community and fellowship. I found it invigorating and enlightening from beginnning to end.
A good example is this poem:
DMZ
At the end of my life I must stagger back to love,
my body a weight I am sick of carrying,
my pockets filled with intricate maps
and useless strategies.
I ask forgiveness of everyone who loved me
—you have been grievously misled.
I cash my name in, such a useful thing
—let’s hope someone else has more luck with it.
I return the suit I borrowed,
promises I couldn’t mend,
the happiness just one more quarter-inch
within my reach—loose change
still good for a pauper’s meal.
I surrender my history
and all memory, its ammunition.
The nameless claim me. Exiles
offer me a home. Who else sees me
as I truly am, just another vehicle
transporting so much fuel?
I light my anger like a pile of twigs.
I do this in the desert: it scares away
anything that will devour me.
I do this in the city, where the jackhammer
cracks the cranium of the earth, and nothing
can save me. I lose myself
among the restless immigrants,
their bodies still warm
from the lust and gunfire of slums.
Grief is a nation of everyone,
a country without borders.
I roam the avenues of it
out of habit. Summoned to testify
on everyone’s behalf, I’m sticking
to my story. It’s better not to talk
about the wounded, or the moist remains
of the disappeared. But there’s always one
who can tell, in the packed
amplitude of crowds.
We are so many bodies, my friends.
We all move in the same direction.
As though someone had a plan.
"Grief is a nation of everyone,/a country without borders." Those lines pierce to the heart of the matter. Powerful, powerful work.