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Tue, 15 May 2007
Book of the Day: House of Bone by Shelia Black
I'm very fond of poetry that delves deeply into the connections between human and natural experience--poetry that touches both stones and bones, if you will. Thus, when I first read Shelia Black's book House of Bone in manuscript form, I was intrigued. And her work did not disappoint.
Lyrically rich, brimming with mystery, this poem is a fine example of Black's work:
Playing Dead
Begin by imagining
a failure of will,
the boundaries of the body erased
like lines on a chalkboard.
You might picture the usual things:
night sky, waveless sea,
the greeny depths
which plummet to pure dark
or something as small
as a single square inch
of soil, packed with rotted
leaf, root scrap, cracked
shell, the molted wing
of a specked moth, a handful
of sand, a handful of dust;
it all comes to much the same.
It is the absence of conscious
motion that takes getting used to,
no sound but the slow
settling, the ripening of decay:
burst liquid, gelid light.
The old story of how stars
are born of frozen dust
and radiance
from this house of bone.
Stars, dust, radiance, light: what is more elemental, more fundamental, than this? The dark music and sharp images of Black's work resonate.
Book of the Day: The Matter of the Casket by Thom Ward
Thom Ward's The Matter of the Casket is a collection best described as vigorous: Ward ranges over a wide range of subjects, both dark and light, exploring them with a distinctive sense of brio. These prose poems have many effects on the reader, but boredom is not one of them.
Consider this macabre poem:
Nuclear Family
I was happy as Hemingway's bartender. Probably because I didn't know my old man from a seal. Hounded by megaloidophobia, he sequestered himself in our vegetable garden, a place far from big ideas. That's when my mother jammed her green thumb up his ass, metaphorically speaking, I think. Probably because she could and he wouldn't misconstrue it for general relativity or the quadratic equation. Sis continued to smear carrot mush across her face, the high chair's silver mouth, each of us an open system, the biosphere closed. Meanwhile, I dreamt of having a dog that didn't eat or need a walk. Of course, this was years ago, only my perspective, and sometimes it's difficult to see the barrel for the butt end of the gun.
At once dark and comic, "Nuclear Family" is characteristic of Ward's powerful technique in The Matter of the Casket. I don't always know quite how to read prose poetry, but Ward's poems exert an powerful pull on me, page after page.
Book of the Day: A is for Anne by Penelope Schott
A is for Anne by Penelope Schott is a powerful imaginging of the life of Anne Hutchinson, who defied the Puritan leadership of Colonial America to proclaim God's word as a dissident. Schott's poetry is equal to her important subject, and memorably depicts Hutchinson's life and times through a collage of voices, images, and narratives.
"My Two Primers" captures a small snippet of Hutchinson's experience, and Schott's technique:
My Two Primers
In the Dame School we have just one,
the Holy Scriptures, but here at home,
I have two books to read: Scripture
and Papa's Trial.
He likes to help me
point by point as I sound out his words.
We see the bishops are very naughty
but Papa is very wise. Sometimes
when he tricks the Bishop, we laugh,
sometimes out loud, or in our hearts.
I like how Papa can be funny, also
I like how he is always right. Christ
likes us smart as well as good.
Yes,
I do try to be good. I'm mostly good
at being smart.
Well done.
Book of the Day: The Third Body by Jeff Knorr
What I admire the most about Jeff Knorr's The Third Body is its quiet, its silences. Knorr is not afaraid to sketch a scene in the sparest of manners, yet his understated fluency opens up great depths of awareness and insight.
This poem is a fine example of his technique:
Under a Brick Orange Moon
I've never been much good with stars.
But I search tonight
this dark sky pulling itself west.
I look for Orion's belt you showed me years ago,
for the bear, because I call our son Osito,
and hope that across this canyon of night
our eyes might turn in the same direction,
reflect, become a moment of gravitational love.
This field of stars winnows across the sky,
leaps forward under clouds like wild horses.
In an instant I feel you,
a ripple rising from deep, slow water, and we meet
under the low branches of our cherry tree
shifting against this autumn night.
Reading "Under a Brick Orange Moon," I am allowed to simply live in the moment, to experience and revere the night sky as Knorr does. This is what lyric poetry does best, and Knorr is an unusually skillful practicioner of this craft.
Book of the Day: Odyssea by C.J. Sage
I love seeing traditional poetic narratives re-cast in a new light. That's why we eagerly accepted C.J. Sage's Odyssea: in breezy terza rima, it updates the ancient tale of The Odyssey from a female point of view. Sage creates a complete world within this book-length poetic sequence, and it is both entertaining and memorable.
Here's an excerpt that gives some flavor of Sage at work:
The Song & Dance
of Odyssea's Advocate
The women blared the stereo; the bass
blew out the speakers. Into the ear
of Justina, Tilly flirted: "Whose face
is yours, why do you come, from where?
And how? By plane? By ship, then? Surely
you did not swim to Hawaii. Been here
before, have you? And our pearly
shores beckoned you back? Never
have I met someone so burly,
and yet you seem familiar. Clever
as I am, I'm at a loss, I think!"
Tipsy, she wasn't feigning. However
wilting at times, here she'd sink
lower, pressing her head to his shoulder:
"Be a gentleman. Tell me your link
to this neighborhood." Justina would hold her
tongue and tell the cover story:
"My name is Mark. I come from a colder
climate, the northmost state, glorious!--
though without your wide green pastures.
I sailed here on the word of a hoary
fellow captain; he says your mother's
come home. But it seems she's delayed?
No, she wasn't killed . . . . She'd crashed her
ship on some island, betrayed
by the sea and her wit. She couldn't swim,
weak from the wreck--but I think she relays,
now, for home. The gossip
is grim:
savages held her captive--wild-haired,
naked savages--they tied her limbs
to trees . . . but don't
worry. She's dared
an escape, so much for her family she cares."
Sage's verse is at once colloquial and rhythmic, remaining true to the propulsive force of terza rima without alienating the modern ear. Odyssea is a strong accomplishment of both narrative and verse craft.