Poetry Reviews
By Grace Cavalieri
NOVEMBER 2016 EXEMPLARS
By Grace
Cavalieri
Four Reincarnations
by Max Ritvo.
Milkweed Editions.76 pages.
Mandatory Evacuation
by Peter Makuck.
Boa Editions. 95 pages.
The Persistence of Longing
by Lynne Knight.
Terrapin Books. 84 pages.
Johnny Cash, Forever Words:
the unknown poems,
edited by Paul Muldoon.
blue rider press. 132 pages
The Good Dark
by Annie Guthrie.
Tupelo Press. 53 pages.
Commotion Of The Birds
by John Ashbery.
Harper Collins/ecco. 96 pages.
ANYBODY
by Ari Banias.
W.W. Norton.92 pages.
Woman In A Blue Robe
by Yoko Danno.
Isobar Press, Tokyo Japan. 58 pages.
BEST COLLECTED POEMS
Almost Complete Poems
by Stanley Moss.
Seven Stories Press. 570 pages.
BEST ANTHOLOGY
Still
Life With Poem,
edited by Jehanne Dubrow
and Lindsay Lusby.
Literary House Press. 135 pages
Best Translation
Russia’s World Traveler Poet:
Eight Collections by Nikolay Gumilev(1886-1921.)
Translated by Martin
Bidney.361 pages.
Most Surprising Volume
Whipstitches
by Randi Ward.
MadHat Press.106 pages.
Four Reincarnations
by Max Ritvo.
Milkweed Editions.76 pages.
In August 2016 poet Max Ritvo died of a cancer he endured since his childhood.
In each page, you are next to him while his creative intellect changes crisis;
until the imperative of the poems fasten to your heart. I read the book, with
deep feeling, before knowing of Ritvo’s death and the grief feels the same.
Ritvo raises the temperature of poetry with his boldness—he changes procedure to
prophecy; and turns the improbable to reality. Not enough can be said of the
style and mastery of this young man who makes reading exactly what you want it
to be – pages that do not get in the way – a truthful trajectory of
impermanence. His six-page “acknowledgments,” at the close of the book, is a
love letter to the world.
Plush Bunny
My poor little
future,
you could
practically fit in a shoe-box
like the one I kept
peshul bunny in
when I decided I
was too old to sleep with her.
I’d put a lid on
the box every night.
I knew she couldn’t
breathe—she was stuffed,
but I thought she’d
like the dark, the quiet.
She had eyes, I
could see them.
They were two
stiches. My future eyes,
for a while.
Then my future has stitches,
like peshul’s.
Then cool cotton, like her guts.
Of course there is
another world. But it is not
elsewhere.
The eye traps it so
where heaven should be
you see shadows.
You start to reek.
That’s you moving
on.
+++++++++++++++
Mandatory Evacuation
by Peter Makuck.
Boa Editions. 95 pages.
“That’s it/the.
That’s it/ Everything you need / is beginning to find you.”
(Apres Le Deluge, or
How To Return)
Makuck writes as if the world is a sacred ground worth recording into poetry.
His work respects nature and relationships; and if these were the last words
left in his heart he could be proud. In Buddhism, the path is said to be, among
other, things right speech, right
action; and we could complete the precepts by saying
right art because if you follow the
thread through all the systems in this complex tapestry of people places things,
the guiding thread is a merciful conversation. Only a poet deeply mindful could
capture sequences, memories and emotions with such optical precision.
Now
A wrong turn in a new town.
An old neighborhood, azaleas and purple plum.
Warm afternoon.
Stuck behind a school bus with flashing lights.
You’re late, but relax.
Something worthwhile might arrive.
Lower the window.
An orange meniscus lifting in the east.
No bad.
A young woman
waits at the side of the street with folded
arms.
A small boy
jumps off the bus, his red backpack
flickering in the tree shadows.
He runs to his mom, and grabs her hand
years ago—your son, your wife.
The cars behind you begin to beep.
Wisteria sweetens the ripening light.
That wrong turn now seems right.
++++++++++++
The Persistence of Longing
by Lynne Knight.
Terrapin Books. 84 pages.
Not since Sharon Olds’ Stag’s Leap
has there been such a stellar book of poems written about the end of a marriage.
These poems are deeply marked by life and cover the emotional alphabet of
betrayal, rejection, hope, despair, with the greatest gift of all – the
creativity to survive by writing. This is bright art about a dark time –from the
end of a relationship to the beginning of the book one can only imagine the
internal mood music. I know it took Olds 25 years to produce her chronicle; and
Knight’s ability to touch another’s life through these poems is a testimony to
an artist’s work without deception; and serves to help poetry’s reputation in
the world. Every poem is tailored differently. Knight knows her craft and uses
clarity to fence in tumult. Each page is a delightful escalation of good
writing; and the marvel is that this comes from a poet who knows who she is,
through everything, and has the courage to share her gifts of discovery.
The Silence of
Women
Finally, the
silence of women began to disappear.
It crumbled
like old bread.
It evaporated
like steam from broccoli.
It rose like
the scent of turmeric from kitchens.
It mixed in
with birdsong.
It flew over
rivers and oceans.
It settled in
prairies, it poured out like water
trapped in
leaves.
The silence was
one language.
All the women
on earth spoke it:
They had
mastered the tongue.
But it vanished
in the sound of vacuum cleaners.
It lifted like
smoke from chimneys.
In winter, it
covered the snow. It was white,
then,
so at first no
one noticed.
More snow, they thought
longing for
spring. When spring came,
the silence
burst into cherry blossoms, plum blossoms, apple.
This world of ours! the women cried.
And their
stories rushed out like breath
held almost too
long—
++++++++++
Johnny
Cash, Forever Words: the unknown poems,
edited by Paul Muldoon.
blue rider press. 132 pages
We all know American icon Johnny Cash as musician and performer—we shouldn’t be
surprised—but who knew he wrote poetry? Poet Paul Muldoon edited the book and
the forward is written by John Carter Cash (son).
A winning addition to this volume is the replica of poems in Cash's own
handwriting, with corrections, and deletions. It’s a human element that one
wouldn’t expect to be so moving, but it has a great emotional effect. There are
as many harmonies in his poems as in his songs and also red zones of sex, women
and reconciliations reminiscent of our best blues artists. Love, lust, luck sums
it up – travel and country living. These poems can also be seen as meta-lyrics
for the recurrence of sound, rhyme and bridges. The theme of
don’t know where I’m going but no I’m
going to get there pervades, whether about his ideals, marriage or his art.
The X factor is Cash’s surprising disdain for fame, and the
poem “Don’t Make A Movie About Me”
is emotionally graphic. Editor Muldoon does a terrific job linking Cash to even
T.S. Eliot and Scotch Irish folk songs. This gives the necessary ballast to the
bold, raw and striking poetry of the man America still loves.
Body on Body
1980s
You wonder how
(where) true love goes
No one can
say—cause nobody knows
Like rain on a
rock—life a leaf in the air
No way to tell
but it’s going somewhere.
You wonder
what—true love knows
No one can
say—cause nobody knows
It don’t make
sense—like a midnight sun
And one and
one—is only one.
Heart on
heart—and soul on soul
Body on body is
how it goes
Heart on heart
and soul on soul
Body on body—is
all it knows.
++++++++++++
The Good Dark
by Annie Guthrie.
Tupelo Press. 53 pages.
“Sometimes shadows become articulate” says Annie Guthrie (chorus.)
Her mysterious book satisfies our hunger for the enigmatic and the divine. “the
gossip” is a phrase that comes up often; and Dan Beachy-Quick, in the foreword,
explains “… There is nature, and there is God, and there is the gossip between
them that the human ear eavesdrops upon…” A perfect way to understand all that
Guthrie hides in plain sight. Her brief and nicely spaced poems give us an
occasion to think, to compound our interest, in what is seen and heard, but more
– the stillness and flow vibrating between. This book is thankfully not a
compilation of poems with complete pictures. It is more a reflection of the
contours of thought. The technique is the art here, and the art is the
technique.’
*The
gossip
she dreamed she was swimming out to sea,
curtain of black water, glistening,
forearms of waves heaving her further out—
let’s go back in!
she called, scared,
waved to shelve her self in:
Just remember to feed the
family!
Life is putting on shows!
I have to pull the curtains.
++++++++++++
Commotion of the Birds
by John Ashbery.
Harper Collins/ecco. 96 pages.
I think I first read John Ashbery about 1960. I remember the chair I was sitting
in at the time, which became suddenly an energy force field. I remember feeling
the electrification of finding something entirely new. Since that time Ashbery
has never disappointed us. This new collection of poems at the age of 89 would
make any young poetry Olympiad appear frail. Why is that? Other poets have given
up fear as he has; and many have tried the same style, (non sequiturs line after
line,) but there’s a thread that connects all Ashbury says, and if you read with
your brain and breathe through your eyes, the social and personal commentaries
are there— wry (an understatement)— the bulletin board of an interior life that
connects to a world seen with belief, disbelief, and humor. This new book
reboots language once again, recreating flawlessly. I can’t imagine the world
without Ashbery’s contribution.
But Seriously
Do not include
anger at the distance
it takes to get
from here to the hill of downtown
that bears the
sapphire tower.
Others than you
have made the trip, and found
little to marvel at
once the arriving was over.
Your words hold too
much meaning once
they’re released.
Save an epigram
for the jar.
Once it is lapsed
you’ll wear it like
an endorsement,
jewel that goes
nowhere.
All along the creek
where we once stood
new ball games are
being absorbed
and declassified.
Does that matter to us?
Or is it already
time to go back in?
On the Waterfront was a good movie.
Can we leave it at that?
+++++++++++++++
ANYBODY
by Ari Banias.
W.W. Norton.92 pages.
Are you the you you should be or the you you want to be or are you the you that
you must be.
These poems advance human consciousness – a hyperbolic statement, I admit – but
these thoughts of a Trans poet, go further than before into an uncharted
territory we’ve only begun to explore. Being Transgender is not about sex and
not about sociology: It’s a morality of the soul.
Anybody makes us understand this. (DOUBLE
MASTECTOMY :)
“…Glided straight toward that white
room. As if//approaching from within/ a dense wood// a place queerly brimming
gold light; / the possibility of ///the possibility of// my body.”
(STILL HERE :) “When you’re in love the world appears more beautiful is
something/ people like to say. For me the heart’s throat/ is choked. Someone
went in & scrawled a mustache/ on the upper lip, and then/ one under each eye…”
There are transfixed moments in every poem, part of the significant backdrop of
a person’s life. We know that every TV talking head uses the word “pivot.” It’s
the word of the month. Changing from
girl to boy or boy to girl is not a pivot— where thereafter, ‘now everything’s
fine; the correct sex is restored.’
This false notion is torn, via fulsome, original, fearless language. Courage and
conviction are Banias’ emotional currencies. Every poem (and some great prose
poems) construct the circumstance – self-evidence— the path to be whole and
fulfilled.
Anybody shows, and teaches, about
the future of our society, but mostly, the future of poetry. Being true to
oneself is an axiom: Living it, in this book, is poetry of the highest
excellence.
Wedding
People, far too
many people here—
drinking,
leaning on the furniture,
congratulating
my father
on his new
life. Here’s
his young wife,
young enough
to be my older
sister.
She—if you
can’t tell
the whole
truth—is nice.
But he slams
his glass
onto the table,
yells
more now than
ever. Unless
I remember
wrong. I know
I was afraid.
Of him. And so.
I know I played
alone
with dolls and
that
we roughhoused,
hard,
like brothers.
What is a father
is a question
like what
is home, or
love. In the middle of the room
guests on the
arms of the awful floral sofa
Mom wouldn’t
get up from
when she heard.
In the grey bathrobe
for a week,
horrid splotches
of pink and
purple flowers with green
for stems.
Or leaves. I can’t
look at it.
There’s something hot
behind my eyes
another glass of wine
should take
care of.
There are
people I should say hello to.
++++++++++
Woman In A Blue Robe
by Yoko Danno.
Isobar Press, Tokyo Japan. 58 pages.
Yoko Danno once told me that she wrote poetry in English because the Japanese
language was too codified for her ability to express. This English would satisfy
any Anglophile; yet there is a pacing more graceful, at its core, that speaks of
another culture. These short stories, essays, poetry, fables, folklore, share a
delicacy of language and content. I especially like 10 tiny poems – not haiku –
or maybe some form of haiku – that together are titled “Squid
Ink.” Here:
“one of a thousand
flowery goldfish, / fluttering in a huge LED–lit glass bowl, /my voice silently
rising as tiny bubbles.”
And here’s another:
“cups and glasses
not wrapped, /clothes still hanging in the wardrobe, /bundles of goods for
removal on the floor – /stop falling
sakura,
I’m not yet ready
to depart.”
Each entry is different in tone – some are wry; others,
whimsical—fragments of humanness caught on the wing as if they existed before,
and will go on after; and we just catch a
thought in the middle. Yoko Danno is
known internationally for her “Scrolls,” working in collaboration with poet
James Taylor –each contributing to the same piece, taking turns by the
paragraph.
Woman in a Blue Robe is all hers.
A regalia of introspections that does what all writers hope for – creating
without precedent, every line reinforcing the narrative— stereography— writing
without persuasion, calculation or manipulation. This writer’s spirit is on the
page.
Tea Ceremony
House
The way to your
destination
is not simple -
after getting off
the train at
the suburban station,
cross the
railroad to the opposite
side, walk
along the street flanked
with
prefabricated modern houses,
turn into a
narrow bypath a car can
barely pass
through; a wooden mansion,
generations
old, looms ahead - the main
gate that once
admitted noblemen on
horseback is
fastened now with a bar.
Inside the wall
by way of the side door,
tips of rock
islands rise above the sea
of white
pebbles mixed with fallen
flower petals -
watered stone steps
lead you to the
tea ceremony house,
where a weeping
cherry tree in full
blossom awaits
you - a swift shadow
of a huge bird
passes across the empty
pool – before
the spring storm hits you,
please drink
this peaceful tea
++++++++++++++++
BEST COLLECTED POEMS
Almost Complete Poems
by Stanley Moss.
Seven Stories Press. 570 pages.
Legacy
is an important word in poetry; and Stanley Moss could be its synonym. His
publishing house has been a flagship for quality poetry for years; and the scale
of his own poetry is in every human register. Moss, in his 91st year
is at the leading edge of the poetry world, and don’t we each hope for such an
energetic response to a life-long craft. Each poem retools reality with a
ranging knowledge of art, literature, and human conduct. Through Moss’s
telescope a rich personality sees the world through many years. On this earth,
with its turbulent times of wrongdoing, how fine it will be to have this good
book at your side.
A Metaphoric Trap
Sprung
Poets, step
carefully, your foot, eye, ear, love
may be caught in a
metaphoric trap,
like the bear’s
severed foot.
Crying out or
laughing is no use,
the only release is
writing it off.
You don’t escape
fatally wounded,
you can’t lick the
blood away.
Learning languages
helps—take work,
whose Chinese
character includes a hand.
Too heartbroken to
talk?
Every muse has
eight sisters.
Where love is
or has been—words,
words spoken while
making love
become flesh.
++++++++++++
BEST ANTHOLOGY
Still Life With Poem,
edited by Jehanne Dubrow
and Lindsay Lusby.
Literary House Press. 135 pages.
Editor Dubrow explains that her anthology started with conversations on Facebook
– snapshots of pets… people’s lunches… birthday cakes…
She goes on to say that, to her, a poem is also
“life stilled; And so instead of having poets write from paintings ( i.e.
William Carlos Williams Pictures from
Bruegel), poets were asked to construct their own still life and use that
for a poem. This is distilling
poetry to its essence because “the image” reveals how poets
see as well as how they write.
So, awakened from silence, approximately
135 prominent poets (who could certainly be counted on for quality work) were
invited to submit. What strikes me most, along with its originality, is the
book’s startling expressions. I can say that this book is the cutting edge of
what’s being written today. Curious readers sometimes ask me where to go to see
the newest poetics— I point them to
American Poetry Review, a fine example. Now I’ll also recommend
Still Life With Poem. These are some
of the most forward-looking poets writing today, exercising imagination freely,
in forms that rotate reality and illusion with stunning technique.
Melting Snow
with Half-Eaten Christmas Wreath
and What the
Deer Have Left Behind
Enough of winter;
of ice and salt pellets,
of Yankee potlucks,
of Gore-texed friends dropping
by—“Come skiing
with us, do!” Do
you even know me?
On legs like number two
pencils, the deer
have starved for months. I scat-
tered kitchen stems
and peels, feeding them waste,
even the wreath of
pine, the season’s leavings.
The melt reveals
wire rings, turds
of glue, a nibbled
ribbon. The yard’s dirt
exposed at last, I
see from my kitchen stool
what else is
left of winter, and banish it.
by Juliana Gray
++++++++++++++++++++
Best Translation
Russia’s
World Traveler Poet: Eight Collections by Nikolay Gumilev(1886-1921).
Translated by Martin
Bidney. 361 pages.
We wouldn’t be able to read this all at once. It’s a rich diet, but a poem a day
is a good thing to acquaint ourselves with someone little known to American
readers. This is the fourteenth poetry book by Bidney, plus his other
publications. It’s an extreme form of excellence to establish an exchange rate
between poets from different cultures. If this poet, Gumilev’s known by Russian
school children, shouldn’t we at least be grateful for the introduction?
Translators are the heroes of what is called
the impossible art.
254.
Young Elephant
My love for
you’s an elephant, just that.
A young one,
born in Paris, or Berlin:
He’ll
gallivant, with paddled feet and flat,
In zoo
attendant-rooms and raise a din.
Don’t give him
rolls or any French cuisine:
A cabbage-head
to him is not a treat—
He’ll gladly
try a slice of tangerine,
Or sugar cubes,
or candy, something sweet.
Don’t weep, my
darling, that in narrow cage
He’s mocked and
troubled by the chuckling crowd—
Cigar smoke up
his trunk—as if his rage
Might charm the
milliners, who laugh out loud.
Don’t think, my
dear, that soon will come the day
When, truly
angry, he will break his chain
And run and,
like a bus that broke away,
Ram down the
people, make them wail in pain.
Envision him
instead in early dawn,
Brocaded,
ostrich-feathered, far from home,
Like that
Resplendent One who, stately, calm,
Bore Hannibal
to face a trembling Rome.
++++++++++++
Most Surprising Volume
Whipstitches
by Randi Ward.
MadHat Press.106 pages.
Each page is a poem (4 to 6 lines) which purports the literal with keen
observation— as clear-eyed as a child’s vision— and there’s the charm. Mostly
hopeful, largely skillful, always easy to warm to, these are forensic fragments
of a poet’s eye.
Home
Dancing
Through barbed
wire
Just so I can
feel
These fields
Remember my
feet.
_________
Grace Cavalieri founded, and still produces, “The Poet and the Poem” for public
radio, now celebrating 39 years on-air, and now recorded at The Library of
Congress. Her latest book is “WITH” (Somondoco Press, 2016.)
All reprinted from the Washington Independent Review of Books.