When my first book was about to come out, I remember coming to understand there was some puffy critical notion out there of “the first book” against which I would have to contend. I don’t think it’s a codified thing, but it felt like it was something known by people who fashioned themselves as in the know. One such voice was Jordan Davis, who edits poetry reviews for The Nation and writes for “The Constant Critic.” He has said he prefers not to talk about first books of poems and that he follows Publishers Weekly in this. He has gotten more specific about his reasons on occasion. In his positive review of Elizabeth Bradfield’s Interpretive Work, he avers: “I usually have a hard time getting past … self-consciousness when it turns up in the work of a new writer” and goes on to address some other cardinal new-writer sins, including “go-to rhetoric” (meaning familiar logical/syntactical constructions), “ekphrasis,” and “threes” (again, a problem of predictability). Stephen Burt, another prominent critic of my generation (most memorable to me for his late-90s mulling of an “Elliptical School”), unsurprisingly identifies first books with the pitfalls of “period style.” Boiling period style down to its conceptual kernel ends up feeling pretty unenlightening, unfortunately. This isn’t a theory or a critical position so much as an expression of distaste for predictable gestures. Maybe dude poets of my generation were especially allergic to the very trends we were simultaneously obsessed with identifying and consuming. Or, maybe we were ourselves novices, products of some sort of workshop culture — if not THE workshop — terrified to death of not knowing better. Insecurity hates insecurity, and as yet another dude poet of my generation, Joel Brower, has said, “first books of poems are sometimes, understandably insecure, and cluck like starved pullets dying for love.” A pullet is a young hen. I think people who go around pejoratively comparing things to pullets may be protesting too much …
This is all said by way of getting to talk about Amaranth Borsuk’s first book, Handiwork. I’d prefer not to try making sweeping pronouncements about the way it transcends the limitations inherent to every “first book” or to a “period style.” Honestly, I don’t know if it does or not. And here’s another kink in the tangle of the first-book-review-as-serious-endeavor: how should one go about critiquing something emergent? Without a body of prior work for context, we can either frame our approach in terms of some broader cultural lens or we can set up a “first book” straw man (or straw pullet) and push off against that. The former seems hard. That latter seems lame. I find myself doing a little bit of both. Sorry.
Something about the formalism in Handiwork reminds me of the formalism in my own first book, which makes me think Borsuk isn’t totally transcending the limitations of the prototypical first book. How productive is this measurement? Not very. Part of what I want to say is that my subjective response to this book is one of personal recognition: it feels close and familiar to me. Part of what’s familiar is the reliance on form, something I think some might dismiss as a beginner’s gambit. I don’t read for weaknesses, however. I read for strengths. Form can function as a security blanket, and it can produce disasters. It can also be powerful and weird, something that takes a writer into and through (rather than around) insecurities. I reread Harmonium a few weeks before Handiwork arrived in my mailbox. That was a good first book and one big on form, and I find surprising correlations between that old growth hardwood and this sapling. Form is present in Borsuk’s work in service rather than at expense of heart; Handiwork is full of warmth and vitality. If you read no further, know that I think this book is the real thing: poetry happening in our time, and that is what we should expect of all books — first, or four-fifths-of-second, or whatever.
There is real energy here in the “Salt Gematria,” which spans the book and makes a deep place for itself prosodically and notionally. This series is unquestionably the book’s skeletal core. And it’s a remarkable one. I can easily imagine a chapbook with this series as its whole production. The series plays a necessary role in the context of Handiwork, stitching together the other (generally wonderful) poems that make up the collection’s soft tissue. Gematria is a Talmudic/Kabbalistic numerological practice that stresses mystical relationships between the building blocks of language and of the world and cosmos. In Handiwork, gematria works as part of a procedural poetic method, and its mixed engagement with contemporary experimental and ethno-traditional engagements obliges at least passing comparison with Jerome Rothenberg’s auto-ethnopoetic work (which includes copious gematria). In the case of both writers, sacred/devotional tradition is reinscribed as avant-garde strategy in a way that opens new, often radically new, territory while maintaining reverence for the sophistication of tradition.
The interplay between the sparse, formally constrained gematria work in Handiwork and its more free, individually titled lyrics pulls one through the book appealingly. Keeping perspective on what is afoot demands special effort from the reader. I would say there is ultimately a tension in Handiwork between two poetic/aesthetic approaches, which leads to a powerful feeling of variety but sometimes feels a bit pyrotechnic. Borsuk can make language do lots of remarkable things. That I can’t help thinking of Stevens may be mostly my own anecdotal problem. But it isn’t entirely so. Handiwork is not “Stevensian” in the predictable sense, meaning you won’t find much loopy sonic play or Platonic sermonizing here (though there’s some, and why not, of the former: “Boat, boa, bowie, buoy, beau”). Borsuk manages to do what Stevens does best. She knits the objective and the abstract together in genuinely moving ways. Ultimately, this is probably better described as a Stevens-via-New York school strain in the work. At the same time, Borsuk is tapping into historical/cultural/ritual bedrock, which is a fairly un–New York school move. As Borsuk’s notes indicate, Handiwork is haunted and informed by her grandmother Rena Berliner’s unpublished, autobiographical stories. While it isn’t clear which of the last century’s events Berliner actually witnessed, it is clear that the ecstasies and distresses of a real historical person are fully engaged through Borsuk’s “translation” (“feeling’s supple / tackle, by which we are seemingly / caught and, later, released”). Twining this historical material with gematria’s ethno-formal resonances draws Handiwork even further from Stevensian/New York school tonal detachment and towards an organic grit I associate with Black Mountain and its descendants (Rothenberg, Gary Snyder, Brenda Hillman).
Fittingly, the pitiful, orphaned hand is an important leitmotif across most of the lyric lyrics in Handiwork. It is delicately bound to “the salt” of gematria, and it keeps signaling the reader back to the material, embodied situation. Handiwork in this circumstance is a constant tension between bodily intensity and metaphysical extremity. The hand, which is ostensibly the most nuanced of native human tools (opposable thumbs, etc.), blunders along in Borsuk’s world, “blindfolded,” or it simply disappears, as in “Show of Hands,” from which all hands have been conspicuously excised. In Handiwork, one senses the inadequacy of human agency, of handed-ness, but in the midst of this deprecation one also finds an elemental esteem, “something to grope for.” I think these antitheses accomplish an impressive culmination in the haunting “Two Rams and Goat with Torso and Sheaves of Wheat,” which surges with oracular tones while simultaneously hovering in an indeterminate space, generated by the conditional mood of all its lines:
if your hands are separated from your body by a blast, a glance,
or their own volition
if your hands are asked to tell everything they know
if your right hand survives each disaster knowing it’s lost its left
if your wrists ache with spectral longing for their hands
if your hands are masked and beaten with branches and wild fern
Here we are encouraged to consider metamorphic possibilities for our hands (some more unexpected or unlikely than others) in a broader situation of considering other metamorphic possibilities for flower, fire, fruit, food, a ram, a boy … “Two Rams and Goat with Torso and Sheaves of Wheat” may be an ontological argument and it may be an existential argument. It definitely pits certainties and doubts against each other (especially certainties and doubts about being a human creature in the stream of history above), not in quite the shape any poets I’ve mentioned above could offer. As a brief poetics in it its own right, this poem is a metonym for the claim Handiwork and Borsuk herself are staking, however early with respect to “career.” All of it is vital and important, traditional up to the point of being very new.
1. Jordan Davis, review of Famous Americans by Loren Goodman, The Constant Critic, May 8, 2003.
2. Davis, review of Interpretive Work by Elizabeth Bradfield, The Constant Critic, March 28, 2008.
3. For the “Elliptical School,” see Stephen Burt, “The Elliptical Poets,” American Letters & Commentary, no. 11, and his review of Smokes, by Susan Wheeler, Boston Review 23, no. 3 (1998). For discussion of “period style,” see “New Poets on the Block,” review of The Body, by Jenny Boully; A Carnage in the Lovetrees, by Richard Greenfield; A Defense of Poetry, by Gabriel Gudding; Very Far North, by Timothy Murphy; Distance from Birth, by Tracy Philpot; Brief Moral History in Blue, by Beth Roberts; Worth, by Robyn Schiff; The Reservoir, by Donna Stonecipher; and American Linden, by Matthew Zapruder, Boston Review 28, no. 2 (April/May 2003).
4. Joel Brower, “Five Books,” review of Selected Poems, by Mary Ruefle; Effacement, by Elizabeth Arnold; Strange Land, by Todd Hearon; Tocqueville, by Khaled Mattawa; and Break the Glass, by Jean Valentine, Poetry, February 2011.
A review of Chad Sweeney’s ‘Wolf’s Milk’
Wolf’s Milk: The Lost Notebooks of Juan Sweeney, translated by Chad Sweeney, begins with an epigraph by the mythic Juan Sweeney himself: “The letter before A is silence.” This epigraph is having pure fun with form while it issues a grave statement about the nature of creation — like the poems of this collection. This book of translations of Juan Sweeney’s writings — which Chad Sweeney reportedly discovered “on shreds of paper in the walls of Sweeney Castle in Oklahoma, where I was born and where Sweeney de las Minas de Cobre presumably passed away, though his body soon disappeared from the family crypt” — is an ingenious project about the relationship between the act of translation and the lyric persona.
Who was Juan Sweeney? Wolf’s Milk provides us with some information about him, which we immediately take to be tongue in cheek: he “loved cheese and whiskey,” he was “a direct descendent of the pagan king Sweeney the Mad,” and he was so loyal that he “regularly visited all seventeen of his grandmothers, and you should too.”
Juan Sweeney, as the persona of these poems, allows us to meander through numerous locales inside and outside of time: Spain, Dublin, one of Shahrazad’s stories, Bolivia. As an object, this book is also — well — witty. Nate Pritts’s blurb on the back cover reads, “When I was a child, my aunt would read the poems of Juan Sweeney to me in Spanish from a scroll that seemed to disintegrate in her hands.” The poems of Wolf’s Milk are framed playfully, and as readers, we are supposed to carry this with us as we view them, with “Juan Sweeney’s” Spanish verses on the left side of the page and Chad Sweeney’s translations on the right. Yet, Wolf's Milk is not a game about the concept of translation. Instead, this book, comprised of fifty-five numbered but unnamed poems, absolutely demands to be read with all of the nuances of a lyric collection.
Poem 20, which contains the “wolf’s milk” image of this collection’s title, resonates with a quiet beauty, its imagery presented to us in a mythic mode:
The wolves let me ride them
and muzzle their ears with my chin.
They’ve taught me it’s wolf’s milk
silvers the clover and poplar leaves
at night. They’ve clothed me in
their smell, and given me
a name which cannot be translated,
so I guard them while they sleep.
It is important to note that the wolves have both “clothed” the speaker inside “their smell” (a disguise as well as a moment of transformation) and anoint the speaker with “a name which cannot be translated.” The second poem of the collection also speaks to a refusal of translation. It begins, “It’s too easy to accuse God / of infanticide” and ends with “When you translate this / don’t translate this.” The poems of Wolf’s Milk, which at first seem to present a project of translation, ultimately become self-reflexive: a voice is caught in an impossible sort of present where it knows it is being translated. In the original Spanish version, the “translated” voice must have already been expressing itself at such a moment of crisis, anticipating the hunt for origins (or, even authenticity) that the project of translation invites.
Wolf’s Milk presents us with a beautiful paradox. Through the art of translation, we receive an art of persona. Even so, these poems delightfully comment on and obscure the possibility of even searching for the essence of “Juan Sweeney”: as original ancestor, or, author. In a recent interview, Chad Sweeney says that “The speech act is an attempt to cheat death by climbing back into the womb where form and emptiness are not separate.” The translations of Wolf’s Milk seek to climb back into such a space, “where form and emptiness are not separate,” and acknowledge that this yearning is, by its very nature, a challenge to the lyric utterance itself.
We must also remember that the lyric persona is already a translation of sorts, a translation that yields a version of self from — and in — the voice of another. Wolf’s Milk takes itself so seriously in its playful dynamic between the mysterious ancestral poet and the very real translator (who says, “Admittedly, I do not like his poetry much”) because it is making a smart statement about the inaccessibility of the origins of one’s own stories.
Consider how the speaker of poem 23 views “autobiography”:
I stood like a tree and
fluttered when the wind blew.
Woodpeckers watched me carefully
in case I was planning an attack.
I was planning an attack.
The womb was my first house.
Its garden was the world.
Claiming agency over the autobiographical is an attempt that is as willed as an “attack.” Yet, Wolf’s Milk begins with the theme of inaccessible origins fairly neutrally. The first poem of the collection begins with a tone of admission more than anything else:
At least my lies are honest.
Night goes tuning its guitars,
tossing its magnolias into disarray,
and spinning a rough wool
from the last stanzas of dusk.
Notice how the evening sky is derived from poetry itself: the “last stanzas of dusk” signals the end of night via a formal description of the end of a poem. It is important to note that not only is translation itself a vital theme for Wolf’s Milk, but so is creation (poetic and cosmic), as in poem 21, where “The cosmos is a baby / blinking at its reflection.”
But what does it mean for the speaker — the mythic Juan Sweeney, “the most mysterious and influential Spanish/Irish poet to have ever lived” — to take “a name which cannot be translated,” in the words of poem 20, so that “no poet may trap them / into his verses”? It is important to remember that the very first line of this collection of poems is “At least my lies are honest.” One must consider the way in which a persona can be a kind of “honest” lie.
A persona poem, a really good one, reads as a real voice — even while it is a fiction. And Wolf’s Milk, though comprised of fifty-five poems, tempts us to read them as a kind of giant poem — issued by a single, giant personality. In this light, the collection’s epigraph, “The letter before A is silence,” becomes especially important. For a collection of translations so concerned with issues of making and remaking (voice, past, poem), this epigraph invites us to consider the impossible question about what exists prior to world creation (an overarching concern that has haunted thinkers as far back as St. Augustine in his Confessions). But “The letter before A is silence” also asks us to think about what a collection is, via a moment prior to the first enactment of the lyric voice in the collection, as well as how such a collection is made and what it represents.
And so, “At least my lies are honest,” Wolf’s Milk begins. What constitutes the beginning of the body of a work belonging to a lost (or, in this case, made-to-be-lost) person? Such a question begs us to think about the authority of the lyric voice as a creative voice. How does the immediately present text interact with its prior text, the poem prior to translation? How does translation itself invite persona into a new version? Are all translations personas, of a sort, masking the voice of the new author? Wolf’s Milk answers these questions by charming its way out of them — and by charm I mean delight, as well as the kind of transformation that belongs to the realm of magic — thus fulfilling its own important, grave, and beautiful project.
On Paige Ackerson-Kiely
Paige Ackerson-Kiely’s poetry resides in no one’s land, in the heartland of John Keats’s negative capability. In Book About a Candle Burning in a Shed, Ackerson-Kiely makes a bittersweet home there.
This chapbook — a collection of twenty-two prose poems that follow the case of a drowned girl through the eyes of an aloof detective — is filled with lyric possibility, crime fiction, love, loss, solar tetherball, identity questioning, heavy doses of negation, and bleak-as-hell small-city-America depictions. This list, I would bet a Sizzler dinner, covers the thematic footprint; however, it is the poetic nucleus of this genre-bending creation — the proverbial pole to the tetherball’s centrifugal force — that I hope to highlight here.
Central to the chapbook’s intrigue is what’s missing: in its pages we find as much absence as populace. “I like the photos of missing children tacked up on the grocery store bulletin boards,” explains the narrator, the aforementioned small-town gumshoe (12). While his job is, ostensibly, to solve the case (and thus resolve what is absent, mysterious), such observations lean more towards the poetic than the evidential: “If you have any information please contact. I’m trying to focus on the distinctive way the carts are strewn over the parking lot, a plastic bag aloft over rows of old trucks, the beautiful woman, dark hair across her face, starting a van.” In the speaker’s aesthetic eye, the grocery store parking lot becomes a repository for the orphaned, the lost — people and objects absent from some prettier life elsewhere.
In this way, Ackerson-Kiely reaffirms how poetic possibility operates in a sphere opposite certitude, opposite positive information and narrative closure. Such is the central idea of negative capability: the ability to reside in uncertainty, to write within and of a world too complex to be easily resolved or reduced. And what’s brilliant about Ackerson-Kiely’s generic monster is how it sets up detective fiction against lyric poetry to create a tension between the narrative pursuit of information and the aesthetic blur of lyricism.
This tension between aesthetics and narrative gets worked out in a number of ways, the most pervasive being the bewitching presence of eros within mystery. The fifth of the untitled prose poems begins: “The thing about being wanted for a crime is that they want you, even when they don’t know who you are” (5). As though stuck on the idea of a “person of interest,” the speaker moves uncannily back and forth between murder suspects and potential spouses. Finally, thinking about “someone you’d better not,” the kind of person “you’d never marry,” he comes to a terra incognita where domestic bliss becomes his own unsolved crime.
The strange relationship between love and homicide begins in the first poem of the collection, as the detective conflates the dead girl with his ex-girlfriend. The entwining of physical death and failed relationship leads to a melancholic poetry stuffed with abject beauty. The ever-absent “girl” (both victim and ex) is consistently evoked by the gritty reality surrounding the detective, but because of “her” absence, she quickly shades into an imagined, aesthetic realm. For instance, as a result of the victim’s unknown identity, “They called her C. in the reports,” which the detective recognizes as “A good place to start a major scale” (4). Here, missing or negated information leads to aesthetic representation. Consider, too: “My girlfriend broke her leg some years ago. Had to sit on the toilet while I washed up and down her back with a sponge. Each knob of her spine I could not turn to open that little unhappy door, let it out, let it look in the mirror mouthing: enough, already” (6). Again, the frustration of narrative development becomes a platform from which to launch the poetic.
The entangling of different narrative threads leads to another facet of negative capability — a breakdown of identity that in turn allows for sympathetic identification. To conflate murder and breakup not only encourages the detective to find similarities between the drowned girl and his ex-girlfriend; it also encourages him to identify with (or as?) the murderer: “Mad about her death, about her leaving for another life. They are closer everyday to extradition, and I wonder after last supper, when all is said and done. I’d ask not to taste a thing, but for her delivered unto me in live flesh” (18). The metaphoric link between detective and murderer leads to narrative complication, certainly. But it also affords the speaker with other means for understanding himself and his relationship to the world, which is a necessity given the speaker’s realization that “I could not understand my loneliness, the shape of what I was looking at” (8).
The blurring of the speaker’s identity points, inevitably, to a lack of it. He acknowledges his shifty significance, noting “how my face is a room to be occupied” (16). Rather than a firm subject for study, the detective is rather akin to the aforementioned parking lot — a reservoir for feelings that don’t fit neatly into the narratives of daily lives. Non-traditionally, this detective is unable to solve mysteries and instead acknowledges the ill-fitting fragments of the world. Such is the case when a hotel clerk looks at him “with all the books at her bedside flashing in her eyes, words and feelings like obscure designer gowns she had no place to wear” (9). At times, it is difficult not to see the speaker/detective as a place for Ackerson-Kiely to wear the metaphors that don’t fit elsewhere. Indeed, because of its highly poetic language, the author’s presence is never fully occluded by the diegetical world of the chapbook.
Yet it might be more accurate (and productive) to see the speaker as a personification of that desire to be someone different, that need to mean something else, because meaning ourselves has proven unbearable. Such is an all too tragic (and too common, I imagine) human experience, and Ackerson-Kiely slips these moments into the mouth of her speaker: “I wanted to be something else, the kind of thing that needed tending. New model pick-up an old friend washed every Sunday afternoon, by hand, then drove far away” (13). Apropos of small-town narratives, locals here never get loose of the tragedies that surround them. Even when the businesses leave one by one, and only the storefronts remain like so many vacant faces, the speaker is left to wonder (as we all are) how life will continue amidst nothingness, to wonder who will care. Such is the plight and beauty of Ackerson-Kiely’s detective-poet, which is perhaps most evident when he momentarily dwells in the old shed where the drowned girl had resided. Barely interested in the random objects the shed contains, the speaker notes: “The single window looked out over a meadow swaying importantly. There was nothing to see but I saw it all, humming tunelessly to let anyone, anyone at all, know I was there” (4).
1. Readers interested in a brief rundown of Keats’ theory might consider Maria Popova’s article “John Keats on ‘Negative Capability,’ Embracing Uncertainty, and Celebrating the Mysterious” on the Brian pickings website. For more in-depth discussion, W. J. Bate’s Negative Capability: On the Intuitive Approach in Keats, first published in 1939, continues to be a touchstone for critical discussions of Keats’s theory of living amidst uncertainty; see Negative Capability: On the Intuitive Approach in Keats, ed. Maura Del Serra (Contra Mundum Press, 2012).
2. The chapbook is not paginated, so I have suggested page numbers starting with the first prose poem. Each poem appears on a single page with no pages between. Thus, there are twenty-two poems across twenty-two pages.
Paul Pines begins Divine Madness, his remarkable new volume of poetry, with an epigraph from Plato’s Phaedrus: “if any man come to the gates of poetry without the madness of the Muses, persuaded that skill alone will make him a good poet, then shall he and his works of sanity with him be brought to naught by the poetry of madness. …” Thinking about the title, many readers will also be reminded of Emily Dickinson’s “Much Madness is divinest Sense — / To a discerning Eye —” For Plato, as for the ancient world in general, poetic skill is never sufficient; divine inspiration, or madness, must bring the poetic act to completion. But for Dickinson, living at a time and in a culture where such inspiration was more suspect, the poet possessed of this “divinest sense” risked being seen as dangerous, to be “handled with a Chain —” This volatile dialectic of sense (or sanity) and madness is at the center of Pines’s poetry: not only does it determine the act of writing and the poem’s coming into form, but it is also to be regarded as fundamental to the way in which we think about the world. Thus, in the first poem, we find:
encrypting our sleep
like Puritans sniffing out
messages born again
and again from the rubble
of our assumptions
what we listen for
as if decoding
of a diamond (5)
Such is the task of the poet and his readers: in the modern “rubble / of our assumptions,” we listen and decode the messages inspired by divine madness. The poem is both the message and its interpretation.
Pines’s metonymic reference to the Puritans “sniffing out / God’s fingerprints” proves to be an emblem for his entire enterprise here. The book is filled with figures of seekers and interpreters who, in the course of their quests, challenge the equilibrium of the world around them and find themselves variously cloaked in the mantle of prophecy. As Pines declares early in the book in a poem about Thomas Paine, “we never know what to do / with one who appears from nowhere / to change our hearts” (7). This introduces a crucial theme that will be reiterated throughout the book in various historical, theological, and mythic registers. Divine Madness thus may be read as a serial poem. Allusions, archetypes, historical references, and verbal patterns resonate with each other, gathering force and meaning as the work unfolds. The book consists of forty-seven poems, numbered sequentially and divided into three sections. Each poem is no more than a page or two long. The lines are short, clipped, restrained, set into variously indented stanzas: a projective style but intensely measured, as if the poet is testing each verse as it is inscribed. If this is divine madness, it is being suffered and heeded with the utmost care.
Pines’s fascination with explorers, revolutionaries, and visionaries in nearly all fields of human endeavor — among the figures he invokes (in no particular order) are Columbus, Giordano Bruno, Audubon, Heisenberg, Einstein, and Hermes Trismegistus — may be understood in relation to his view of our struggle for knowledge of both the natural and supernatural orders. This becomes increasingly clear as the book progresses, and is articulated directly in poem 42, quoted here in its entirety:
We create our world
but hide the knowledge of it
it is meant
whispered by the Absent One
who holds us together
veiled by cloud
the living water
of an uncharted land
in his madness
Pines’s trope for divinity throughout much of the work is “the Absent One,” who appears in this instance as a power of unity and division, finitude and infinitude. In the hands of the Absent One, we know and we remain ignorant, hiding our knowledge and creativity from ourselves. In uncharted territory, Columbus suffers a kind of “madness,” believing himself to have discovered Eden. In this regard, all of us are like this paradigmatic explorer in our search for self-knowledge, mistaking our very real discoveries for a mythic Eden to which we may never return.
The Absent One is the God who hides in the “cloud / of unknowing” (Pines refers here to the medieval mystical tract that posits that we cannot attain the hidden God through mere knowledge or intellection) — but the Absent One is also, more simply, the absent human father. In one beautiful poem, Telemachus longing for the lost Odysseus is reinvented as a boy
on a bicycle
hugging his radio
through the late autumn streets
of a mill town
in search of
an absent father
the son of a man
in search of himself
both of them wanderers
in the male mystery (26)
This “male mystery” — the question of masculinity, of how to be a man, a father, a son, and by extension, of how men are to treat women — serves as a psychological and social counterpoint to the philosophical and hermetical explorations that preoccupy most of the poems in this volume. When these concerns come together, the resulting poetry becomes especially profound:
What men enshrine in women
is their own pleasure
what seems homage
to those who
mistaking their impact
Men worship in the pink church
of their beloved’s nipples
which they set above
what they need to know
that makes sense
of impotence (36)
The “impotence” to which Pines refers is not (or not only) sexual impotence, but the impotence of (male) intelligence in its quest to penetrate both psychological and spiritual mysteries. Pines himself ranges far and wide in this quest; his allusions testify to the way that intelligence propels itself forward throughout history, continually meeting, and sometimes transcending, the boundaries of our unknowing. Thus we encounter
who tried to ingest
make his mind
a pyramid reaching all the way
at the stake
before achieving the fixed stars (44)
Yet having invoked this saint of intellectual freedom, the poet immediately follows by noting that
of the every-day heart
its coagulatio et separatio
punch a clock
drive kids to school
support the weight
of a routine
in which it’s impossible
to understand an emotion
without destroying it (44)
These lines are close to the heart — the “every-day heart” — of Pines’s vision. To accept one’s mundane responsibilities and remain fully in touch with one’s capacity to feel is a challenge every bit as great as the alchemist’s search for the philosopher’s stone. There is a wonderful intimacy in many of these poems, emerging from Pines’s desire “to understand an emotion / without destroying it.” Despite the occasional references to various hermetic traditions, Divine Madness is not an esoteric book. There are many moments here when I am reminded of the lucidity and directness that one associates with the Objectivists, especially Williams, and perhaps to an even greater extent, Oppen, as in these thoughtfully rendered lines:
that they heal us
on deaf ears
to hear them
in our dreams
in the arms
terror of our fear (38)
As a practicing psychotherapist, Pines certainly understands the ways in which we may “ask / our children’s / blessing” and “require / that they heal us”; likewise, it makes sense that he would stress the attention we must pay to our words as they “whisper // in our dreams.” And it is at this point that we come to one of the most important aspects of Divine Madness. The spiritual experiences to which Pines alludes throughout this volume have their roots in the ecstatic performances of the shaman. In his essay on shamanism in Structural Anthropology, Claude Levi-Strauss observes how a shaman treats a patient: “The shaman provides the sick woman with a language, by means of which unexpressed, and otherwise inexpressible, psychic states can be immediately expressed. … In this respect, the shamanistic cure lies on the borderline between our contemporary physical medicine and such psychological therapies as psychoanalysis. Its originality stems from the application to an organic condition of a method related to psychotherapy.” Yet as is well known, shamanic performance is also closely linked to the origins of poetry. As Mircea Eliade notes in Shamanism, “The purest poetic act seems to re-create language from an inner experience that, like the ecstasy or the religious inspiration of ‘primitives,’ reveals the essence of things.” The shaman, the therapist, and the poet all recreate language so that we may again have words for what ails us, and thereby seek a cure. What strikes me as particularly admirable about Pines’s poetry is that his words attain this condition while maintaining the utmost clarity and the most poised lyricism. At age seventy-two, Pines has distilled a lifetime of reading, thinking, caring, and writing into Divine Madness. It is indeed divinest sense.
A review of ‘I Was There for Your Somniloquy’
The ocean is a place of the fantastic and bizarre, a world full of creatures so different from our terrestrial designs they might as well be from another planet. Rightfully, then, the ocean is also a metaphor for the unconscious, that unseen place off the map of ourselves where the old cartographers would write “where monsters lie.” Occasionally these monsters pull down a boat or two, and sailing gently through our lives, we may come across the resultant flotsam and jetsam of some disaster below our consciousness that we can only piece together from its wreckage.
Like our globe, Kelli Anne Noftle’s book, I Was There for Your Somniloquy, is seventy percent ocean. The poems are submersibles which give us a glimpse of an alien world. It is not the cold, descriptive view of the scientist, but more the view of the visitor to an aquarium who can only see the creatures in the tanks through her own reflection in the glass.
In the first section of the book, Noftle uses the mating habits of the sea slug, tape worm, and other sea creatures as tropes to throw light upon subjects of romance and personal attraction, subjects that from a distance can seem as odd and many-legged as the strangest cephalopod. She pairs each poem with an actual scientific description of the creature; the poem precedes the description. For example, in “Penis Fencing” the note from a scientific text describes how hermaphroditic flatworms mate. Each tries to pierce each other’s skin with its penis. The loser of the battle must carry the young. Or as Noftle puts it poetically, “One of us must waste our lives caring for the sting” (18).
The scientific descriptions contain the tropes which are deftly applied to personal relationships. Some hardly need a poem to feel poetic, for example, in the poem “Mating Chain,” where this note on sea slugs is ripe for comparison:
When three or more sea slugs mate in unison, the first animal in the chain acts exclusively as female, the last as male, and the others as male/female simultaneously. (15)
The poems don’t just settle for riffing on the obvious comparison but move beyond, complicating and veering in new directions. She concludes the poem: “I twist and steer each tentacle, / tying knots against the stillness. This one to symbolize love and the other, / savagery. I’m learning the subtlety, braiding between them.” Indeed, the oddness of sea creatures is their amorphous nature, the braiding together of what we consider separate — male and female, body and limb. And the pleasure in these poems is that Noftle blurs the edges of separate subjects, showing just such a precise, strange, and creative braiding.
In the second section of the book, the speakers or subjects in the poems are sailors on the ocean of the unconscious — sleepwalkers. What we see is not what is underwater, but what has surfaced. One character pours milk into the litter box; one becomes a more tender and affectionate lover in his sleep; one (a true story) kills his wife in his sleep; and one drinks wine from a flower vase. The characters stage a play in one world when the script is in the next. The book actively muses on this bridge between the two worlds in “Ars Poetica”:
In a house I am following myself
one mirror after another
not only myself
but also in relation to. (52)
The sleepwalker is the actor of where the conscious and unconscious person touch. It is not only the conscious and unconscious, but the brain also sits at odds: “The Right Side / of the brain brims with hyperbole, the left side sits cold as a Petri dish” (51). There is disconnection, each side illuminating the other, but much is lost in the process as well, and some things happen almost without us, or as Noftle writes: “Sometimes one hand will not stop touching the other” (37).
Other poems in the collection explore the ways our actions surface from the deep through different tropes. In one series, an artist finds certain colors intruding in her paintings: “I started using white. I put it in every picture […] That’s why I started dumping all my pigments into a bucket of white” (53). The colors are thrust from the deep, as are wreckage and remains of past mistakes, which Noftle explores through the metaphor of auto accidents. In “Parts for Whole” the speaker wanders around a junkyard:
from the wreckage — that I would slip
it on, imagine she lost it before
a missed kiss, mistake, to say
an accident happened here
and what ruined skin you have, paint chipped, bruised. (44)
If the subject is the wreckage or intrusion, the act is a piecing back together. A whole picture might not emerge from this scattering, but at least “The paint thickens as you reach the center” (58).
In the end, a description only of the tropes and themes of the book doesn’t do justice to their effect. The project of the book is larger. The comparisons evoke a real and genuine sympathy. Their goal is to get dangerously close to the nature of being a divided creature. They leave one with that uncanny feeling one gets sometimes, for no reason, when sitting at a stop light or opening the refrigerator, of just how unlikely we are. And that is the real pleasure of this book, not just the shadowy subject of our motives, but how they drive us to be.