A review of Jenny Boully's 'not merely because of the unknown that was stalking towards them'
You’ve gone and forgotten all about your muffins, and you’ll now make
excuses and say well then they were only make-believe, but we all know
better: a fire and smoke that’s been here for days and days. (35)
Jenny Boully’s reading of J. M. Barrie’s Peter and Wendy (1911) prompts us to ask if we had known in childhood that the lure of childhood would not cease to woo, would we have understood what the lure was then? Have adults always been afraid to wait in a place they do not yet know? The back cover of this fiction/poetry collection advertises a “dark re-visioning” of Peter and Wendy’s story, though more it offers perspective on what the fairy tale ruins in Wendy and how the slippery perma-innocent Peter conquers his foe. No victory trumps forgetting, if one is remembered.
If the propagators of Barrie’s story are enamored with the naïf, the originating text is as grown and grim as they come: “That is all we are, lookers-on,” he writes, “Nobody really wanted us. So let us watch and say jaggy things, in the hope that some of them will hurt.” The “we” here refers to a first person narrator the author inserts among the children to defend his portrayal of their mother, Mrs. Darling, as a finicky domestic with “no proper spirit.” “I despise her,” the writer-narrator admits. Boully’s keen commentary on such a text is clearly justified: the cycle of the book and its metaphor require a recurrence of wedded cherubs to fall from girlhood into marriage, dowry for doury. Wendy follows in her mother’s footsteps, as her daughter Jane too joins Peter, and in time her daughter Margaret will play his nursemaid and chef, “and thus it will go on, so long as children are gay and innocent and heartless” (242).
“Heartless” is a wry description of children and Barrie thus closing the novel calls attention to it. “Each day I cut a bit of sunflower,” Boully writes, “and take it. Home. Will Peter notice these?” (65). Does any child notice what is done for him? If gratitude is learned by loss, Peter’s poor memory cancels even the gesture of Tinkerbell to save his life. He not only forgets that she risked her own by swallowing poison Hook meant for him; he forgets her entirely. Boully calls such character into question and with it that long-standing love affair with youth, a flight one takes before learning how to stop (53). The parallel final word in Boully’s text is “outgrown,” as in hollow cradles under a moon swelled “so full” with the light of loss (65). The bough bent with big babies snaps when one has done with the idealization of never growing up.
“I will give you a thimble so that you will know the weight of my heart,” Boully’s second paragraph states: “A thimble may protect against pricks” (1). The hearts of the Darling children are as unguarded as that window Peter flies in to rifle them with dust. not merely contributes so rich a reading to Barrie’s text it should be assigned as a prep course for adolescents loosing the anemones inside their chests and a refresher course for fortysomethings who have forgotten the point.
The pull between freedom and time is a complicated one, and Boully holds in her form the two birds of this paradox by alternating arcs throughout the text. The first begins with an untitled section that converses with the novel via such reflexive statements as:
that is the story he will tell you … Oh Wendy … He will come to you
in the darkest part of night when you are sleeping and play upon
his pipes until you stir. (1–2)
Hip to the jig and rippling with innuendo, this thread is interrupted regularly by “The Home Under Ground,” named for the cavern Peter and the Lost Boys keep in Neverland. The structure mirrors the lock and lush of these asynchronous worlds: Peter’s game of pretend is made real not by the heart that darts away but the one that lands. Poor steady bird is a Never bird, wooed to follow nest and all.
“See Wendy,” Boully explains the paradigm: most want to have their cake and eat it too. Not Peter. He found an escape hatch in the clause — dispossession: “he doesn’t want to have the cake; he wants to eat it.” (46). Held “cake gets old; gets old” like Wendy and her “old lady” panties and Tink with her skeleton leaves, both of which Peter out flies, abandons, drops. Is the only way to “beat the game,” Boully asks, to play dead? (46, 20). How is it that Peter lives? He becomes Godotlike, as anticipation of his entrance kindles hope and Byronesque as he taunts that “it is not so difficult to die” to all that bloody mediocre life.
“Pan, who and what art thou?” Hook asks, and Peter calls back “I’m youth, I’m joy, I’m a little bird that has broken out of the egg,” but his lines are “nonsense,” Barrie’s narrator interjects, except as “proof … that Peter did not know in the least who or what he was, which is the very pinnacle of good form” (208).
Barrie’s male protagonists are preoccupied with form, good and bad. The sloppiness, for instance, that causes Peter to take Hook’s suggestion in midair and kick instead of stab him, allows Hook to meet his defeat in peace. If men are but players on a stage, these two measure themselves like fencers by tallying the points of their performance. The rules of form and Peter’s moral caliber in relation to it are defined by Barrie in the chapter “The Mermaid’s Lagoon.” In it, Peter and Jas. Hook meet on a rock. Not insignificantly, Barrie refers here to Peter as “the only man the Sea-Cook had feared” (127, emphasis added). The man-boy’s seriousness is evidenced when he has the chance to stab Hook, but recognizing he has the higher position, offers a hand that Hook bites. Stunned by iniquity, Peter is made “helpless” and defeated — as all children are, Barrie says, the first time they are treated unfairly. But none else recover so completely and this distinction is what makes him Pan.
Perhaps his choice seems not an option for Wendy or Tootles or Smee or Tink, but to begrudge him it is the real cause of battle — wherein enter sorrow, violence, envy, seemingly justified by the slight of his forgetting. The choice should be examined closer, coming as it does in a book appropriated for children but first marketed toward adults. In the passage that precedes it, for example, Peter achieves such high-functioning psychological effect as to mimic Hook’s voice so well Hook “felt his ego slipping from him,” thinking Peter to be himself and separate, which scares him hoarse (123). Such results, if unconsciously administered, imply a greater symbol in Peter than irresponsibility. His readiness to forget may even be an act of generosity so daring it unmans him repeatedly — to forgive. As anyone attempting to clear the slates of injustice may guess, his magic may be deserved.
Certainly his self-forgetting is exemplary. The complication enters when that forgetting encompasses others, especially the doting Wendy, toward whom Boully’s pathos appeals. The defense is long-coming. The poignancy of Wendy’s role has been sandbagged since her name was excised from the novel’s title, published in 1911 as Peter and Wendy and limelit later solely for him. Boully intercedes on Wendy’s behalf:
“Betwixt-and Between” that
“male hand … scrawling on a little girl. All over, that is.” (56)
In not merely, the tables on which attachment and freedom play are not reckoned but turn. A mother, Boully says “is someone who always contains two things” (32). not merely contains more than two, but these — that love can act in memory and it must last to be believed: “No one wants to love forever a wild thing” (52). Except Peter, who keeps prying himself free — not away from but to love. To accept such possibility is to forgive even him — “wolf one” whose death Wendy will ever-after mourn (49). But, “for now: peaches:” empathy for the wicked, courage after one — to get past wolf two and the rest of them to a place where,
there should always be more. Love involved. (49; 58)
A review of Rosmarie Waldrop's 'Driven to Abstraction'
When certain Samsas begin to clear the room, Gregor reacts: “then on the wall opposite, which was already otherwise cleared, he [Gregor] was struck by the picture of the lady muffled in so much fur and quickly crawled up to it and pressed himself to the glass … This picture at least, which was entirely hidden beneath him, was going to be removed by nobody.” Driven to Abstraction protects its pictures by asking us to sleep in the room that transformed it. Still, residual family relations (with holiday intention) lurk in a house we almost forget. “Unlike the id, the ego, through which alone pleasure becomes real, is subject to time.” Narrative is the mode that registers desire’s passage into time. Unfortunately, most works stage only one such passage in order to block transformation and preserve the present.
Worked by transformation, Driven to Abstraction subjects itself to several passages into time: and each time our time, thus reversing the genocidal passages of the “explorers” (Columbus, de Vaca, Diaz, Heidegger) who sail through the first section, towards unconcealed “nakedness”: “Whereas my father was disturbed by Being and Time, it’s in the face of uncovered nakedness Columbus issued the required proclamations” (9). Are the West Indies naked because Columbus uncovered them, or does “uncovered nakedness” precede him? If the latter, why “uncovered” and what covers them? Perhaps it is wrong to impose a timeline. As Columbus addresses the new world, so Being and Time the father, who senses in its fascist cells the desire to uncover the primordial question, “or lean forward to brace against our element, deflect its head-on force into a more general time. Where God for love of us wears clothes” (32). Clothing seems considerate, but Waldrop helps us see God’s American Apparel as condescension, subjugation, a narc’s disguise in dad clothing: in short, Semele. God’s love is not love but police supervision to a Beatles mixtape: nakedness is the condition for Dionysius’s birth, the return to death that metamorphosizes us out of present parlors into present highways: “Ulysses fights his way back to an Ithaca with four-lane highways” built to accommodate the suitors’ commute from 1999 (29).
This return to an uninhabitable center is a figure for her earlier poetry as well: from her 2006 introduction to Curves of the Apple: “I continued in the form of the prose poem which for me has come to fit Pound’s postulate of ‘a center around which, not a box within which.’” Not surprisingly, she finds similar figures at the level of the phrase: “after finishing The Reproduction of Profiles I kept being haunted by some of its phrases, like ‘all resonance grows from consent to emptiness.’ The fact that the ‘empty’ space inside a flute or violin is where the sound happens, and the uterus, a likewise ‘empty’ organ, is a locus for fertility wanted to be thought about” (xi). Circling about this empty center, she updates the text’s status from “dead // out without frenz” to “dead circuit.”
For this poem, the timeless center is not the id but an obscene question. Instead of one question preceding a well-developed single narrative or fascist ontology, we have an indeterminate multiplicity. Though these originary questions never appear, the poems and paragraphs serve them as cropped photonegatives, codetermining their outline in time rather than exhausting them or answering them. Her poetics “concerns instead excessive systems which link the different with the different, the multiple with the multiple, the fortuitous with the fortuitous, in a complex of affirmations always coextensive with the questions posed and the decisions taken.” But, again, this no more liberates the author than the reader, turning us again and again into this time, with all of its right-wing eagle paintings. However we awaken from the metamorphosis it’s always to the same room.
“Music Is an Oversimplification of the Situation We Are In” centers part 1, “Sway-Backed Powerlines (2004–2008),” but asymmetrically, as it’s the fourth of five sections. Further, the subtitle “in memory of John Cage” follows the preceding section’s (“Time Ravel”) evisceration of memory, which echoes earlier evocations of Wittgenstein: “Actual observation served to confirm what he already knew” (6). “4.01 The proposition is a picture of reality. / The proposition is a model of the reality as we think it is.” “Time Ravel” begins like this: “With the mind’s eye. We see against the light. The way we see the dead. My father reading at his desk. Read, road, door. Remains unclear how my brain chose to store this image rather than another” (29). This is the second glimpse of the father, who even in repose threatens to throw apples at anyone out the cage. Here, his book is unnamed. Piece your way back to the “choice” at the center of image-preservation and encounter only pieces and other “unclear” remains. So long as memory resigns itself to representation it suppresses the transformative forces in favor of subjective resi/stagnation, thus affirming the social processes behind the throne. Waldrop’s poetics breaks from this, forgoing representation to create distance, dissolution, the strata of abstraction. Developing any memory-negatives condemns one as a forger, arresting metamorphoses at hand. Choice necessarily distorts — refracts — but this is not the issue; rather, it’s the mode of distortion: subjective choice distorts into prison, while aleatory distortion opens bars. This figures Cage’s arrival, whose aleatory asymmetries center an aesthetic. The short list-sentence “Read, road, door” figures Cage as well, for reasons that will become clear.
Refraction is abstraction, narrative residua. Recall the earlier definition of narrative: abstraction is nothing more than the crystallized form of a thing in its passage into time. Thus the body is no more immediate than thought. In fact, insofar as the former bears the socially-sanctified mark of immediacy, the body is less present than thought, carried on its litter-box by the same representational regimes that obscure the metamorphic unconscious. Waldrop asks, “How can I remember my parents if I need to run my hands over my body to make sure it is there?” (32). “Nothing is lost in this reduction of lively colorfulness to grey discipline; in fact, everything is gained — the power of the spirit is precisely to progress from the ‘green’ immediacy of life to its ‘grey’ conceptual structure, and to reproduce in this reduced medium the essential determinations to which our immediate experience blinds us.” Poetry is just such reduced media, using different forms to foreground its continual emergence into time — that is, its abstraction, the last salt pillar on Mountasia’s back nine.
Thus her interest in geometry, present since 1987’s Reproduction of Profiles: “I had already studied mathematics, a mad kind of horizontal reasoning like a landscape that exists entirely on its own” (6). Euclidean geometry is a representational system abstracted from perceptual refraction. Its distortive problems are well-known, like realistic novels. Critiques of Euclidean geometry may seem unrelated to poetics, but not so long as the Euclidean epistemological model still imprisons emergent thought in its familial room. As “transparent” expository prose continually plays hyena to Scar’s cultural hegemony, so notions of clear and sufficient reason set the standard for education, research, and discourse. “Its essence is to perish, but not, like prose, into comprehension without residue” (54). We need something closer to the controlling forces of which we are refractions and to whose ends we project systemic abstractions, not the counter-reactions (museums) that redirect subjectivity to museic ends. “It is a geometry no longer in the service of the essential and eternal, but a geometry in the service of ‘problems’ or ‘accidents’: ablation, adjunction, projection, intersection.” Fortunately none may siphon the crystal, so they wither (winter) in bankruptcy. “It is sufficient to renounce copying problems from possible propositions, and defining the truth in terms of the possibility of finding a solution …. Moreover, there is no [thought] so long as we remain tied to Euclidean geometry: we must move to a geometry of sufficient reason, a Riemannian-type differential geometry which tends to give rise to discontinuity on the basis of continuity, or to ground solutions in the condition of the problem” (162).
In Cage’s section a “tape” runs along the bottom of the pages, further distinguishing this section from the three preceding, which have one paragraph per page. The tape — a discrete series — consists of an alphabetical list of words taken from Cage’s work: “instant instead instep instructive …” (50). Ignoring the single paragraphs at the top of the page, this series unravels on its own terms. Its divergent temporality is all the more striking because its comparative term — the single paragraph above — is itself constructed around divergence and differentiation, as discussed above. If the paragraphs diverge from narrative, exposition, description and their attendant (a)temporalities, what to make of a stagnant series arranged by alphabetic contingency? One possible source is Cage’s I–VI, the textual iteration of his 1988–1989 Norton Lectures. Prior to the introduction and the six sections, Cage includes a tercet of key terms — actually the title, which “is fifteen aspects of my work in musical composition, capitalized, strung, and blocked together.” The first line: “MethodStructureIntentionDisciplineNotationIndeterminacy” (7). Furthermore, beneath the mesostic used for the lecture (created from a “Source Text” comprised of quotations from Wittgentstein, Thoreau, etc.), Cage includes three to four lines from a question and answer seminar that succeeded the lecture, explaining that “in the nature of the use of chance operations is the belief that all answers answer all questions” (6). In the acknowledgments Waldrop lists eight books (like Brian Rotman’s Signifying Nothing: The Semiotics of Zero), one article, and one name, Ludwig Wittgenstein, as if his textual work is less important than his praxis. And what is his praxis if not a sort of interrogation through narrative? Wittgenstein’s questions are always more important than his (textual) answers, with which he was famously dissatisfied. Waldrop approaches him not through this dissatisfaction but through insistence as question.
“Almost breathless with continental drift, encumbered by radios twelve. Let us consider contemporary milk. At room temperature it sours. Unless we protect it from life by placing it in a museum. Then it is art. Which affects ear, nose, throat, tongue. And all you can do is suddenly sneeze. This observation is not profound, but against loss” (Waldrop, 49). Affective response, centered in museum or prose, is insufficient, reactive rather than reactor. To the extent normative form promotes “comprehension without residue,” it severs itself from extension/abstraction, thinking-as-immediacy. The Idea’s extension into time produces residue, compost for new-residua colonies which become thought’s extension into metaphysical axioms. Emanating from Radio Music along the bottom of the page: “multiple museum mushroom music must” (53). “Words come first from here and then from there. The situation is not linear. It is as though I am in a forest hunting for ideas” (Cage, 2). Her tribute to Cage shatters the benign image of the mushroom hunter, insisting on this as negotiation with toxicity. “This is a lecture on composition. Structure, method, form. Why do we rush along the road like magnetic tape on fire?” (48).
Divergent temporalities cancel the readings of existent political subjects, forcing them to metamorphosize into something as politically and economically unviable as poetry itself. As poems are the antithesis of existing subjectivity, they have no readers. Readers are never antithetical to society: they are that society, lacking both the ability to void it and categories to comprehend its antitheses. Complicity is meaningless as a critical category. Poetry posits readers who no longer need poetry: readers who are the antithesis of existing society have no use for antithetical objects. Poetry is an underachieving commodity because it ignores subjective limits in its search for the otherly multiple vectors that determine the self as tertiary terrarium, a lichen on a coral in a tire. Culturally intelligible representation (novels, marketing) can’t capture these forces in a way that speaks to the subject. So the inhospitable reader desires poems she can’t accommodate: this marks poetic praxis as anitpraxis, a form of displaced self-reversal which isn’t ascetic resignation to critical-historical limits but self-cancelation amidst delirious proliferation. Though antithetical to society, poetry is not reactionary. For the latter to be true, thetic society would have to be originary. But it is not primary, only forms a crust over the originary antitheses (questions) to capture antithetical vectors like an ingrown nail. Insofar as it is antithetical to objective antitheses, poetry is the double photonegative at one with the immanent abstract.
A review of 'Poetic Intention'
Édouard Glissant died on Thursday, February third, in Paris. Born in 1928 in the former French Caribbean colony of Martinique, he left for Paris in 1946 where he studied ethnography at the Musée de l’Homme and history and philosophy at the Sorbonne, introducing into critical discourse — in his dissertation on Aimé Césaire and the Negritude Movement — his idea of Creolization. He taught abroad and in America, both at LSU and then, from 1995 until his death, at the CUNY Graduate School.
Glissant began his publishing life in the 1950s, notably with his novel The Ripening in 1958, for which he won the Renaudot Prize, and this polymath’s literary and critical work numbered some forty volumes. Twice a finalist for the Nobel Prize in literature, Glissant was also a political and social activist. He was appointed by former President Jacques Chirac to organize a national museum dedicated to the history of slavery, and he was the founder of the Institute du Tout-Monde whose mission is to broaden awareness of the complexity and richness of human cultures.
Glissant was also a signatory on the important 2007 “For a Global Literature in French Manifesto” that sought to erase the categories of center and periphery, or French and Francophone, and replace this rubric with a more expansive and inclusive global category that would allow writers to express all parts of their history and language without fearing the repressive constraints of former pigeonholes. Glissant is perhaps best known for his poetics of relation (or cross-cultural poetics), and a collection of essays published by Gallimard in 1990 bears that name. Here, too, these ideas are fully in evidence.
Poetic Intention is somewhat a rattlebag in that it collects essays, many of which the translator, Nathalie Stephens, notes were written between 1953 to 1961 and appeared as “partial publications” (233) in Les lettres nouvelles and in texts of the publisher Galerie du Dragon before Seuil published the monograph in 1969. It is primarily through the poetics of relation that the idea of poetic intention — the title to one section of essays — comes into play as a critical concept.
A poetics of relation is Glissant’s theory of the possibility attendant upon a re-alignment of cultural imagination; it comes hand in hand with his critique of Western discourse’s monopolizing intents, in History, with a capital H, and the ways by which Western political agency have used their self-centered (and -serving) epistemologies to justify their often unconscionable and otherwise lazy and chauvinistic practices against the rest of the world.
This includes colonialism, and that includes colonialism in the Caribbean, a zone that Glissant says has been rendered mute to itself and its own histories: “Was not what you [Western thought] call History incomplete, not only in reach but yet in ‘understanding’? Is there not in your weary disdain for the historical a sort of affront to those who never had a history for you? The history you ignored — or didn’t make — was it not History?” (23). However instructive, this is now commonplace as a post-colonial critique of Western historiography; but Glissant, among the most hopeful thinkers, goes further.
Two figures emerge. The traveler-discoverer-poet and the mute man who himself becomes a poet. The first is not immune to all the pratfalls of the Western mind: it is not enough to go into the world, but there you must contact it. Even once the traveler-discoverer-poet leaves the comforts of home, they must also leave the comforts of mind: “[p]redictable defeat of the generous who intended to allocate himself “essentially” to the other; totalitarian constraint of the Catholic for whom the other is mingled in the commuted essence of the Whole […]” (111).
This new person, with a new consciousness, must not attempt to fold the other into an already satisfying account of the world, but rather accept the opacity of the other as the terra incognito, as a finistère (end-of-the-world), where sharing and understanding might begin: “He proves: that opacity is fundamental to unveiling; that opacity, the other’s resistance is fundamental to his knowledge; that only in opacity (the particular) does the other find himself to be knowable. Lastly, that unveiling is the very principle of the Tragic; and that opacity, submitted to unveiling, presumes slowness, accumulation, duration” (168). This figure must accept the world as relation and begin the labor of understanding.
With this new mindset, this traveler-discoverer-poet is ready for the confrontation of difference in this newly designated zone of cultural interaction. The mute man, too, must step up, announce his own history, provide his resistance; he must become a poet, and more so in his case, a communal poet, delving into the unspeaking past to root out what the land says of his own history, seeing as how his history has not been recorded in books, certainly not those of the West.
The “to-discover[er]” (15) must “enter abrupt and knowledgeable into the simple or thrashed truth of one’s materiality, knowing that that which is not destined to a relation to the other is worthless” (16). The particulars of life where you live, in your country, as experienced by you is the new objective: “The aspiration (the pretention) to the universal must be interred in the dark secret soil where each lives his relation to the other. The poetics of this shared quotidian is fastened in the succulence of your country. (As long as you display the succulence to the aspects of the other, as long as you elect it before the other and tie them together)” (16).
Both now are poets. For Glissant respects the possibility of poets in a way so sanguine that it is difficult not to think of Shelley. Only the poets, Glissant writes, have the ear to the land as they ought; only the poets (of the West) saw the totalitarian dogmas of their inherited consciousness (36). Now the poets, one from here, and the other from there, are to come together, speaking for their own countries, their own selves. The mute man turned poet speaks through Glissant: “And I listen to the voice of the Occident, the greatest politics, the deepest dogmas, the most just creators, I can hear the silence every time it comes to this future in which to share the different abysses of man. In respect to which we are similarly new, one and other, in the new injunction” (36). Now there is not a hierarchy of difference, no West-East sway to thinking; every one to every (and not all) other.
So thus a critique on universalism and on idealism: “The threatened being who ventures and plays in the drama of the world, that is our being. How impossible is the vow of totality! Necessary, and illusory. It intends to force man (the poet) to watch with lucidity, attentiveness, selectiveness, over all fronts at once. Without forgetting that all idealism erupts without fail by every breach” (111). So thus a goad toward the particular, the cultural: “[…] the relation (the road) winds, discomfited or uncertain, at the non-global, non-absolute practices sewn through space […]” (111). So thus a poetic attention/intention toward whichever island is that of your birth, toward whichever landscape: “To experience the landscape passionately. To disengage it from the indistinct, mine it, ignite it among us. To know what it signifies in us. To carry this clear knowledge to the earth” (228).
This recalibration of contact among world cultures seems salutary and hopeful. He urges thinking that seeks to de-polarize world relations between West and East, between self and other, between have and have not. But among the things that Glissant’s theory is not include two concepts that his complex thinking (worthy of dissertations more so than reviews) might be construed to support: multiculturalism, or “diversity,” as a cultural prerogative; and relativism.
The first, as indicated by the quotation marks, has become a clichéd talking point of politicians that often fails to be more than the most superficial gesture of the relational: “[…] ‘[C]ontact’ is often a lure, whose fruitful consequences might easily be foreclosed [...]” (111). Secondly, moral relativism serves as a justification for inaction; as a kind of a negative eschatology, it works backward to say that since no God exists and so no fixed moral good, then, if not exactly everything goes, then at least don’t tread on me. This is almost nihilistic. And this is also almost the exact opposite of what Glissant wants: he wants interaction; he wants a confrontation of rooted cultures, self-conscious philosophies; he does not want to replace one totalitarian system (the West) with another (moral relativism).
All of this being said, much remains unsaid. For instance, why has Nightboat, a poetry publisher, published this translation? Previous translations have been published by presses with interests in Caribbean studies, Francophone literature, and philosophy and critical theory. Nightboat, as a curator, or judge of a reading community’s interest, suggests that this book is relevant to poets today. How so?
Several possibilities exist. The most obvious would be that the volume includes essays on René Char, Victor Ségalen, Paul Valéry, Stéphane Mallarmé, Aimé Césaire, Arthur Rimbaud, Saint-John Perse, Paul Claudel, and Pierre Reverdy — poets all, some unknown to American readers.
Beyond this comes the poetry of his language. While the text features a variety of modes, from the knotted language of French critical/creative theory, to the sparseness of abstract allegory, to the directness of personal anecdote, throughout all of this his distinct poetic voice emerges, the most salient feature of which would be his accretionary style. Think of those Russian dolls — dolls within dolls. Think of a beautiful handcrafted basket made of straw — rows upon rows encircling and extending. This is a style that matches his imperative: go to the terra incognito; listen; and through the gradual incursions of understanding, build a relation.
The text also offers an analogy pertinent for contemporary American poets. The book serves not just as a means to help reinterpret historical processes (which itself would be enough) but, should you think of the Caribbean islands as poetic enclaves and the West as the mainstream force of tradition, then you have a new context in which to apply his thinking. Community as culture. How, either as a poet coming from Tradition but with a mind open to the newly relational, or as a poet coming from a historically oppressed enclave (also with a mind open to the newly relational), how both have new hope toward approaching the other. The revisionist goals of postcolonial criticism having largely been met, an invitation to multidirectional interaction appears. True, poets must speak from their own “country” and not seek to undervalue difference; but opacity, or difference, here does not suggest a lack of dialogue or interest. Glissant’s views are of beginnings — of setting out — of beginning a long, hard process. And with beginnings comes hope.
Lastly, this book is valuable in its re-insistence that the reader think and its reminder that while thinking is difficult, it is also full of joy. An idea, newly found, cannot take on its whole weight immediately but develops its depth and meaning in time and through the accretions of experience and contemplation. This book argues that a text that bears re-reading is one that doesn’t shed its fruits upon first, easy contact; rather, due to its recalcitrance and its thoughtfulness, such a text is one that takes time to find its rightful place in your mind.
With his death, perhaps now there will begin a sustained championing of his work. The odd fact that it has taken forty-one years for this book to be translated not only implicates America for its disregard but also speaks to his ideas’ broadening resonance. His ideas don’t apply just to the Caribbean or just to French literature; with the recognition of American culture’s fragmentation, his ideas of inter- or intra-cultural movement and exchange speak as ably to the dysfunctions, as well as the possible avenues to hope, we experience today.
A review of Joseph Lease's 'Testify'
A new volume by Joseph Lease is cause for celebration by the most discerning readers and writers of poetry. Testify emerges at a timely point in American history, in which verisimilitude has become the order of the day; rote mimicry retains the tinny sound of a better past; and reflex has been turned away from what collective inner feeling remains. Against this ominous backdrop emerges a book that simultaneously owns the cultural realities, while refusing their inevitability.
Lease is the master of tenderness, crafting a deeply felt synthesis that is as potent in its specificity as it is accurate in its intuitive musicality. Each word feels equally found and chosen. One senses an unprecedented level of balance in the intellect and the heart that undergird this poetry. Not only does work by Lease speak to me, it singes while it sings, it reminds me of better selves within us all, selves that reach and recover and refashion the raw bounty given us.
Joseph Lease functions as the quintessential poet. The successive versions of his poems depict continual renewal that vibrantly shows in the works as it evolves far beyond their original versions. Lease’s singular use of anaphora, the deliberate repetition of a word or phrase for a specific effect, achieves perfection as it sings or cries its musical reality in repeated chant-like fragments that become in their aggregate more whole than any more traditional construction would allow.
And this is and you are and we
are: say we are the people: we are people, the people:
say democracy: say free and responsible government, say
say democracy so polarized, say polarized, say paralyzed (22)
The fourfold structure of Testify begins with the long poem “America,” and proceeds into “Torn and Frayed,” a sequence of shorter poems that distinguish multiple symptoms of harshness that define the current state. The work then moves into a reverent and powerful prayer sequence of “Send My Roots Rain,” concluding with “Magic,” a fusion of the emergent and desired miracle posited as the optimal definition of the possible.
Rarely does a book of poetry release universal truths so skillfully and passionately by pinpointing such surprising and specific images as “There’s a fist of meat in my solar plexus / and green light in my mouth and little chips of dream flake / off my skin.” Lease carries the reader with him as he allows supreme vulnerability to be sung.
In Lease’s words, “I’m trying to make change actual, to embody change. It has to do with the lyric sequence, and feeling tone, and scene structure. You can play self-consciousness, the way you can play the violin or the cello.” As a reader, I am more than willing to be carried forward by Lease’s work, implicitly trusting where he will carry me. Embracing knowledge as responsibility is the reconstituted innocence of Testify. A heartrending trio of lines, italicized, is allowed to guide “America”:
the sin most insistently called abhorrent to God is the failure
of generosity, the neglect of widow and orphan, the oppression
of strangers and the poor, the defrauding of the laborer — (26)
Coming right out with the most accurate accusation of the greed that has been allowed to flourish as a national raison d’etre, Joseph Lease has mastered the art of selecting the harmonic that brings to life the pain of being induced into the scheme that has dissolved our collective dream. Testify becomes the act of trembling with courage to scream whispers to the hardened sky. The cap across the horror, the realization of the horror, the recognition that horror can be multiplied, and multiplies itself …
Rarely have I been so relieved to hear a person say the word “prayer” as I was in Lease’s poetry. The work instills a willingness to connect beyond limitation, in search of a full stop to the collective (t)error. The animal self-turned-narcissist, the sensory deprivation, the heart’s starvation, becomes the permanent and pure desire for touch, for release, for an inherent and everlasting music. Lease voyages to the right side of the brain where lines dissolve and the great act of “rescuing” a hypothetical democracy becomes possible again through recognition of the truth.
The chatter that fuels polarization through recitation of empty phrases like “free and responsible government,” “popular consent,” along with the projection of “Airbrushed / Gwynneth” and a host of recipes “write to your congressional representative,” further distance us both individually and collectively from the inner impulse to imagine an inherent music: “they keep showing / the real world on TV” (20).
Nature holds, primal scream holds, colors hold. Surfaces and edges hold. Just as “You / Are past the boundary now And repetition of the definition of “the sin most insistently called abhorrent to God” gathers material meaning as it continues like a snowball collecting dirt and tiny stones. In the poem “Enjoy Your Symptom,” we hear:
Really your whole stance of precious self-regard, your whole delicacy and force, is a fart at this point. No one cares. You’re just one more sensitive ice cream cone in a world of unemployable spaniels. (29)
The symptom assumes multiple forms in Lease’s work, as the poet gently, artistically splinters words across the page, depicting the constancy of desire, even as it has been warped away. In a parallel fashion, Leases uses insistent, syllabic points across to share a renewed form of reality:
Traces of snow in the
Sung moons (36)
The brain, “ready or not,” delivers an interior, monologic, pounding chant:
You’re in the rain a million miles from rain and you and you
and you and you — (41)
At the threshold of the moment, threats to the abbreviated individual immerse the psyche in its own possibility, acknowledging the bountiful arena of infinite holiness, of an unfathomable tenderness that never loses the word “vow,” the word “try.”
Authentication failed. “Dignify my renaissance.” In the
rhythm of hair and sky, in this telling so rivers and hedges
and horses, in this so hard then, so hard and free, in this
telling cradled by slow moss, breathing September. I can’t
break again. I want to give you this. Wander all day, sleep
like a dog, sleep like a wren, sleep like a fire. (“Your eyes are
made of cash and going broke.”) If I fall down or dance or
go across the road where orange leaves are spinning in a
thin gray rain. If I fall down or dance or go. (44)
Lease encompasses the division line between the specific self and the wall of community. “God won’t leave our / dreams alone” (53).
I find a singularly remarkable feature in Lease’s poetry that sets him apart from every romantically inclined writer I know. Lease can capture, depict, and bring to the forefront of consciousness the horror of human failing to be human, and without restraint transform the essential self to do what needs to be done. Consciousness becomes synonymous with responsibility.
turn toward night, speak into it: the bright invisible red
blood: you want, you need, which is it —
something tawdry, he writes behind glass, on life, on death,
cast a cold eye — passersby pass by —
the eye, O priests, is on fire, the buried life, the buried life —
shower door on grass, shower door on grass,
rain beads on jade — “you’re it” — (61)
The final section of the book, “Magic,” deliriously unfastens each of the specific figures and integers and points of understanding from its lockstep position.
branches, desire, little ifs of white spin in the bowl — (70)
Lease questions the “I,” the “me” the narcissistic spree of nonsense:
Jesus told “me” so, he gave “me” laws, he gave “me” diamond
rings, he gave “me” laws, he gave “me” nations too — (71)
And in a final moment of chanted magic, the book closes with:
pro-business policy solutions solve your child’s sleep
problems book-birds shining leaves hang fat grapes so mist
deep kiss mouthful of wind like wet peonies his head is
winter are you a worker health insurance health insurance
health step into the water and step into the road step into
the water and step into the sky health insurance greed
health insurance greed before you know it you’re lying in a
pool of blood
I hear that everywhere I go (75)
The singular, passionate, precise, and potently skilled energy revealed in Testify consists of truths that, as I repeat them in my voice, his voice, other voices, with which I can barely cope, knowing their accurate pain. This is poetry that is what it speaks. The sounds themselves attest to the power of immersion in the emergency of our culture.
If you do not buy any other poetry book this year, buy Testify by Joseph Lease. Read it aloud to anyone you love. And read it carefully, specifically, reverently, while trying to keep your voice clear (your voice will break). The breakage will be real, beyond mere sentiment; it will be the “fist of meat in [the] solar plexus” (11). You will experience word choice recovering the ingredient that found your pores. All of them.
A review of Thomas Fink's 'Yinglish Strophes 1-19'
While this is a review of a particular title, I deliberately chose a title from Chris Alexander and Kristin Gallagher’s (quite) newly formed Truck Books. The press, based in Queens, has been publishing since 2009 and has published six titles to date. This Spring 2011 they have made three publications available: Robert Fitterman’s Now We Are Friends; as well as titles by the editors — Gallagher’s We Are Here (an expanded continuation of the latter half of her experimental essay “Some Limits of Ratio; or, Aesthetic Has No Goal” from Crayon 5, Roberto Harrison and Andrew Levy’s sincerely useful journal); and Alexander’s Panda.
Interestingly hidden among the book reviews in that same issue of Crayon is a (sometimes cruelly dismissive) provocation, “Neoliberal Poetry,” by Alexander, Gallagher, and Matthias Regan that writes from the accusatory observation that poetry’s marketplace has assumed the structure of deregulatory, free-market capitalism in which community gathers and functions through competitive need, and the winners are those whose self-promotion brands a product that recognizes and fulfills a market niche. In opposition they propose a recognition and reinvocation of a history of poets’ and poetries’ activity outside the logics of capital market and the communal activities (and communities) resultingly invented.
With Truck Books, Gallagher and Alexander gesture to community before market by making attractively designed perfect-bound books accessible on a sliding scale of $5 to $25, and by offering free PDFs of each publication. I don’t know of another poetry press that so explicitly accounts for and attempts interaction with the varyingly broad individual financial states of its community of readers. I’m writing this review not only out of a very active interest in the work of the poets they are publishing, but also in support of the ethics of their endeavor. Whether this model of publishing will be sustained by the community it invites remains to be seen.
(Tangentially: is there a conscious relation between this press and David Wilk’s alternately labeled Truck Press or Truck Books of the 1970s that additionally served as an effective small press distributor?)
Thomas Fink’s Yinglish Strophes 1–19 collects in one volume the series which has been appearing in his published work since After Taxes (Marsh Hawk, 2004) and which is now extended beyond nineteen in Peace Conference (Marsh Hawk, 2011). Each of the nineteen strophes writes a syntactically interrupted and incomplete English that emerges filtered through the syntax of Yiddish. These lyrics are set to a repeated formal constraint, in which the first line of the poem isolated is followed by a three-line stanza, a five-line stanza, a three-line stanza, a four-line stanza, and then sometimes another stanza of varying length. In this repetition lies the strophiness, I suppose, and its consistency forms by contrast the continuously interruptive style of the series.
Rather than representing the Yiddish-syntaxed English of the Ashkenazi-American immigrant as a gap in the complex (and often neurotic comedic) transfer of trauma between an immigrant generation and their English-fluent offspring (think Philip Roth, Art Spiegelman, Woody Allen), Fink’s strophes perform the translative gap in the landing of Yinglish syntax as both an investigation of the speaker’s expression of immigrant experience and, in a productive simultaneity, the flexibility and concerns of the poet-descendant’s hearing.
Though only a few of the poems explicitly infer a younger, English-fluent addressee, an intergenerational relation is active in each poem, for as Fink’s writing of Yinglish syntax creates a distinctly heard voice from poem to poem, it also plays a multiplicity of meanings in the word apprehended by the writer/listener whose generational status as emerged cultural fluent arrests the syntax as a subject of investigation. This is to write that these poems are distinctly not persona poems, in the most productive way. For while they consistently write a person’s voice, they write that person through the poet’s attention to the problems of signification in language. The titles of these poems (“Yinglish Strophes¹,” “Yinglish Strophes²,” etc …), by maintaining the plural of the series title (“Strophes”) in each instance, performatively point to this collision of multiplicity and singularity in the poems.
(Note: sometimes the inversions and absences of the Yinglish syntax explicitly express ambiguities in the space between people, i.e. “Sometimes friends / grow out you or / you grow out them.” While expressing the assertion of singular identity (an outgrowing and separating from your friends), the syntax also speaks a sense that friendship and identity are inseparable multiplicities in which people are growing from the bodies of others.)
Remarkable to these poems is how the poet’s attention to the multiple significations in the inverted English syntax of the speaker — an attention marked by interruptive line breaks and punctuation, mis-punned hearings and spellings — can also reflect itself back onto the person-voice in the language, not as mockery, but as a compassionate (a compassion not rooted in nostalgia) imagining of what this language signifies about particular immigrant experiences. What is investigated is an experience of identity in repeatedly speaking an English through Yiddish
“… No more 66 years.
Still greenhorn on the mouth
that expresses a non-distinction in perceiving abstract concept and physical object:
“ … The small
of the sentence, cavity
spoiling the mouth off.”
that inverts subject and object:
“Everyone keeps when they go
to war things.”
walks a tonal ambiguity between statement and rhetorical question or exclamation:
“ … She
wouldn’t let you anybody
should help her”
“(A baby can explain
both assigns the gendered pronouns of Yiddish to objects and confuses the pronouns of English, can quickly cross the line into incomprehensibility, and must forcibly repeat the gap between the intention of saying and the said.
These investigations are often conducted through individual poems that begin with a subject integral to immigrant experience. “Yinglish Strophes²,” for example, writes the expression of adopted American nationalism in relation to Cold War politics:
Yinglish Strophes ²
Everyone keeps when they go
to war things. You remember
Miss Liberty? Russia’s a liar;
I don’t believe him. How
far are they? They’re in
Cuba. They’re slaves. And they
want to expand over the whole
world they want. Not human
people there to give human
rights anyone. I like capitalism.
As far as I remember
is a lot progress. My
dentures isn’t Republic or Democratic.
Listen, it’s just as bad
all around and no president’ll
do any better. To find
meaningful jobs the unemployed. High
cost of living what can
we do about. A great
country like this shouldn’t
have their own oil, their own
everything? I have sweet potatoes
don’t give me. Soon, soon,
soon, soon you’ll get your
The speaker here expresses her/his relation to the US and Russia as gendered and pronouned: “You remember / Miss Liberty? Russia’s a liar; / I don’t believe him” (in which I’m strangely hearing Dylan’s reply to the “Judas” screamer!); and then voices ethical concerns of communist expansion: “Not human / people there to give human // rights anyone.” The situation of the stanza break in these lines critically reflects back on the expressed refusal to view the communist subject as human, by constructing the self-justifying nature of such as refusal in the statement “to give human, rights anyone.”
(Note: by instigating the addition of absent words and punctuation to fill out the sentence, Fink uses the Yinglish syntax as an expansion of the possibilities of reading by filling absences into multiple significations.)
The speaker then voices a permissive relation to the foreign policy of her/his adopted nation (“A great / country like this shouldn’t have / their own oil, their own / everything?”) that reanimates the origins of American manifest destiny with the debt of experiencing the nation as a refuge from persecution. This sense is affirmed and identified with its relation to capital gain and comfort of material possession by pun in the last lines of the poem when the speaker interrupts to address the listener: “Soon, soon, / soon, soon you’ll get your / steak.”
Not all of the poems in this volume are so explicitly referential. The first six or so poems in the volume tend towards the declaration (with a not too filtering fidelity) of a discrete subject, while these subjects (nationalism, capitalism, religious and generational differences, narratives of an othered past) then seem to happen less as organizing principles in later poems, but rather reoccur within the poems’ somewhat entropic trajectory.
Considering that quite a few lines have been drawn in the last few decades’ sand between poem as language subordinate to a speaker’s voice, and poem as investigation of the way meaning is produced in language, it is significant to read work that is clearly concerned with what performing both might mean. In Fink’s Yinglish Stropes 1–19, this involves creating a second-language speaker as an investigation of underlying structures in signification, but not only, it also uses the significance of those structures to better perceive the speaker’s world in relation to the act of it being written.