A review of Timothy Donnelly's 'The Cloud Corporation'
Timothy Donnelly’s second full-length book of poetry, The Cloud Corporation, is chock-full of feverish strings of iambs and strictly measured stanzas that deftly lilt their way into the subconscious. Donnelly’s virtuosic aptitude for employing traditional poetic form to deliver delightfully idiosyncratic content will come as no surprise to any reader already familiar with the poet’s previous collection, Twenty-seven Props for a Production of Eine Lebenszeit. As Richard Howard observes in the foreword to that volume, “every poem coils about its syntax like a sleek python of reticulated verbality” (ix). What moves The Cloud Corporation into distinctively new, and welcome territory, is Donnelley’s inspired decision to indenture this formal prowess into the structural backdrop for his text.
The poems in The Cloud Corporation are fundamentally aware of themselves as objects of production. Donnelly frames each poetic art-object as an aesthetic commodity with the reflective capacity to wonder “why clouds we manufacture / provoke in an audience more positive, lasting / response than do comparable clouds occurring in nature” (31). This approach frees Donnelly to embrace the role of aesthete even as he dissects poetry’s inevitable complicity in the construct of capitalism.
The Cloud Corporation is populated by a mélange of first-person personas with an array of spatial and temporal origins. There are historical, contemporary, and imagined characters occupying landscapes that range from ancient Mesopotamia to the 9/11 Commission Report. These voices are intensely communal, mapping themselves over a “we” that sifts through both time and space. Collectively, these protagonists, whatever their origin, strive to imagine “what it might be like to live / detached from the circuitry that suffers me to crave” (146). They systematically chip away at the finely crafted veneers of the poems they occupy, all the while rebuking themselves, and us, for our inability to see past them.
A cloud of hypocritical guilt looms over the proceedings, which constantly calls into question the efficacy of any resistance these voices prepare to implement. If a poem’s position as an art-object provides a soapbox from which to launch a program of resistance, it is also a potential prison, where aesthetic value is prized absolutely. “I don’t want to have to / locate divinity in a loaf of bread, in a sparkler, / or in the rainlike sound the wind makes through // mulberry trees,” writes Donnelly in the book’s fourth poem, The New Hymns, “not tonight” (10).
Just as he plays the restraints of form and meter against the emerging voices of these poems, Donnelly allows the notion of singular transcendent genius to collapse under its own weight. “Listen to them carry on / about gentleness,” he continues later in the same poem, “when it’s inconceivable / that any kind or amount of it will ever be able to // balance the scales” (10). Rather than pulling away from introspection and self-discovery, Donnelly writes straight into these modes, embracing them with a cacophony of self-reflective “I’s” all reflecting at once. The result of this rhetorical end run is a sort of communal transcendence that refuses to accept compartmentalization.
To call these poems political, at least in a conventional sense, would be a distinct misrepresentation. These poems make no attempt to call readers to any particular action, aside from a general resistance to the status quo. And yet, neither are they apolitical. The poem Dream of Arabian Hillbillies — an amalgamation of language appropriated from Osama Bin Laden and the theme song to The Beverly Hillbillies — searingly underscores the absurd repugnance of our contemporary political power structure even as it outlines, with businesslike pragmatism, the humble species of resistance we can hope to expect:
May your life
not be a lifelong movie of your life
but a steadfast becoming other than that
which you are: a slave to the power
fiddling among hills of fed clouds and shaken
into wonderment like a shot horse barely
gathering will to lay down with it, y’hear? (82)
These are not propagandistic poems of revolution, but neither are they a battle cry for the disillusioned. Rather than simply identify the ills of society, Donnelly deliberately exposes the systems, both internal and external, that prevent us from righting them. These poems are fundamentally disinterested in oversimplification; they strive to expand their net of introspection “to know the world’s big backslap // unhampered by the stream of this or any downpour” (92).
Donnelly presents us with a veritable Marxist tract for the twenty-first century, fueled by a nagging uncertainty about revolution’s inevitability. He redeploys complex Marxian notions such as commodity fetishism (“I hear the naked hands of strangers make // my dumplings but experience insists what makes them / mine is money”) with such simple poetic panache they resonate with unexpected clarity (70). The Cloud Corporation, in all its temporal and self-reflective tumult, unearths the taproot of contemporary political malaise — our internalization of the new manifest destiny, an unwavering belief in the inevitable expansion of capitalism.
A review of Stephen Coliss's 'On the Material'
For some years now, Stephen Collis has been working on a grand plan, a mission even — a plan toward which the volume under review, On the Material, apparently plays little part. Collis’s last two volumes of poetry, The Commons (2008) and Anarchive (2005) were contributions to what he has called The Barricades Project, an amorphous work-in-progress originally envisioned as including maybe three or four books of poetry and a novel, but now increasingly expansive and (the same thing?) ambitious. (For more details of the genesis and ongoing metamorphosis of The Barricades Project, see The Poetic Front, the online poetics journal Collis edits. He currently sees the pre-existing volumes as part of an initial section, “Platform,” while a second section, “The Architecture,” waits in the wings.) The focus of these first two volumes, and what they tell us of the scope of Collis’s project, is instructive.
Anarchive takes as its explicit subject matter the Spanish Civil War, but draws a lot of tangential material into its gravitational field: the anarchist thoughts (and deeds) of Kropotkin and Bakunin; Durutti and Ferrer; the Picasso of Guernica; Buňuel; Robert Motherwell; Lorca; Lorca as interpreted by Jack Spicer; the apocryphal Ramon Fernandez of Stevens’s “The Idea of Order at Key West” (rather than, or maybe in sync with, the real life critic); and, last but not least, Joe Strummer and the Clash (via “Spanish Bombs”). Despite the punning title and the self-depreciating self-depiction of himself “pulling down texts,” what is most striking about the volume is Collis’s continual passion and engagement: this is not backward-looking historicism for him, not an academic exercise; these are not dead battles:
I produce what is past
again and again
our souls slumped against
the desk whispering
throw it down
throw it down
at the heart of the future
this hope this elegy
that the violence of forgetting
will be remembered
and a correspondence
over Spain will be
the always of revolutions
(There’s even room for a good bad joke: “and you called it paltry / when I spoke only of chicken”).
This powerful sense of empathetic engagement is carried over to The Commons, where the focus is now on the romanticism of Wordsworth, Clare and (via a quick transatlantic leap) Frost and Thoreau, the disputed reality of enclosure and landownership underlying their supposedly neutral “landscapes,” and the ideal of “wandering” as political act. Collis fervently disagrees with Frost’s neighbor that “good fences make good neighbors;” “The Frostworks,” the first sequence in the book, is a commentary on/palinode against Frost’s “Mending Wall,” and sets the agenda by preferring commonality over separation:
something there is
yours or mine
the light of
eerie dawn or
dusk I coat
the fresh rockery
stone fish fibre
crack block breath
bends leans turns
this onto that
Into you too
Collis sets revolting peasants, Levellers and Diggers against enclosure, John Clare’s solitary journeying against confinement, a variety of period tourist guides to the Lake District against Wordsworth’s monolithic vision, all the time stressing freedom and variety over restriction and dearth: “O fence us not to fringe our senses” vs. “enclosure came / to dampen rambles.”
The aim of both books is seemingly to render a lost historical moment tangible again, for the grain of unused potentiality buried in the strata. Borrowing an epigraph from Frederic Jameson — “History progresses by failure rather than success” — Collis casts this belated quarrying piercingly:
What is history but the record
of the places where we were broken?
The triumph of these books, however, is that they refuse to see this situation as merely hopeless:
is a collapse
all is pine
or apple trees
only he says
how are we
In contrast with such ambitions, On the Material is “just” a book of poems. It is, in fact, the most disparate full-length volume Collis has produced thus far (even his debut, Mine, was unified in the attention it paid to the mining history of Vancouver Island). Given that The Barricades Project is, in prospect at least (and contra Pound), a poem containing everything, what does it mean to designate On the Material as outside the work? Is it even possible for there to be an outside? One of the most obvious differences, although it yields to complications on closer inspection, is that, coming from a poet more usually concerned with the epic (or, at least, the semi-epic, or post-epic), On the Material offers a relatively joyful (though occasionally sorrowful) romp in the fields of the lyric.
The first section, “4 X 4,” is the most contained and immediately engaging and attractive. Made up of forty-four sixteen-line poems, each organized into four-line stanzas (4 x 4), topped and tailed by a “double” intro and outro of eight four-line stanzas, making for a grand total of (48 x 4) 192 stanzas and 768 lines, it is shapely and orderly despite its locally disjunctive syntax. Such order both does and does not fit the subject matter. The sequence recounts a period “between February and May 2008, while travelling (or in anticipation or the immediate aftermath of travelling) in Vancouver, Victoria, Calgary, Toronto, Buffalo, Portland, Anaheim, and San Diego,” the planning beforehand and the retrospection afterward. Place tends to bleed into place, and the titular vehicle becomes the defining constant. It all makes for thrilling contrast: as with all true satire, it flirts to some extent with the thing it professes to hate, and Collis does a good job invoking the sublime joy of the automotive:
Looking out the window I will
SUV all over this tarmac world
Fogs lights on suburban gladiator grill
Crunch of rock under tire
Whenever such elevated perspectives induce dreams of hubristic, panoptic power, the poem rights itself with playful bathos:
Here is a claw I
Took from a crab and now
Pretend to pinch at people with
Indeed, “4x4” and this volume as a whole allow Collis to stray away from the history of the Barricades volumes into genres (lyric, elegy, satire) and contexts (contemporary landscapes both tangible and geopolitical) previously alien to, or on the margins of, his poetry. In fact, it is somewhat shocking to encounter Collis so resolutely in the “now”:
We were in the last days of the
Poem sun glinting off countless new and identical
Condo towers hard and the warmth of
Gourmet coffee car idling at the curb
References to “Dubai indoor skiing,” “Hotel Europa,” “Ikea,” “Rumsfeld insisting insurgents / No longer be called ‘insurgents,’” “my Google brethren” and “the vast salt deserts of the Americas” abound, showing Collis’s mind out beyond his immediate physical peripheries, roaming the biosphere.
“4x4” ends stalled — as all satire must? — in “the desert of desire,” with a mere Utopian glance at a possible “ark of resistance” as “horizons future-lit burst bright beyond the frame.” Fun and games continue in the book’s second section, the Sonny Curtis, Bobby Fuller and Clash-echoing “I Fought the Lyric and the Lyric Won.” Collis has long rewired the lyric to carry epic-heavy freight, but has he been explicitly antilyric in the process? Well, if a prominent, foregrounded and consistent “I” is the lynchpin of “lyric” poetry, then that has never been the primary concern of Collis’s history-centric work, even if it has never directly denied the subjective: he simply wasn’t there personally and — as the “Dear Common” sequence shows — The Barricades Project keeps floating the possibility of the communal instead, of a subsuming of the lone ego in the mass.
Equipped, then, with a newly defined, individuated ego, the poems in “I Fought the Lyric and the Lyric Won” ring the changes on a whole gamut of recognizable lyric forms — the death haunted nature-inspired epiphany (“The End of Flight”); the modern(ist) twist on the classical (“Aristeus Mourning the Loss of his Bees”); the ode (“The History of Plastic” — more than ambivalent, admittedly); the intertextual conceit (“Self-Portrait in a Corvette’s Mirror”); and, last but not least, the ekphrastic ars poetica (“Poem Beginning with the Title of a Cy Twombly Painting”) — all given a Collis-specific spin (a natural-epiphany poem in Zukofskian five-word quantitative lines? A bee-filled Virgilian pastoral complete with cell phones, emptied accounts and spy cameras?). In its lack of a single unifying theme or approach, this section may seem the slightest of the three in the book, but that overlooks (or undervalues) the considerable wit on display and the degree to which these poems, precisely because of their “outsider” status, throw up microcosmic metonyms for Collis’s whole project, sometimes plaintive:
Is making itself
This means build I think
The architectures of dream the
Streaming columns rooms of gold
With poetry walls all jade
And gleaming and dark with
Night and wanting the firey
Posts shining lintel and above
This I’ll hang a flaming
Bird and its eternal flight
Will take whatever I have
Built with it
The book’s third and final section, “Gail’s Books,” carries Collis’s newly established lyric perspective further into the realm of elegy. The introduction relates how, shortly after the 2002 death of Collis’s sister from cancer, a fire destroyed her house, taking with it her worldly possessions, including her library, with the exception of only a few books: Kathleen Raine’s Selected Poems, Rilke’s Book of Hours and Novalis’ Philosophical Writings among them. With poetry presented as the “hinge” where the siblings’ interests met, it is not surprising that Collis seizes on the textual as a possible bridge between his own materialist perspective and the mystical and spiritual concerns that gave his sister what he calls an “outsideness to time.” The section takes it epigraph from Michael Palmer — “There’s still no truth in making sense” — and many of the poems seek to reverse the phrase’s logic, wringing some kind of hidden truth out of near-nonsense. The sequence “Variations and Translations from Rilke’s Book of Hours,” for example, translates not only homophonically (leading to such splendid right-wrong titles as “The Night Dies Sick and Stunned, Its Root Mic On” and “Ditch Water Nixed my Steam Watch”) but also “from one English to another,” yielding depth-sounding counterfactuals:
Swell, eye, to end times
Mic a bee whispering
“Lover of sheaves,” night
And waking feel the stream
Oven on, it’s cooking books
A stream wants moss
A rung lower, and tongs
Everywhere, Gail’s present absence is palpable. This is the burden of elegy, and, unsurprisingly, it draws from Collis some of his most tender and hushed writing to date:
Who speaks in limits is smoke
Whose hand opens the book points threads
Whose sister is the fire forming smoke
Whose ash is now ash’s ash
Who walks in that tall flame smoked
A politics rests its hands on its knees
A bird is in one hand it is
The final (and title) poem links this individual loss back to Collis’s overarching rationale for poetry:
Though long dead
they reach you
with lines more
material than you
could have imagined
stays and spars
holding your vessel
Whatever the individual attractions of the poems in On the Material (and they are, as I’ve hopefully indicated, numerous), as a whole it drives this reader at least to more general questions of inclusion vs. exclusion and the role of the “long poem” (or, even more dangerously, the “epic”) in early twenty-first century poetry. Is On the Material mere “parergon,” fingerwork warming up for the next bout of Barricades-related poetry? That belies the emotional heft of “Gail’s Books” and the satiric energy of “4X4”. There are things here, emotions and techniques, that, so far, Collis has not included in his longer work. One suspects the vacillation itself — is this out or in? — to be creative, a sort of built-in irritation out of which (does the oyster want the pearl?) further poetry will grow. The juxtaposition generates its own effect: this is Collis’s most personal volume to date, but, due its place alongside his other ongoing work, it never feels blandly confessional, rather just one more avenue of possibility.
The attraction of “The Barricades Project” as title, as concept, as riff on Benjamin’s Arcades Project, is in the translatability of raw material, the cobblestones that allow for swift transportation transfigured into defenses and obstacles that thwart access. Move them from one street to another, wherever the fighting is. Collis, as poet, unsurprisingly sees such flexibility and use in words themselves:
Try a “Barricades Project.” It can be made of words — it (power/revolution) always is. Tear them out of text and put them up against the sky, across the street.
Collis writes of the lifepoem, the work like Wordsworth’s The Recluse or Pound’s Cantos so tied to the poet’s life that death alone provides (artificial) closure. What does it mean, now, to adopt such a model self-consciously? Can one plan a ruin? Collis, quite likely, would assert that matter dictates the matter and that his expediencies and plans are as nothing compared to his whims and the necessities of his project (remember Pollock: “I am nature”):
It’s not that I advocate errantry
It’s that movement says rive
So, is On the Materials in or out? If you say so.
A review of Mark McMoriss's 'Entrepôt'
Once, we were told by word of mouth that Heraclitus of Ephesus spoke of a grotesque kind of order whereby he declared that: “War is the father of all and king of all, who manifested some as gods and some as men, who made some slaves and some freemen.” Rather than deploring the inequities of the world, he suggests that perpetual conflict is a way of life; it gives us meaning, much as our own history of recent memory has been shadowed by the thrust and force of war’s traumas. In Mark McMorris’s new book of poems, Entrepôt, we confront a like darkness where “The melodious waves / of grass promise no sanctuary / except to the beetle and cicada.”
McMorris’s poems are capacious meditations, investigations, critiques, and queries on the weight of history’s wars and traumas as they seem to enscroll a poetics and ethics on ancient parchment — scrolling that reaches forward toward a future readership. In Entrepôt, war is a threshing ground, a rumbling echo in an olive grove, an acre of light stained by blood and the mark of a pen. The poems challenge in as much as they bring a revivified reading to bear on the present; the inquiry into civilization’s centuries old quest for meaning through art and conflict remains attuned to the need for the poem to be a space where one may cross borders and boundaries. If the poems in Entrepôt arise out of a lyric accretion and ordinary vernacular, it is toward a nomadic flight of probing and investigatory thought.
In the poem, “Dear Michael (2),” McMorris writes: “The wound cannot close; language is a formal exit / is what exits from the wound it documents.” Further on in the poem, we read: “It is the source that makes the wound, the wound / that makes a poem. / It is defeat that makes / a poem sing of the light and that means to sing / for a while.” To speak of a source that wounds, thus necessitating an act of language, infuses a much needed renewal of the lyric’s potential to address and ruminate on what a wound might disclose. Here, as McMorris tells us, “the wound is deaf to what it makes.” In other words, the poem brings us closer to something like revelation, allowing the sequence of words their order and shapeliness to congregate around a vector of its own making. The wound that he calls forth is personal, communal, and historical. It is also a trope for the occult music that arises within a poem. The wound is between something; it is extraterritorial.
The lyric utterance transmitted throughout Entrepôt offers a rich matrix of provisional grounds that can be trespassed and negated. We are properly placed between a formal and experiential arc as the poems remain unfixed, as if they are always at the point of vanishing. As McMorris writes in “Dear Michael (3),” Just so / in any case it is true that I must speak / not only of speaking but of things otherwise unsaid / things and not their names, not the mood of a text / but the text burgled and naked to the wind, at risk / of dissolving as the rain falls, as the sea washes over it.” In these lines, there is an inherent tenuousness to the prospect of speaking and naming; a nagging doubt that what language carries through might fall flat. To speak in such a way is to recognize the potential for a poem to be a dialogic form that sets out to address something.
As McMorris shows throughout his major poem sequence, “Letters To Michael,” the poem as an epistolary event proposes a space where a reader might interact or hover above the interlocutor’s positioning within the poem. It’s not one’s voice propelling the poem forward, but a voluminous echo of overlaying voices straining for a dialogue to take shape. However, looked at another way, on a formal level, a letter is usually addressed to someone. While McMorris samples Michael Palmer in “Dear Michael (14),” “anemone, and the plasma of mud,” a line from Palmer’s “Letters To Zanzotto,” the letter poems in Entrepôt seem to be of a larger structure in which to invoke heterogeneous voices, rather than a singular address to one receiver. At times, though, we might very readily infer that McMorris, as with many other poets, is writing not only forward to a potential reader, but backwards towards previous texts.
The poems of Entrepôt enact the very framework that the title calls forth. An entrepôt is an “intermediary center of trade and transshipment.” In an interview with Rain Taxi in their Winter 2008/2009 issue, McMorris spoke of an entrepôt as “a figure for a space of transition,” and “a place that is between other places.” In this way, beyond the ideational, the poem itself becomes the formal enactment of an entrepôt. If McMorris’s poems resist any defining or absolute location and origin, a place on the map as it were, it is not to dislocate or unsettle the reader, but to enact a language practice where what is said, propositioned, declared, or questioned can reverberate in a meeting place. In “Anaphora of Shadows (11x11+33),” McMorris brings us “ever closer to an entrepot / where signals cross and cancel, or cross and multiply / bands of dark and transitory splinters of light.”
McMorris’s poems are truly a wonder of imagery, sound structure, and intellection; his poems make evident the fact that “the mind is bottomless.” There is a particular gravity to the lyric utterance weaving its way throughout Entrepôt that is of and beyond its moment. It is as much grounded in modern tradition (McMorris draws on Yeats, Stein, Hugo Ball, and others) as it is grounded in classical texts, history’s scholiasts, and the “tin-cup goliard.” From the poem “Three Aspects of the Name”:
The gospel tells us that tradition flows like a river
to irrigate the soul, from origin to the fringe
of reason. It is the thing you can’t avoid belonging to
just as the sea cannot escape mingling with water.
The voice of tradition is ours, or else we are empty
forms cast aside like husks from a coconut grove
able to lie in the sun but not to speak of the havoc
of hunger, or so the philosophers aver, in their moods.
The history of the tribe is fixed within the orbit
traced by the name in written records. Nothing else exists.
The tradition that McMorris is speaking of here can be read as a larger invocation of how identity is made up of a series of sedimentations from the past. Read in more local light, and in a closer reading of McMorris’s imagery, tradition as enounced in “Three Aspects of the Name,” involves a struggle as the speaker “encountered a ghost, my name.” The unspecified name is from “a violent clan of laborers, / men given to dance in the costume of underworld spirits / who took ship with the merchants from the Gold Coast, and blew / ashore in the Latitudes of Weeping.” The speaker’s recalling of the past is closely bound with “events best left to the whistle of tree frogs at night.” While tradition for McMorris is unavoidable, it is also fraught with the memory of colonialism and the challenges present in the act of salvaging a postcolonial identity free from the bonds of colonial rule. Rather than the poem being a site of critique or a potential utopian space, McMorris calls us into the song, where an “untethered polyphony” becomes the currency of the poem.
In the magisterial poem, “Auditions For Utopia,” McMorris imagines the potential for a utopia that begins with a propositional setting within a room that is covered with a mural. On one wall “there is a scene of naked olive bodies / and giant ferns, bodies like ferns and ferns / with the aplomb of the forest.” To set up the imagery of opposition, the second wall shows the “polis in smoky industrial affray, the emblems / of feudal lord and banker and sea captain / in stately parade underneath the parchment heaven.” In order to reconcile these two competing images, the former image has to be dematerialized “to become the prehistory of advertising perfume: / languorous beaches kissed by a glittering sun / where industrialists repose in the elbow of a cove.” McMorris brings us to the very impossibility of there being any kind of utopia that might arise under these conditions. Further on in the poem, the notion of utopia is further expanded upon: it is not a place on a map that one can point to; it is not a place that one arrives at by conscious choice.
Threaded throughout this poem, there is a nameless African boy who dances on the shore of the beach where the “ancient dance of the waves and torchlight” embody the very negation of traditional life that was revealed in the first mural. The boy, who is described as a “miracle of teleported motion,” is also a countermeasure to the surrounding tensions inherent in the Caribbean setting the poem in situated within:
The boy was content to dance himself
bizarre and unreachable as he seemed
to us, almost invisible, in touch
with secret chords and the generations.
He did not have a name. The dance
passed through the slash of the waves
to become a visible present tense
wholly of action in that small frame.
Not only does this boy seem as if he has been transported to this location through a mental process, but through his fluid dance, there is something almost otherworldly about the way he carries himself through time and space. Perhaps there is an inherent innocence that can be attributed to the state of childhood, or conversely, the boy becomes a larger figure for a lost time and memory amid the island’s history of plantations and the chronic behavior that comes with such an oppressive social matrix. Echoing the impossibility of attaining a utopian state, the poem “Inescapable Country,” locates us within pastoral Jamaica. This is another site, rich with natural beauty that recalls a violent history. The speaker of the poem writes: “Something about pastoral calms / the violent heart, wherein desire / takes form in the visible world. // Bending a corner, you see it green / as it once was and will be then / and always with the mind’s deceit.”
Entrepôt as a whole presents a rigorous poetics, in terms of thinking about the formal concerns that might be imbedded in a poem. Again, from “Anaphora of Shadows (11x11+33),” we are told “the poem goes ahead of us and waits.” In “Dear K,” the closing poem of the book, the speaker says “The poem inclines / to restless thought: the night relentless / the heavens unimaginably vast.” In these lines, the poem becomes much more than a depository of materials in flux. Here, the poem is a bearing. It is not just a formal procedure, but a site where things that wouldn’t normally to be placed together are suddenly brought into a dialogic structure. If McMorris’s wielding of language recalls that of the mythmaker in an alchemist’s lab, it is because he finds a variety of forms to push the bounds of thought to a new lyric intensity.
A review of Lisa Samuels's 'Mama Mortality Corridos'
Traditionally, in Latin American culture, a corrido is a narrative song about the daily life, oppression, or history of a particular community. It is often used during moments of great tumult and transformation, like revolutions. The corrido is both a social and artistic act, written to capture a moment or energy during a significant event — or, even, to convey secret political messages to faraway audiences. In other words, to hear a corrido is to experience a broadcast — to be thrust into the middle of someone’s radiation where exactness or meaning is obscured by rhythm and lyric. But the aura of a corrido, its feeling, is strong and lingering.
To read Lisa Samuels’s latest book, Mama Mortality Corridos, is to be similarly positioned in a state of heightened reception. The book’s rich and fleshy language, accompanied by a selection of Samuels’s two-toned drawings, titillates the senses and forces them alert. These Corridos act more like dreamscapes than political messages, as they scavenge bits of language, earth, desire, sorrow, and violence; for example, the first poem, “Envoi,” opens with scene that seems to have spun out and fractured from another world:
Waking without refreshment, no shine to, no mirror
images. Lopsy tide, then, and the list of
friendly rape in the dreams. My hovers
feet and solves the constant world
Published by Holloway Press in 2010, the collection is an art object. The color of cream and terracotta, the book resembles an artifact of the desert — sunburnt, rich, and full of mirages. The abstract landscape drawings littered through the book are composed of simple figures and shapes depicting their own internal narrative. The images are enigmatic in the way they interconnect — each drawing depicts a shape or body-like figure appearing to travel across a certain horizon — but are equally primal and elemental in their ability to procure a tonal message — transition, desolation, peace. The drawings signal both movement and stasis with simple lines and composition and, despite their simplicity, the images appear to carry a heavy code inside them — much like the corrido itself. Horizon, sun, and body invoke the cycles of life, how they weave into each other, and, like the very title of the book, Mama/Mortality, how two ends of a spectrum are gracefully intertwined.
page spread from Mama Mortality Corridos via Holloway Press
The poetry provides a distinct dynamic to the images — similarly primal but more unrestrained and frenetic. The poems swing wildly through words/worlds — English through Spanish, modern through the historical (many of the poems are composed of old corridos, anthologies, other poems, etc. The last poem being totally evocative of this mélange — a cento of C. S. Pierce.) Nothing acts quite like itself or remains intact — especially her phrases, which are constantly looking out to shatter their own logic and keep meaning spinning. Verbs chase nouns which chase other verbs. From the above poem, “The Visitor,” we find “anyone approaches for better face / are really good at needle be familiar. / the story fell on the table near / my head a person suppresses moans.” Aside from the mystery of the unnamed visitor, who oscillates from “anyone” to “you” to “she” and the indeterminate tense, the perspective is dizzying and operates like churned fragments of the chaotic in-between. I can’t help but think of the dead, of ghosts and how their passing may resemble its own restless corrido.
Samuels certainly seems to be signaling us to a place of passing, if not exactly death — corrido echoing the sounds of its false English friend, “corridor.” Looking at the poem titles (“Envoi” “And passing by a corner” “The Visitor” etc.), it’s obvious, a transition or voyage is taking place. This idea of passage/passing is a similarly significant element to the conventional corrido — as they signal a passing of knowledge between peoples or a passing from one era to another. In Mama Mortality Corridos the passing, the movement between involves a new physics, where the trans(ition) itself changes and transforms the message or object. From “Homily”:
That’s a short middle crawl when I
was dropping my ideas on the pavement
and you picked them up. Given
to triadic points of view you hallucinate
self-import, as though ships could bring you
back remotely. I held and dropped you
senseless as at first
Despite the constant transformations in subject or syntax, these poems are so peopled, so full of the (once) living that I’m forced to consider the human body: the footprints on the land Samuels draws in her images, or the suggested violence upon it. (“She with the berry juice creeping up her legs”). These bodies are not quite whole or there, and I wish I knew more about them and not just the bones they’ve left in these poems. Though, that too seems a crucial point for Mama Mortality Corridos — knowing and coming to are part of the same spectrum that forgets and denies. This circularity is expressed in so many of the poems, and so eloquently in “Monkey” where our speaker writes/drives in circles becoming the car, the radio, the bed, the desire, and back to itself in what seems like a memory or dream of a moment that’s gotten caught in a new type of gravity.
It’s a wild corridor Samuels has created. If the world could be caught before one goes spinning into the grave, it would look like a passage from these Corridos. “She turned to shells those / into blues blue sheels / the water turned to air / and blew heels trembling.” It’s a vortex of a book — and a really delicate one, where we cannot “quite touch the bottom” and probably wouldn’t want to anyway.
A review of 'Late in the Antenna Fields'
Alan Gilbert’s first full-length collection of poems expands on the notion of “creative resistance,” explained in Another Future (his 2006 study of poetry, art, and postmodernity) as a commitment to “hope without holding play as an end in itself.” Late in the Antenna Fields (Futurepoem, 2011) pursues this resistance by relating a large swath of cultural and personal phenomena, thereby arresting the endless spillage of images and tropes that so often compose the chaotic drift of postmodernity. Gilbert doesn’t let the formal elements of his poetry dictate creative logic. Form turns out to be but one imaginative possibility of a poetics that often stresses the performative over the literary. The “fields” of his title suggest not only the wide and disbanded twilight horizons of contemporary culture, but also provide a sense of larger creative fields — an array of discursive possibilities in which form adheres to other cultural (and rhetorical) elements that situate ethical procedures. Neither purely formal in their actions on the page, nor conceptually designed for an imagined audience’s required submission, a committed cultural performance gives these poems a somber and solitary edge.
A reader, however, must look hard to find differences in Gilbert’s writing from the experimental procedures used by other contemporary practices associated with a visible avant-garde. Gilbert theorizes this difference by reflecting on audience in Another Future. If the “open text” is truly open, he argues, “then why is it supposed to function in the same way for all readers, however different their backgrounds? As British cultural studies audience response research reiterates over and over again, different audiences respond differently to different cultural products; they even respond differently to the same cultural products at different times.” Responding to Lyn Hejinian’s definition of an “open text” as something “open to the world and particularly to the reader” and that, importantly, “is generative [of meaning] rather than directive,” Gilbert agrees that a “closed text” like an advertisement can provide “conventional modes of communication [that] negate dialogue and reassert more forcefully than ever an author’s authority and dominance over the reader.” Somewhere between both closed and open texts, Gilbert seeks a theory of writing that resists “mere” models of communication and the manipulations of desire associated with closed texts, but that also acknowledges a more complex ethical relationship between author and audience. An audience, however, needs something to grapple with, something that provokes their reflection, invites curiosity, drives them to action, or to better comprehend the world at large. What the closed text/open text discussion brings up, however, is a way to theorize relationships in texts between diverse parties of committed participants. Whether it’s the transparent emotional charge of lyric poetry or the self-interfering procedures of Dada or Oulipo, discourse is situated for an audience that is already shaped, in large part, by cultural regimes, ideological divisions, personal histories, and institutional affiliations. For the poet concerned with audience, writing is necessarily relational, reflexive, and frequently tested in its authorship to understand how words perform for others.
A poetics of documentation lets Gilbert shape his writing as performances on the page designed to invite readers to speculate on larger cultural phenomena, going beyond the concerns of the author, the situated conditions of the audience, or even the aesthetic formal possibilities of the text. What’s at stake in documentation for Gilbert are large cultural referents and how they interrelate in poetry with his own creative and introspective life. He challenges the turn to language by drawing on cultural phenomena that have been distributed through diverse discourse situations, and his recontextualization submits new perspectives for readers to consider. An ethics of investigation and documentation adheres to a writing task that manufactures possibilities, critical awareness, and new representations of the complex mashups of cultural hybridity.
Despite his concern with material culture and its uneven distributions, Gilbert constructs a voice, or voices (often pushed to limit points of flatness), that readers must accept, puzzle over, question, or even resist. It’s the voice of the hip and artfully aware global (Western global) citizen, performing various modes of subjectivity in a process that documents contemporary cultural discourse through multiple perspectives. In “Coolant System,” the constructed ethos of the poem adheres through a steady voice of reportage:
Some people are awake in the middle of the night.
Some are at the bathroom sink rinsing and spitting.
There’s a PowerPoint presentation for just about
anything, and a personalized ringtone to alert us
when the war is calling — it’s the sound of beds
being dragged across an orphanage floor.
The amplification of imagery moves attention from mundane toilet routines to the effects of war, mediating this move through the ubiquity of PowerPoint, a tool of business communication. The steady stitching of imagery arrives through a subjectivity that never rises above the material image to mediate or comment on what’s passing. Instead, it seems almost medicated, submerged in an evenness of appeal regardless of the near terror the poem invokes. “The next ice age,” Gilbert writes, “will fill the rivers with antifreeze. / It’s the midway point of a sugar packet’s half-life, / spoonfed in timelapse with porn made to order. / I still briefly pause when I hear an airplane flying / low.”
While it’s sometimes difficult to fully appreciate how Gilbert’s theoretical claims for poetry differentiate his writing from other contemporary practices, the work provokes readers to consider a wide array of cultural material. In “Go Solar,” for instance, he writes:
Cartoon characters don’t age, they get canceled.
A lifeguard missed the shark attack while reading
the articles of impeachment. After years of enduring
such a fucked-up situation, the question of blame
became relative, and longevity gets more difficult
to spell. Is the context going to be love, the impossible
imagination of mourning quickly?
While provocative images wind through the poem, the sharp, paratactic turns and the unmediated movement from cartoon characters to shark attacks distract from the more compelling question the stanza offers. This is followed, however, by a striking assertion of shattered feelings and derailed memories in the contorted subjectivity of the projected author:
Some of my best friends are machines tracing dust
back to the body, the night to the sun searing
a massive oil spill scooped from backyard swimming
pools with spatulas and patched with hair dryers
applying decals advertising the local speakeasy
serving a rubbed-off shine backed by a bucketful
The long, unbroken sentence, along with the tension of figures of decay and commodity culture, move the poem from undifferentiated images of cultural diffusion toward a more passionate claim about how change or loss is comprehended in a postmodern context where nothing remains still, and where decay and the loop of memory both compete in the eternal renewal of commodified forms. In “Spitting Image,” Gilbert pursues a critical vision of Western culture through a pronounced syntax that draws close the imagery governing his imagination. Poems like this are distinguished for their attempt to organize perception according to unsentimental, but nonetheless emotional, tensions. The extended sentence, and the childhood significance of the “you-said / I-said” / tire swing” situate the juvenile culture Gilbert is critical toward, while also exposing a voice, however constructed, that can’t help but seek order out of the chaotic spam of contemporary life. He writes:
All the toxic runoff
drained into a green pond
behind the house
where the you-said/I-said
tire swing slowly
pulls loose from
its timber moorings
whole it’s nighttime
with the windows open
in any kind of weather
pushing up through
carpets and tack strips,
because love is what
The cliché of “love is what / undoes us” is amplified in the next stanza, where Gilbert announces, “I’m a collection / of flesh and implants / dropped in the mail / each day to the hummed / Miss America pageant theme song.” By organizing competing tropes of subjectivity in his poems, Gilbert is able to use clichés that take on new significance in the arrangements of the poem. In a period where irony and cliché often form the basis of communication (consider all those Super Bowl adverts, built on clichés and cheap sentiments that reinforce the loony notions of who “we” are), Gilbert’s critical inventory and redistribution of commodified imagery let him perform subjective experiences in order to disclose relations that evolve in the hybrid drifts of contemporary culture.
What should Western poets do in a period where the intensity of the daily barrage of advertising, the paucity of public display and speech, and the transfer of regional labor practices to global network centers disorient and disturb relationships to cultural or political practice? If postmodernity is a mashup of prior forms, renewed forever in a freeform universe indifferent to all claims of truth, should a poet imitate the state of things? Find forms that compete or criticize her world? Or develop ironic poses and distancing techniques that preserve the poet even as she manipulates the book markets that necessarily reproduce and distribute the formulae of perception for others. In an era of rapidly increasing authorship, the notion of audience comes into question. We’re all producers, all authors of our insightful experiences and perceptions. We read as thieves and judges, in quick, predatory bursts, because this is how one survives. Knowledge and communication perhaps seem inconsequential compared to the perceived circulations that give shape to our social imaginaries.
The Sophist, Gorgias, famously announced the impossibility of knowledge and communication. Even if we could know something, he argued, it would be impossible to communicate what we know. We’re left with an endless game, at play in linguistic discourse, appealing by whim to others based on the drug-like elixir of language. Plato’s response to this dilemma was to pursue a kind of ethics over communicative force. What are the responsibilities of the writer to a text or to an audience? Late in the Antenna Fields, with a similar set of concerns, attempts to organize a poetics that is ultimately ethical and committed to reinforcing strategies of perception in readers. How are we to respond to proliferating cultural formations, a globalized economy, and decayed regional experiences? If knowledge or truth is relative, and language unstable, what does poetry provide to make itself useful and permanent on the cultural landscape? Gilbert’s performance of social weirdness and contrast lets him interrupt the endless flow of things with focusing incidents that vocalize old fashioned human feelings of anxiety, fear, hope, and desire. Unfortunately, the subjective voices and performative utterances often strain the register they intend to critique — a present in need of more ample vision and creative action. A poem must still have life, even if the cultural phenomena that contextualize everyday experience circulate with dull and steady certainty. The poem can’t replicate this without losing its abundance or its evocative potential. “Sometimes,” Gilbert writes, “the only weapons are words during / a trip to the quarry with its mine-disaster machines / slowly scraping // along the edge of commands that some Americans / have for other Americans, a cracked / ruler drawing attention to chalkboard maps and / framed pictures.” In a dizzying succession of images, Gilbert seeks to order his puzzle of relationships, and to characterize cultural experience in the early twenty-first century imaginary. This ambitious art doesn’t always come together, but with other new books (I’m particularly thinking of Farid Matuk’s This Isa Nice Neighborhood [Letter Machine Editions, 2010]) Late in the Antenna Fields, with its set of major concerns, attempts to organize a poetics that is ultimately ethical and committed to reinforcing strategies of perception in readers.