Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
Monday, March 2, 2015
Second Collection "Linger To Look" Available Now
I am proud to announce: It's here! "Linger To Look"!
This new collection was 8 years in the making and it is now out in the world to grow into whatever it may become.
"Linger To Look" is a full-length collection of avant garde poetry. It explores the idea that a poetry collection can follow a loose narrative, in this case the story of a doomed love. The narrative is not always chronological and follows a timeline as poetic as its individual pieces. It includes cover artwork by Diana Potts, photographs by Jan McCullough, and select sketches from the "Salome Series".
Available now here: https://www.createspace.com/4922940. Available at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe by the end of the week.
Monday, July 21, 2014
Sally Van Doren's "Sex at Noon Taxes: Poems"
(Originally published on Yahoo! Voices on July 21, 2008)
Sally Van Doren, Sex At Noon Taxes: Poems,(Louisiana State University Press, 2008) 70 pages, poetry, $17.95 U.S. Winner of the 2007 Walt Whitman Award given by the Academy of American Poets.
Sally Van Doren presents a unique collection of poems that play with words, grammar, double entendres, and poetic devices freely and joyfully. The title Sex At Noon Taxes is a palindrome and the title of a painting by Ed Ruscha. It proves a most fitting title.
Van Doren loves nothing more than wordplay- and very little of it is subtle. In a typewritten interview included with the book Van Doren reveals that her father would correct their grammar as they discussed their respective days around the dinner table. He was a true stickler who delighted in proper English. Although she happily admits her use of that grammar is anything but strict, those evenings left their mark. Consider the poem Preposition:
The before took us right up to
the after, even though under
meant we should not try over,
from being stronger than to,
up shying from its ascent
in the face of down. I held
on to you and beside you
I became with and about.
In our around, the near/far
could turn away and toward,
within the without. By my above
and your below, the wheres and
whens retreated, leaving time
and space stranded, in off, on out.
This could be an account of those dinnertime discussions punctuated with corrections. It could be about the complexities of relationships. It could also be merely a game of playing with these words and grammatical phrases themselves. In any case, it makes for fun reading, don't you think? I especially enjoyed the image of "up shying from its ascent/ in the face of down." Van Doren clearly has an ear finely tuned to language and its peculiars.
This is also a poetry of deep emotional substance even in the midst of play. Sited is outstanding in this regard:
He was here then, back
when I was there; you
were with me; you weren't,
the then being before the
beginning of the unlife,
the not-thereness having
not yet taken hold of his
hand. The trust in his
estate was in its undoing,
the disassembled vehicle
of non-necessariness.
Many mounds of here
landed on his whereness;
we hoard them.
Such longing in this poem! The pain of separation, of neither party being where they were when they were together, is searing here. There is a straining against the nothingness, the emptiness, the wondering of what was and could have been. Absence is the center of this poem, even as it continues to play with wording and syntax. In fact, the play in this instance very much emphasizes the gaping hole that is grief. One is left feeling as if one were free-falling perpetually through an endless space that has no bottom, which is the very essence of the feeling of ultimate loss.
There is also another way in which the title is fitting. Van Doren displays something akin to obsession regarding visual art throughout the collection. An example in one poem equates the complexities of romantic love to various colors splashed randomly on a canvass. Even where there is not direct reference to painting or other forms of visual art, she demonstrates a skill in using words to create striking images in one's mind.
Van Doren's work here is athletic in its use of language, passionate in its use of imagery, and sensitive to the nuances of human experience. Not bad for a debut collection at all.
Learn more about Sally Van Doren.
Buy Sex At Noon Taxes on Amazon.
Legal Disclosure: The author of the message that directed you to this page has no material connection to any person, company, product, or service mentioned in that message. http://cmp.ly/0
Friday, July 18, 2014
Book Review: "Abdellatif Laâbi: Poems/Poèmes"
(Originally published on Yahoo! Voices on March 11, 2013)
Abdellatif Laâbi is an acclaimed Moroccon poet writing in the French language and the Poetry Translation Centre of the UK has published a chapbook of his work translated into English by André Naffis-Sahely. It is, of course, too short to be representative of decades of poetry, but is a fine testament of admiration to Laâbi.
Naffis-Sahely explains Laâbi's clashes with Moroccon authorities in the introduction. Apparently the poet even spent some time imprisoned, which is mentioned in the poetry as well. It is clear that Naffis-Sahely has a deep respect for Laâbi and his poems. This respect is evident in the translations.
I do not pretend to be an expert in French. Indeed, I could use some refresher courses. But to the ear of a non-native speaker who, it must be said, became less fluent as I went along, the French of Laâbi's poems is not overly concerned with the inherent musicality of the language. Instead, he seems to employ rather direct wording. I do not think it very possible for French to be gruff, but if it could I get the sense he might take that route. In the absence of that ability, the nearest descriptive word could be straight-forward (?). I add the question mark because even that does not seem to adequately describe my impression, but is the closest approximation. He does not seem to strive for pretty; what he seeks is impact.
This is something that Naffis-Sahely strove to bring over to the English translations. And English is a language that can do straight-foward, even gruff and worse, quite well. The challenge for Naffis-Sahely was to translate impact without becoming too rough and thus losing the quality of French to always remain somewhat pretty when the subject is anything but. He succeeded. For example: "I hear the wolves/ switch the lights off at midnight/ and lawfully rape their wives" (from "The Wolves").
Standout poems are "My Mother's Language", "The Wolves", and "The Poem Tree". The most truly beautiful poem in the chapbook is, for me, "La Terre S'ouvre et T'accueille" translated "The Earth Opens and Welcomes You". It was written for Tahar Djaout, a writer killed in Algiers in 1993.
"O my friend
sleep well
you need it
because you worked hard
like an honourable man
...
Sleep well my friend
Sleep the sleep of the righteous
Rest well
even from your dreams
Let us shoulder the burden a little"
Buy the chapbook at Poetry Translation Centre.
Learn more about Poetry Translation Centre.
Legal Disclosure: the author received a review copy or a preview of a product, service, or topic mentioned in that message. http://cmp.ly/1
Monday, July 14, 2014
How I Met Nobel Prize Winning Poet Seamus Heaney
Just about everybody has a Seamus Heaney story. Prior to his death on August 30, 2013, he was the most generous, humble, and well-traveled living poet. Here is my story.(Originally posted on Yahoo! Voices on July 19, 2010 in response to an assignment asking for first-person accounts of meeting celebrities.)
Seamus Heaney is a Nobel prize-winning poet from Ireland who has published at least eleven distinct books of poetry. His work is almost universally accepted with pleasure. His popularity has been compared to that of W.B. Yeats before him. He was born on April 13, 1939 in Northern Ireland and much of his writing is about his memories of childhood in a time that is all but gone. It also addresses such generationally and nationally important events as the "Troubles" and his collection District and Circle contains what could be called a response to the world-shaking events of September 11, 2001.
On May 5, 2006, he gave his first (and, as it turned out, only) reading in the state of Kentucky, U.S.A. at the Great Hall of the King Library at the University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY. U.S.A. This was to support the release of District and Circle, which was officially released in the U.S. on the date of this reading. Also, it was to be a major part of an exhibition to celebrate Ireland's Nobel laureates called "Four Irish Nobel Laureates - W. B. Yeats, George Bernard Shaw, Samuel Beckett, Seamus Heaney."
A colleague of mine who teaches at the University of Kentucky knows that Mr. Heaney is my favorite poet. Paul Evans Holbrook, the director of King Library Press and Special Collections & Digital Programs Division, informed me that Mr. Heaney would be at the University, what day, and where. He also emailed me an official invitation to the event.
I was still a young poet then. It was the first time I had ever attended a literary event, and it was also my first time on a college campus. I was very nervous, not knowing what to expect. I came armed with the first Seamus Heaney book I ever owned: Opened Ground: Selected Poems, 1966-1996, a gift from friends of mine who also love poetry and support my writing. And, in perpetuation of a cliché in Heaney's life, I also brought the manuscript for what became my debut poetry collection Following Hope (Xlibris, 2007).
The King Library is kind of tucked away on the U.K. Campus. My Grandmother, Mother, and little sister, and I had some difficulty finding it. We definitely got our exercise walking the sprawling campus in search of the old building. Once inside, I was immediately charmed by it. It had a stateliness about it and was filled with the beautifully musty smell of old books. The rare manuscripts, books, and miscellaneous writing paraphernalia on display was irresistibly fascinating. The Great Hall itself was a cavernous white space with hard wood flooring and a delightful echoing effect.
Copies of District and Circle were on sale upon first entering the King Library, but an attempt to secure one proved impossible. They were sold out by the time I got to the table. I later ordered a copy on the Internet.
The exhibition was mostly in the Great Hall itself. By the time my party and I arrived, there were already many present in the Hall. Mr. Heaney himself was taking a look at the exhibition with a young man. So screwing up my beleaguered courage (I am naturally shy and therefore prone to getting "star-struck"), I approached him as he was looking at a picture of his much younger self and a copy of "Digging", a poem widely regarded as his first mature work and his emerging manifesto as it were.
"Will you sign my book?" I offered him the copy I had brought of Opened Ground, opened to my favorite poem of his to date, "Station Island". The young man with him (who I later learned was Heaney's son Christopher) looked down at me (I'm short) and said with an Irish accent: "Usually, books are signed after the reading." I was devastated at having committed such a terrible faux pas! I dribbled out some kind of apology, explaining that this was the first event I had been able to attend. I'm sure Christopher Heaney meant nothing by it, but I was that fragile in the moment. Mr. Heaney looked as embarrassed as I was and graciously signed the bottom of the page. Apologizing again, I took my leave to find a seat.
The Hall was soon packed. Eventually, my party had to be split up in order to find seats. My mother and I sat together about mid-way of the Hall and my grandmother and little sister sat together a couple of rows behind us. By the time the reading began, there were people lining the walls of the Hall and crowded in the corridor outside straining to catch a word. The official tally of the audience that day is 300.
Mr. Heaney's entourage of family and friends was briefly introduced to the audience and applauded. Then he began to read. Mr. Heaney's deep, musical voice carried well throughout the Great Hall despite the lack of sound equipment. Sometimes, it was a little difficult to follow the commentary and introductions to the poems because his accent was much thicker in person than the recordings I had heard of him up to that time. He read a wide selection of his work. Some were old favorites ("Mid-Term Break", "Digging", "Postscript") and some were new poems from District and Circle. He carefully covered the whole spectrum of his career. He read for at least an hour and was given a standing ovation. He humbly declined an encore.
There was a reception following in the room where the books had been for sale and the Special Collection displays were. Mr. Heaney was seated at a table and people lined up to have their books signed. It was clear that this was his first visit to the University. He looked as nervous as I was!
At this point, my family began urging me to get in line and give him the manuscript I had brought for that purpose. But what little confidence I had had received a fatal blow during our encounter before the reading. I was overwhelmed by everything into near-paralysis. Eventually, my mother all but dragged me into line and up to the table.
"Oh, it's you again!" Mr. Heaney said, smiling. I found I had no ability to speak, which only served to further embarrass me. My mother snatched the manuscript out of my hand and held it out, saying something along the lines of "This is my daughter, Sabne Raznik. She's trying to have this published. Could you, please, read it over sometime and tell her what you think?" He took it and gently said: "I can't promise anything. But I'll take a peep at it." This emboldened my mother who then asked: "How about a picture together?" He agreed and I stepped behind the table and leaned over so that our heads were as even as I could manage without his having to stand. Mom took the picture.
And I insisted we leave as soon as possible. I had thoroughly enjoyed myself, but was a definite fish out of water. In the years since, I have attended several literary events, mostly in support of that manuscript now known as Following Hope. I hope that I would be more comfortable if I ran into Mr. Heaney again. Who knows?
He was never able to get back to me regarding the manuscript. He had a stroke later that year, and was forced to completely clear his calendar for a year while he recovered. He did eventually make a complete recovery and is even now very busy with new writing, new projects, and appearances. He turned seventy last year (2009) which was a cause of national celebration in Ireland. And I have the picture on the nightstand next to my bed- a reminder that: yes, I am a poet.
Updated from original: I was completely shocked and undone by Seamus Heaney's unexpected death last year, and am still mourning it. I'm not sure if I can bear the inevitable eventual printing of his "Collected Poems". The finality of such a volume is unthinkable even now. To assuage my grief even a little I have been slowly reading through all his works again and attempting to acquire those I do not yet own. Because it is chiefly through those words that I came to know the man - and they were enough, for I feel as though I have lost a father of sorts. An artistic father, if you will. I have also inscribed some words from "Station Island" on a partition half-wall in my apartment. These are a reminder of the poet's duty: "You've listened long enough, now strike your note".
Friend of Heaney and fellow poet Paul Muldoon said in the eulogy what for me is the most touching quote of the funeral mass: "I flew into Belfast International Airport yesterday morning…. The border security officer was interested in what I was doing in the US. I told him I was a teacher, and he asked me what I taught. I said, “poetry.” And he looked at me directly, and he said, “You must be devastated today.”
Seamus Heaney is a Nobel prize-winning poet from Ireland who has published at least eleven distinct books of poetry. His work is almost universally accepted with pleasure. His popularity has been compared to that of W.B. Yeats before him. He was born on April 13, 1939 in Northern Ireland and much of his writing is about his memories of childhood in a time that is all but gone. It also addresses such generationally and nationally important events as the "Troubles" and his collection District and Circle contains what could be called a response to the world-shaking events of September 11, 2001.
On May 5, 2006, he gave his first (and, as it turned out, only) reading in the state of Kentucky, U.S.A. at the Great Hall of the King Library at the University of Kentucky, Lexington, KY. U.S.A. This was to support the release of District and Circle, which was officially released in the U.S. on the date of this reading. Also, it was to be a major part of an exhibition to celebrate Ireland's Nobel laureates called "Four Irish Nobel Laureates - W. B. Yeats, George Bernard Shaw, Samuel Beckett, Seamus Heaney."
A colleague of mine who teaches at the University of Kentucky knows that Mr. Heaney is my favorite poet. Paul Evans Holbrook, the director of King Library Press and Special Collections & Digital Programs Division, informed me that Mr. Heaney would be at the University, what day, and where. He also emailed me an official invitation to the event.
I was still a young poet then. It was the first time I had ever attended a literary event, and it was also my first time on a college campus. I was very nervous, not knowing what to expect. I came armed with the first Seamus Heaney book I ever owned: Opened Ground: Selected Poems, 1966-1996, a gift from friends of mine who also love poetry and support my writing. And, in perpetuation of a cliché in Heaney's life, I also brought the manuscript for what became my debut poetry collection Following Hope (Xlibris, 2007).
The King Library is kind of tucked away on the U.K. Campus. My Grandmother, Mother, and little sister, and I had some difficulty finding it. We definitely got our exercise walking the sprawling campus in search of the old building. Once inside, I was immediately charmed by it. It had a stateliness about it and was filled with the beautifully musty smell of old books. The rare manuscripts, books, and miscellaneous writing paraphernalia on display was irresistibly fascinating. The Great Hall itself was a cavernous white space with hard wood flooring and a delightful echoing effect.
Copies of District and Circle were on sale upon first entering the King Library, but an attempt to secure one proved impossible. They were sold out by the time I got to the table. I later ordered a copy on the Internet.
The exhibition was mostly in the Great Hall itself. By the time my party and I arrived, there were already many present in the Hall. Mr. Heaney himself was taking a look at the exhibition with a young man. So screwing up my beleaguered courage (I am naturally shy and therefore prone to getting "star-struck"), I approached him as he was looking at a picture of his much younger self and a copy of "Digging", a poem widely regarded as his first mature work and his emerging manifesto as it were.
"Will you sign my book?" I offered him the copy I had brought of Opened Ground, opened to my favorite poem of his to date, "Station Island". The young man with him (who I later learned was Heaney's son Christopher) looked down at me (I'm short) and said with an Irish accent: "Usually, books are signed after the reading." I was devastated at having committed such a terrible faux pas! I dribbled out some kind of apology, explaining that this was the first event I had been able to attend. I'm sure Christopher Heaney meant nothing by it, but I was that fragile in the moment. Mr. Heaney looked as embarrassed as I was and graciously signed the bottom of the page. Apologizing again, I took my leave to find a seat.
The Hall was soon packed. Eventually, my party had to be split up in order to find seats. My mother and I sat together about mid-way of the Hall and my grandmother and little sister sat together a couple of rows behind us. By the time the reading began, there were people lining the walls of the Hall and crowded in the corridor outside straining to catch a word. The official tally of the audience that day is 300.
Mr. Heaney's entourage of family and friends was briefly introduced to the audience and applauded. Then he began to read. Mr. Heaney's deep, musical voice carried well throughout the Great Hall despite the lack of sound equipment. Sometimes, it was a little difficult to follow the commentary and introductions to the poems because his accent was much thicker in person than the recordings I had heard of him up to that time. He read a wide selection of his work. Some were old favorites ("Mid-Term Break", "Digging", "Postscript") and some were new poems from District and Circle. He carefully covered the whole spectrum of his career. He read for at least an hour and was given a standing ovation. He humbly declined an encore.
There was a reception following in the room where the books had been for sale and the Special Collection displays were. Mr. Heaney was seated at a table and people lined up to have their books signed. It was clear that this was his first visit to the University. He looked as nervous as I was!
At this point, my family began urging me to get in line and give him the manuscript I had brought for that purpose. But what little confidence I had had received a fatal blow during our encounter before the reading. I was overwhelmed by everything into near-paralysis. Eventually, my mother all but dragged me into line and up to the table.
"Oh, it's you again!" Mr. Heaney said, smiling. I found I had no ability to speak, which only served to further embarrass me. My mother snatched the manuscript out of my hand and held it out, saying something along the lines of "This is my daughter, Sabne Raznik. She's trying to have this published. Could you, please, read it over sometime and tell her what you think?" He took it and gently said: "I can't promise anything. But I'll take a peep at it." This emboldened my mother who then asked: "How about a picture together?" He agreed and I stepped behind the table and leaned over so that our heads were as even as I could manage without his having to stand. Mom took the picture.
And I insisted we leave as soon as possible. I had thoroughly enjoyed myself, but was a definite fish out of water. In the years since, I have attended several literary events, mostly in support of that manuscript now known as Following Hope. I hope that I would be more comfortable if I ran into Mr. Heaney again. Who knows?
He was never able to get back to me regarding the manuscript. He had a stroke later that year, and was forced to completely clear his calendar for a year while he recovered. He did eventually make a complete recovery and is even now very busy with new writing, new projects, and appearances. He turned seventy last year (2009) which was a cause of national celebration in Ireland. And I have the picture on the nightstand next to my bed- a reminder that: yes, I am a poet.
Updated from original: I was completely shocked and undone by Seamus Heaney's unexpected death last year, and am still mourning it. I'm not sure if I can bear the inevitable eventual printing of his "Collected Poems". The finality of such a volume is unthinkable even now. To assuage my grief even a little I have been slowly reading through all his works again and attempting to acquire those I do not yet own. Because it is chiefly through those words that I came to know the man - and they were enough, for I feel as though I have lost a father of sorts. An artistic father, if you will. I have also inscribed some words from "Station Island" on a partition half-wall in my apartment. These are a reminder of the poet's duty: "You've listened long enough, now strike your note".
Friend of Heaney and fellow poet Paul Muldoon said in the eulogy what for me is the most touching quote of the funeral mass: "I flew into Belfast International Airport yesterday morning…. The border security officer was interested in what I was doing in the US. I told him I was a teacher, and he asked me what I taught. I said, “poetry.” And he looked at me directly, and he said, “You must be devastated today.”
Friday, July 11, 2014
"Marrow" Featured on SpicyLetter.net
Other reviews, guest blogs, and promotions for "Marrow" since its publication to the present can be found as follows:
Field Recordings: "Sabne Raznik goes for the Marrow"
OwenSage.com: "Let's Get to the "Marrow" of the Matter" by Sabne Raznik
So, I Read This Book Today ...: "Fund Raiser For St. Jude's Hospital - 100 Copies Available!"
Other past interviews:
Pebble In The Still Waters: "Author Interview: Sabne Raznik: Poet, Writer and Member of Academy of American Poets"
A Short Conversation with Poet Kit Fryatt
(Originally published on July 10, 2008 on Yahoo! Voices.)
I first met Kit Fryatt through Livejournal.com (I have since deleted my account there) when she wrote an entry regarding an event she attended at which Bono of U2 fame read and gave her thoughts on the whole affair. Being an avid U2 fan, I was highly entertained by that entry in which she was not at all pleased. Since we share a common love of poetry, we continue to correspond and I have learned much from her over the last few years. She is an unfailing support to me poetically. She is also a very good writer as well as teacher and has been published, among other numerous journals, in the Poetry Ireland Review. As a way to give back to her, I asked her for an email interview to be published here on AC (Associated Content, later Yahoo! Voices). Without further ado, here are the results of that interview:
S. R.: Where and when were you first exposed to poetry? How did you come to love it?
K. F.: I don't remember: the first poems I heard were nursery rhymes, probably. I remember laughing and laughing at a silly rhyme my father used to say: "Spring is sprung, the grass is riz / I wonder where the birdies is?" I never got tired of that. I have memories of writing poems on a paper napkin in a restaurant when I was 7. One began "A knight / In sight / On a horse / Of course", which I think has a certain modernist flair. I learnt poems by heart at an American school for military children in Izmir, Turkey. Rose Fyleman:
I think mice are rather nice,
Their tails are long, their faces small,
They haven't any chins at all.
Their ears are pink, their teeth are white,
They run about the house at night;
They nibble things they shouldn't touch,
and no one seems to like them much,
but I think mice are rather nice.
When we were still in Turkey, my mother brought home a copy of the New Golden Treasury, not Palgrave but a new selection chosen in the 70s by Edward Leeson. Books were a special event: even in Ankara, the capital, there were only a couple of bookshops that sold English-language books. There I found:
Sumer is icumen in
Lhude sing, cuccu!
Groweth sed and bloweth med
And springeth the wude nu,
Lhude sing, cuccu!
Awe bleteth after lomb
Lhouth after calve cu
Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth
Murie sing cuccu!
Cuccu, sing cuccu
Ne swik thu naver nu!
Sing cuccu, nu, sing cuccu,
Sing cuccu, sing cuccu, nu!
That's from the 13th century, and it's really just a slightly -- ever so slightly: note that farting buck -- more sophisticated version of my dad's rhyme. I had a cult of Old England going on at the time, despite or because of being surrounded by the remains of much more ancient cultures in Asia Minor, and I was hooked. I think rhyme and repetition hooks children into poetry, but it's a sense of the strangeness of language that keeps them reading.
S.R.: Which poets are the greatest influence on your work and why?
K.F.: Not for me to say, I think. Influence is a slippery thing. You might think a poet is heavily inflected by Auden or Yeats and I mightn't hear it at all. I've never tried consciously to imitate anyone, except in parodies, but I find I'm always unconsciously imitating. Sometimes imitating very bad stuff.
S.R.: Are there non-poetic influences, such as environment, other interests, etc.?
K.F. : Of course: anything and everything can be material. That said, the Irish bardic schools allegedly encouraged their pupils to compose indoors, in darkness. There's something to be said for sensory deprivation, too.
S.R.: As an academic, do you feel that is beneficial to poetry or not, and why?
K.F.: I'm lucky: I get a lot of pleasure out of close analysis. Sometimes a poem won't really ravish me until I've done the forensics on it. That's not true for many people I think, even some who end up studying English at university. Students often complain that they dislike "dissecting" a poem; a revealing metaphor, because they see the poem as a corpse to start with. I tell them it's not dissection; it's vivisection, except you can't hurt a poem by torturing it, luckily. As for poets making their living in the academy: poets need their patrons; always have.
S.R.: Give a brief anecdote of an experience in your life or at a literary function that has impacted you as a poet.
K.F.: I think all the experiences that have made an impact on me poetically are experiences of reading poems, which isn't very interesting to talk about. Literary events are usually the reverse of inspiring, though sometimes there is free wine. The poets I know personally -- I think I should like them as well if they weren't poets.
S.R. What is it that you most hope readers will take away from your work?
K.F.: Words. In their particular order.
S.R.: Are there any projects you are working on or ideas for future projects? What makes these appealing to you as a poet?
K.F.: I'm sending myself to poetic boot-camp for the summer. Formal exercises, that sort of thing. Starting over is always bracing.
S.R.: If you could could give an aspiring poet advice in only one sentence, what would it be?
K.F.: I *am* an aspiring poet! I saw this on a medieval mazard bowl in the Cloisters in New York: "Reason bade that I should write, think much and speak little".
S.R.: You are originally from Britain, I believe, but have also lived in
Ireland and Scotland. Would you consider yourself a British poet or an
Irish or Scottish one? How do you think that experiencing these
different perspectives has shaped you as a poet?
K.F.: That's a big and dangerous question. I'm bound to offend someone. I was born in Iran, to British parents. I left when I was ten months old though -- no memories. I spent some time in the south of England, and then my parents travelled with me to Singapore and Turkey. Then I was at boarding school for a year before they finally came back when I was ten. I spent my teens in the south of England and moved to Ireland when I was 21. I've been spending a bit of time in Scotland over the last few months too. National identity -- whatever some critics may say -- I think is rarely to the forefront of a poet's mind when he or she is writing, and yet poetry turns out marked by the regional -- perhaps, rather than the national -- in all sorts of ways. Politically, I'm not a Unionist: I think the United Kingdom has come to a point now where it is no longer really sustainable. I would be happy to see an independent Scotland -- making the island of Ireland a single country has particular political and social difficulties which I think would have to be negotiated very carefully, but given that it's done equitably I think it would be desirable in the end. England and Wales will probably remain as a unit: an independent Wales isn't viable economically. The cultures of the British Isles have their distinct differences but they also share a lot. England is often (especially in Ireland) seen as a monolithic imperial nation, but it's actually very various. I see myself as English within a wider british culture. The small b is deliberate. I think the imperialist conception of Britain, along with English domination of the United Kingdom, should and will come to an end. English people often don't think about this stuff. Their relative power insulates them from it. Well, white English people. There's a very different usage of "British" by English people of colour, because they often feel that "English" is a racial as well as a national marker, whereas "British" is inclusive. I'd like to make my small-b britishness somehow cognate with that. Living in Ireland and Scotland has made me think about these things, which I mightn't have done otherwise -- they make their way into poems sometimes. Quite a lot of Hiberno-English gets into them too, and the odd Scots word which makes its way in via the Scottish ballads, which I love.
Wurm Im Apfel, a small press that Fryatt runs herself.
Find her on Goodreads.
I first met Kit Fryatt through Livejournal.com (I have since deleted my account there) when she wrote an entry regarding an event she attended at which Bono of U2 fame read and gave her thoughts on the whole affair. Being an avid U2 fan, I was highly entertained by that entry in which she was not at all pleased. Since we share a common love of poetry, we continue to correspond and I have learned much from her over the last few years. She is an unfailing support to me poetically. She is also a very good writer as well as teacher and has been published, among other numerous journals, in the Poetry Ireland Review. As a way to give back to her, I asked her for an email interview to be published here on AC (Associated Content, later Yahoo! Voices). Without further ado, here are the results of that interview:
S. R.: Where and when were you first exposed to poetry? How did you come to love it?
K. F.: I don't remember: the first poems I heard were nursery rhymes, probably. I remember laughing and laughing at a silly rhyme my father used to say: "Spring is sprung, the grass is riz / I wonder where the birdies is?" I never got tired of that. I have memories of writing poems on a paper napkin in a restaurant when I was 7. One began "A knight / In sight / On a horse / Of course", which I think has a certain modernist flair. I learnt poems by heart at an American school for military children in Izmir, Turkey. Rose Fyleman:
I think mice are rather nice,
Their tails are long, their faces small,
They haven't any chins at all.
Their ears are pink, their teeth are white,
They run about the house at night;
They nibble things they shouldn't touch,
and no one seems to like them much,
but I think mice are rather nice.
When we were still in Turkey, my mother brought home a copy of the New Golden Treasury, not Palgrave but a new selection chosen in the 70s by Edward Leeson. Books were a special event: even in Ankara, the capital, there were only a couple of bookshops that sold English-language books. There I found:
Sumer is icumen in
Lhude sing, cuccu!
Groweth sed and bloweth med
And springeth the wude nu,
Lhude sing, cuccu!
Awe bleteth after lomb
Lhouth after calve cu
Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth
Murie sing cuccu!
Cuccu, sing cuccu
Ne swik thu naver nu!
Sing cuccu, nu, sing cuccu,
Sing cuccu, sing cuccu, nu!
That's from the 13th century, and it's really just a slightly -- ever so slightly: note that farting buck -- more sophisticated version of my dad's rhyme. I had a cult of Old England going on at the time, despite or because of being surrounded by the remains of much more ancient cultures in Asia Minor, and I was hooked. I think rhyme and repetition hooks children into poetry, but it's a sense of the strangeness of language that keeps them reading.
S.R.: Which poets are the greatest influence on your work and why?
K.F.: Not for me to say, I think. Influence is a slippery thing. You might think a poet is heavily inflected by Auden or Yeats and I mightn't hear it at all. I've never tried consciously to imitate anyone, except in parodies, but I find I'm always unconsciously imitating. Sometimes imitating very bad stuff.
S.R.: Are there non-poetic influences, such as environment, other interests, etc.?
K.F. : Of course: anything and everything can be material. That said, the Irish bardic schools allegedly encouraged their pupils to compose indoors, in darkness. There's something to be said for sensory deprivation, too.
S.R.: As an academic, do you feel that is beneficial to poetry or not, and why?
K.F.: I'm lucky: I get a lot of pleasure out of close analysis. Sometimes a poem won't really ravish me until I've done the forensics on it. That's not true for many people I think, even some who end up studying English at university. Students often complain that they dislike "dissecting" a poem; a revealing metaphor, because they see the poem as a corpse to start with. I tell them it's not dissection; it's vivisection, except you can't hurt a poem by torturing it, luckily. As for poets making their living in the academy: poets need their patrons; always have.
S.R.: Give a brief anecdote of an experience in your life or at a literary function that has impacted you as a poet.
K.F.: I think all the experiences that have made an impact on me poetically are experiences of reading poems, which isn't very interesting to talk about. Literary events are usually the reverse of inspiring, though sometimes there is free wine. The poets I know personally -- I think I should like them as well if they weren't poets.
S.R. What is it that you most hope readers will take away from your work?
K.F.: Words. In their particular order.
S.R.: Are there any projects you are working on or ideas for future projects? What makes these appealing to you as a poet?
K.F.: I'm sending myself to poetic boot-camp for the summer. Formal exercises, that sort of thing. Starting over is always bracing.
S.R.: If you could could give an aspiring poet advice in only one sentence, what would it be?
K.F.: I *am* an aspiring poet! I saw this on a medieval mazard bowl in the Cloisters in New York: "Reason bade that I should write, think much and speak little".
S.R.: You are originally from Britain, I believe, but have also lived in
Ireland and Scotland. Would you consider yourself a British poet or an
Irish or Scottish one? How do you think that experiencing these
different perspectives has shaped you as a poet?
K.F.: That's a big and dangerous question. I'm bound to offend someone. I was born in Iran, to British parents. I left when I was ten months old though -- no memories. I spent some time in the south of England, and then my parents travelled with me to Singapore and Turkey. Then I was at boarding school for a year before they finally came back when I was ten. I spent my teens in the south of England and moved to Ireland when I was 21. I've been spending a bit of time in Scotland over the last few months too. National identity -- whatever some critics may say -- I think is rarely to the forefront of a poet's mind when he or she is writing, and yet poetry turns out marked by the regional -- perhaps, rather than the national -- in all sorts of ways. Politically, I'm not a Unionist: I think the United Kingdom has come to a point now where it is no longer really sustainable. I would be happy to see an independent Scotland -- making the island of Ireland a single country has particular political and social difficulties which I think would have to be negotiated very carefully, but given that it's done equitably I think it would be desirable in the end. England and Wales will probably remain as a unit: an independent Wales isn't viable economically. The cultures of the British Isles have their distinct differences but they also share a lot. England is often (especially in Ireland) seen as a monolithic imperial nation, but it's actually very various. I see myself as English within a wider british culture. The small b is deliberate. I think the imperialist conception of Britain, along with English domination of the United Kingdom, should and will come to an end. English people often don't think about this stuff. Their relative power insulates them from it. Well, white English people. There's a very different usage of "British" by English people of colour, because they often feel that "English" is a racial as well as a national marker, whereas "British" is inclusive. I'd like to make my small-b britishness somehow cognate with that. Living in Ireland and Scotland has made me think about these things, which I mightn't have done otherwise -- they make their way into poems sometimes. Quite a lot of Hiberno-English gets into them too, and the odd Scots word which makes its way in via the Scottish ballads, which I love.
Wurm Im Apfel, a small press that Fryatt runs herself.
Find her on Goodreads.
A Brief Conversation with Irish Poet Michael O'Dea
(Originally published on July 10, 2008 on Yahoo! Voices.)
I contacted Michael first through his website. He humored a young aspiring, but somewhat shut-in, poet by agreeing to correspond with me via email. He has always been encouraging of my own writing, even while continuing to publish books of his own. Often he has been the objective reader I needed to get the most of my efforts. Valhalla: blue, as published in my book Following Hope (Xlibris, 2007), was one of those poems he helped to refine. During that process, my hard drive got a virus and I lost the poem. If not for O'Dea it would never have been published. However, he had a copy of the yet unfinished manuscript on his computer and was able to email it back to me, and thus he saved 2 1/2 years (or 3, if you count mental incubation time) worth of work from oblivion. I asked O'Dea for an interview via email to be posted here on AC (Associated Content, later Yahoo! Voices). These are the results of that interview:
S.R.: Where and when were you first exposed to poetry? How did you come to love it?
M.O.: English was my favourite subject in secondary school, I wrote a few bits and pieces back then; we had, for a while, a stunning-looking English teacher. I didn't start writing in earnest till my thirties when a friend suggested, from listening to my phraseology in speaking, that I should try writing poetry. My first attempts were published; I got cocky instantly and it was some time before others were published but I was hooked by then.
S.R.:. Which poets are the greatest influence on your work and why?
M.O.: Patrick Kavanagh is the biggest influence. He, being from rural Ireland and having the same Irish catholic upbringing, brings the same baggage with him. His territory is familiar to me. But he is a marvelous poet and caught better than any other the issues and atmosphere of twentieth century rural Ireland.
S.R.: Are there non-poetic influences, such as environment, other interests, etc.?
M.O.: Yes, so much of what I've passed through has been grist to that mill. I think the people and the countryside of Roscommon honed my sensibilities and my ear for language. Great art from the likes of Goya or Bacon has suggested the material time and time again as have musicians like Brian Eno whose soundscapes leave me free to roam like tumbleweed in a desert.
S.R.: Until recently, you were an organiser for the annual Rathmines Festival. What do you believe are the benefits and negatives of such events for poetry?
M.O.: Festivals events tend to be more casual than other arts-based events, and in festivals like the Rathmines Festival poetry readings are staged shoulder to shoulder with comedy, music, debate or whatever. As such they have the potential to reach an audience that would otherwise consider them to be too stuffy or high-brow. This is the audience poetry should be striving to reach.The biggest danger is that an hour of turgid poetry will kill them stone-dead in their seats, guaranteeing that neither they nor anyone they talk to will ever come within an ass's roar of a poetry reading again. It's vitally important that the poetry fits the audience.
S.R.: Give a brief anecdote of an experience in your life or at a literary function that has impacted you as a poet.
M.O.: There have been a number and I have referred to them during poetry readings or in the blog. An example I haven't referred to before happened when I read the following poem at a workshop.
Attitude.
Who owns the child
with the withered arm-wings,
who carries the mutation that weighs a tonne;
who, when the air is full of flight, hops
and hops and hops.
See how the children littering the yard
launch like torn pages into careless flight.
Like gulls they hog the sunlight
while a sea wrinkles with worries far below.
This is the currency.
But who owns that child;
the child with the withered arm-wings.
I chose it to get the reaction of a friend of mine whose son is confined to a wheel chair. On hearing the poem she was very upset by the image and did not see that I was condemning the objectifying of people with physical disabilities. I was taken aback, and though I didn't change the poem, I am less convinced than previously that my choice of expression is correct.
S.R.: What is it that you most hope readers will take away from your work as a whole?
M.O.: I suppose the truth is I want their admiration but I am usually conscious of wanting to spread my left-leaning political message.
S.R.: You are currently working on an anthology that will showcase the work of poets from Roscommon. Could you tell us a bit about that and what your hopes for it are?
M.O.: Since the Mayo Anthology appeared there has been a number of similar publications around the country. I'm working on a literary (all forms) anthology of writers either born in or strongly associated with the county. These include Douglas Hyde, Percy French, John McGahern, William Wilde (Oscar's dad) and Oliver Goldsmith (a disputed birthplace). I'm expecting it to be a generous beautiful book, accessible, educational and entertaining. I'm also hoping that it's publication will be a boost to Roscommon writers writing currently and to that end have recommended that it's publication be accompanied by a series of readings/workshops.
S.R.: If you could give an aspiring poet advice in only one sentence, what would it be?
M.O.: In the developing years have someone you trust, who knows poetry, to squeeze the water out of your efforts.
Read Michael O'Dea's blog.
Michael O'Dea's Website.
Buy the Roscommon Anthology.
I contacted Michael first through his website. He humored a young aspiring, but somewhat shut-in, poet by agreeing to correspond with me via email. He has always been encouraging of my own writing, even while continuing to publish books of his own. Often he has been the objective reader I needed to get the most of my efforts. Valhalla: blue, as published in my book Following Hope (Xlibris, 2007), was one of those poems he helped to refine. During that process, my hard drive got a virus and I lost the poem. If not for O'Dea it would never have been published. However, he had a copy of the yet unfinished manuscript on his computer and was able to email it back to me, and thus he saved 2 1/2 years (or 3, if you count mental incubation time) worth of work from oblivion. I asked O'Dea for an interview via email to be posted here on AC (Associated Content, later Yahoo! Voices). These are the results of that interview:
S.R.: Where and when were you first exposed to poetry? How did you come to love it?
M.O.: English was my favourite subject in secondary school, I wrote a few bits and pieces back then; we had, for a while, a stunning-looking English teacher. I didn't start writing in earnest till my thirties when a friend suggested, from listening to my phraseology in speaking, that I should try writing poetry. My first attempts were published; I got cocky instantly and it was some time before others were published but I was hooked by then.
S.R.:. Which poets are the greatest influence on your work and why?
M.O.: Patrick Kavanagh is the biggest influence. He, being from rural Ireland and having the same Irish catholic upbringing, brings the same baggage with him. His territory is familiar to me. But he is a marvelous poet and caught better than any other the issues and atmosphere of twentieth century rural Ireland.
S.R.: Are there non-poetic influences, such as environment, other interests, etc.?
M.O.: Yes, so much of what I've passed through has been grist to that mill. I think the people and the countryside of Roscommon honed my sensibilities and my ear for language. Great art from the likes of Goya or Bacon has suggested the material time and time again as have musicians like Brian Eno whose soundscapes leave me free to roam like tumbleweed in a desert.
S.R.: Until recently, you were an organiser for the annual Rathmines Festival. What do you believe are the benefits and negatives of such events for poetry?
M.O.: Festivals events tend to be more casual than other arts-based events, and in festivals like the Rathmines Festival poetry readings are staged shoulder to shoulder with comedy, music, debate or whatever. As such they have the potential to reach an audience that would otherwise consider them to be too stuffy or high-brow. This is the audience poetry should be striving to reach.The biggest danger is that an hour of turgid poetry will kill them stone-dead in their seats, guaranteeing that neither they nor anyone they talk to will ever come within an ass's roar of a poetry reading again. It's vitally important that the poetry fits the audience.
S.R.: Give a brief anecdote of an experience in your life or at a literary function that has impacted you as a poet.
M.O.: There have been a number and I have referred to them during poetry readings or in the blog. An example I haven't referred to before happened when I read the following poem at a workshop.
Attitude.
Who owns the child
with the withered arm-wings,
who carries the mutation that weighs a tonne;
who, when the air is full of flight, hops
and hops and hops.
See how the children littering the yard
launch like torn pages into careless flight.
Like gulls they hog the sunlight
while a sea wrinkles with worries far below.
This is the currency.
But who owns that child;
the child with the withered arm-wings.
I chose it to get the reaction of a friend of mine whose son is confined to a wheel chair. On hearing the poem she was very upset by the image and did not see that I was condemning the objectifying of people with physical disabilities. I was taken aback, and though I didn't change the poem, I am less convinced than previously that my choice of expression is correct.
S.R.: What is it that you most hope readers will take away from your work as a whole?
M.O.: I suppose the truth is I want their admiration but I am usually conscious of wanting to spread my left-leaning political message.
S.R.: You are currently working on an anthology that will showcase the work of poets from Roscommon. Could you tell us a bit about that and what your hopes for it are?
M.O.: Since the Mayo Anthology appeared there has been a number of similar publications around the country. I'm working on a literary (all forms) anthology of writers either born in or strongly associated with the county. These include Douglas Hyde, Percy French, John McGahern, William Wilde (Oscar's dad) and Oliver Goldsmith (a disputed birthplace). I'm expecting it to be a generous beautiful book, accessible, educational and entertaining. I'm also hoping that it's publication will be a boost to Roscommon writers writing currently and to that end have recommended that it's publication be accompanied by a series of readings/workshops.
S.R.: If you could give an aspiring poet advice in only one sentence, what would it be?
M.O.: In the developing years have someone you trust, who knows poetry, to squeeze the water out of your efforts.
Read Michael O'Dea's blog.
Michael O'Dea's Website.
Buy the Roscommon Anthology.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
In Defense of Free Verse
(Originally published on Yahoo! Voices on March 6, 2010.)
Free verse was first used by French symbolist poets in the late 1800s. T. S. Eliot was among the first poets writing in English to adopt it and introduced it to the English- speaking world by its French term, vers libre. He and other Modern poets adopted it in reaction to the disorientation that resulted with the advent of World War I. Since then, it has become the most used form (yes, form) of Western poetry. Many poets employ it as their default mode of expression. Because so much of free verse has been poorly written in recent years, and because confessional poetry (which free verse is closely associated with) has long since fallen out of fashion, there is a movement in the poetry world at the moment that declares it dead, used up, even inferior. Many are almost fanatically advocating the return of form as the mode of choice for 21st century poets.
But the very existence of such an ideal reveals an ignorance concerning how poetry is being practiced today and what exactly free verse (vers libre) really is. This ignorance is rather surprising when one takes into account the over-emphasis on academic degrees, professorships, and lecture posts among contemporary poets- so much so that the casual observer and beginning poet may come to think these are required for one to be a true poet.
The argument in favor of a return to form ignores two facts. One, that a large portion of contemporary poets utilise both traditional forms and free verse throughout their various oeuvres. Two, that free verse (vers libre) is itself a poetic form and, after more than a century's use, might well be considered as a traditional form in Western literature.
As for that first point, one could easily pick up the Collected volumes of any number of well known poets publishing today and see the truth of it. Many of our most beloved poets do not limit themselves either to free verse or tradional forms alone, but freely and skillfully employ anything available to them.
As for the second point, it is true that many use free verse incorrectly and lazily. Many mistakenly believe that free verse means that the poem can have no structure at all. Many poems passed off as "free verse" amount to little more than prose poems with line breaks and even stanza breaks. Some of it cannot even be loosely considered as prose poems. It would be beneficial to remind some that sentences seperated by blank spaces on the page do not make those sentences poetry. In fact, free verse is very structured and requires some skill to write in a satisfactory manner. It is a form.
Perhaps the best example of what I'm trying to clarify is the work of T. S. Eliot himself: "The Waste Land". Anyone who has taken poetry classes in any college in the U. S. has had to dissect this poem. Look closely at it again. It is written in free verse (or as Eliot himself would have called it: vers libre). But what is it that makes it liberal or liberated as a form? You will quickly see that it is not a total lack of form. In fact, it is a potpourri of forms. And that is what free verse is: it uses what is commonly refered to as the traditional forms and slips in and out of them freely. Sometimes these parts rhyme and sometimes they don't. But never is there a moment in that poem where form does not exist. One piece may be blank verse, another a variation on a sonnet. It changes. It is fluid. It is living. But it is undeniably structured.
When one realises that free verse is actually a sort of tiny collection of forms, and thereby a form in its own right, the argument that one needs to turn one's back on it as poetry in order to return to form negates itself. The sentiment that it is used up also becomes unreasonable because the problem that has brought up that sentiment is misuse (or no use at all) of free verse brought on by a collective misunderstanding of what it is. In theory and in practice, there is no limit to the variation and possible manipulations of the free verse form, just as there is no limit to the variations and possible manipulations of the sonnet (and most of the other traditional) forms. How then could it be out-of-date, undesirable to use, and time to dicard it?
Free verse was first used by French symbolist poets in the late 1800s. T. S. Eliot was among the first poets writing in English to adopt it and introduced it to the English- speaking world by its French term, vers libre. He and other Modern poets adopted it in reaction to the disorientation that resulted with the advent of World War I. Since then, it has become the most used form (yes, form) of Western poetry. Many poets employ it as their default mode of expression. Because so much of free verse has been poorly written in recent years, and because confessional poetry (which free verse is closely associated with) has long since fallen out of fashion, there is a movement in the poetry world at the moment that declares it dead, used up, even inferior. Many are almost fanatically advocating the return of form as the mode of choice for 21st century poets.
But the very existence of such an ideal reveals an ignorance concerning how poetry is being practiced today and what exactly free verse (vers libre) really is. This ignorance is rather surprising when one takes into account the over-emphasis on academic degrees, professorships, and lecture posts among contemporary poets- so much so that the casual observer and beginning poet may come to think these are required for one to be a true poet.
The argument in favor of a return to form ignores two facts. One, that a large portion of contemporary poets utilise both traditional forms and free verse throughout their various oeuvres. Two, that free verse (vers libre) is itself a poetic form and, after more than a century's use, might well be considered as a traditional form in Western literature.
As for that first point, one could easily pick up the Collected volumes of any number of well known poets publishing today and see the truth of it. Many of our most beloved poets do not limit themselves either to free verse or tradional forms alone, but freely and skillfully employ anything available to them.
As for the second point, it is true that many use free verse incorrectly and lazily. Many mistakenly believe that free verse means that the poem can have no structure at all. Many poems passed off as "free verse" amount to little more than prose poems with line breaks and even stanza breaks. Some of it cannot even be loosely considered as prose poems. It would be beneficial to remind some that sentences seperated by blank spaces on the page do not make those sentences poetry. In fact, free verse is very structured and requires some skill to write in a satisfactory manner. It is a form.
Perhaps the best example of what I'm trying to clarify is the work of T. S. Eliot himself: "The Waste Land". Anyone who has taken poetry classes in any college in the U. S. has had to dissect this poem. Look closely at it again. It is written in free verse (or as Eliot himself would have called it: vers libre). But what is it that makes it liberal or liberated as a form? You will quickly see that it is not a total lack of form. In fact, it is a potpourri of forms. And that is what free verse is: it uses what is commonly refered to as the traditional forms and slips in and out of them freely. Sometimes these parts rhyme and sometimes they don't. But never is there a moment in that poem where form does not exist. One piece may be blank verse, another a variation on a sonnet. It changes. It is fluid. It is living. But it is undeniably structured.
When one realises that free verse is actually a sort of tiny collection of forms, and thereby a form in its own right, the argument that one needs to turn one's back on it as poetry in order to return to form negates itself. The sentiment that it is used up also becomes unreasonable because the problem that has brought up that sentiment is misuse (or no use at all) of free verse brought on by a collective misunderstanding of what it is. In theory and in practice, there is no limit to the variation and possible manipulations of the free verse form, just as there is no limit to the variations and possible manipulations of the sonnet (and most of the other traditional) forms. How then could it be out-of-date, undesirable to use, and time to dicard it?
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Review of Jim Webb's "Get In, Jesus"
"Get In, Jesus" says a 'mountain crazy' who picks up a long haired, bearded hitch-hiker on the Pike/Letcher County (Kentucky) Line. This aptly illustrates Jim Webb's reputation in Central Appalachia. When people speak of Jim Webb it is almost always in near mythic terms. In fact, the Afterword of the book describes him as if he were some kind of demi-god who strides over, above, and through all. Get out of the way.
There is some truth behind the myth. Webb has on several occasions lost the totality of his earthly possessions to arson - including his entire poetic oeuvre up to that point - due to his persistent outspokenness against Mountaintop Removal and other injustices in Central Appalachia. He invented an alter-ego persona called Wiley Quixote for newspaper commentaries, a play, and finally Appalshop's community public radio station WMMT-FM. He is a member of SAWC (Southern Appalachian Writers Cooperative). He is, beyond any doubt, at the top of the poet-ladder in Appalachia. Through his work with Appalshop and WMMT-FM, he has supported and spring-boarded almost every artist, musician, writer, and poet in the region over the last 30 years. As if that were not enough, he owns half of Pine Mountain where he runs Wiley's Last Resort. Among the regional artistic community, he is spoken of as if he brought about the Appalachian Modern Movement (a.k.a. the Appalachian Renaissance) single-handedly.
This giant reputation has made a giant of a man - physically small in stature, but when he gets on a roll about something he's passionate about he seems to literally grow taller and darker with the sheer overwhelming energy and force of that passion like Gandalf in J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Lord of the Rings". Few are able to withstand the heat; most I've seen cower and comply. This trait, along with the very strongly entrenched cultural maxim to "respect your elders", accounts for the over-reverence that the artistic community in Central Appalachia has for Webb. He's like a bull: a quiet, watchful, mostly benign type - until you climb his fence, so to speak.
That trait comes across loud and clear in his poetry. This is a book written with the blood of rage. At first, I wasn't much impressed. On paper, it seemed to rely almost entirely on puns in the vernacular (for it is written mostly in the Appalachian language or dialect), pure and unadulterated anger, and bombast. But as the book progressed, I began to notice a very strong assonant play. Vowels are everything to the music of Webb's words. For the most part, though, this stuff is written to be raw and even ugly - ugly like the fire and brimstone running in Webb's veins, ugly like a stripped carcass shell of a decapitated mountain. Webb screams rebukes in so many directions it makes one dizzy and prone to headache. I find it ironic that a man who is so completely irreverent toward everything Appalachian should be the subject of so much awe by Appalachians. The worst of his vitriol is reserved for King Coal and the "Greed Heads" who rape the rainforest into pockets of desert. He tends to punctuate all this with sarcastic scatting in the same tradition as when someone mockingly says "well, whoop-de-doo!"
By the time I finished reading the book, I was convinced that Webb has secured for himself a forever mythic standing in Central Appalachian poetics in much the same way that Sylvia Plath is remembered less for her words and more for her suicide. The regional artistic community has forgotten something. And it's possible that maybe even history will forget it, too. What has been forgotten? Simply that a phenomenon such as the Appalachian Renaissance (Appalachian Modern Movement) is too big to be caused by one man. T.S. Eliot is often called the "Father of Modern poetry", but there would have been no such thing as a school of poetry if he alone had practiced it. Similarly, Jim Webb is called the "Godfather of Appalachian poetry" (interesting that even here the word "god" gets inserted), but there is a whole generation of artists, musicians, writers, and poets that make up this movement known variously as the Appalachian Renaissance and the Appalachian Modern Movement. Without them, this moment in history wouldn't be happening. Whether they realise it or not, they carry Jim Webb just as much as he carries them. And despite the towering dark preacher of madness (in the American sense of "anger") that comes out so easily, part of Webb knows this.
The only tell, however, are the closing lines of the book from the title poem (which is available on T-shirts if you'd like to wear it as a manifesto - many do):
"Are you really Jesus?"
he says with a sawmill smile
I smile back
"If I was Jesus
You think I'd be
thumbin'?"
We all grin,
wheels spin,
gravels fly,
the dust
settles"
Get the book here at Amazon.
Note: Formatting of the poem was not preserved in this article. This is beyond my control.
Legal Disclosure: the author has a business relationship to a person, company, product, or service mentioned in that message. http://cmp.ly/4
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