Book trailer for "Linger To Look"

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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.

 

Talking with Lia Parisyan

Lia Parisyan wears many artistic hats as a Google search will confirm. She is lovely and highly talented. Today, we talk to her about her poetry.

S.R. You seem to be various in your approach to writing and other arts. What is it that draws you to poetry in particular?

L.P. I have always been drawn to sound and imagery. I like painting a picture for readers and listeners. Poetry has been an outlet for me to express my joy, grief, doubts- it’s very therapeutic, and it appeals to me because the page is more a witness than a judge.

S.R. How would you describe your writing style and what influences you?

 L.P. Eclectic. I consider myself a Symbolist. I am influenced by color, the spirit world, and my day-to-day surroundings.
 

S.R. Do you recall the first poem you read? Please, share the experience.
 

L.P. The first poem I ever read was in Armenian. It was set to music, and it was about a famous battle. The imagery was so vivid, and made a lasting impression on me because I felt like I was in midst of it.
 

S.R. In your blog, you hint at being well-traveled. Where are all the places you've travelled to?

L.P. I have lived in Santa Catarina, Brazil, and Yerevan, Armenia. I have travelled to Mexico, Turkey, Turks & Caicos, most of the United States’ East coast, Canada, NKR, and Holland. I hope to travel more. My next destination will be Thailand.

S.R. How have these impacted your writing?
 

L.P. Brazil and Armenia had a profound impact on my writing as I was introduced to new words, ideologies, colors, and traditions. The sea, the moon, jewels, and remnants of the Old World often appear in my poems and prose.
 

S.R. Armenia seems to have a special something for you due to being part of your ancestry. What is your relationship to it and how did visiting there help you to grow as a poet?
 

L.P. I have always wanted to experience Armenia. I am part Armenian, part Syrian, and part mélange. My family on my mother’s side is from Syria, and are part Armenian and part Arab, and my father’s side is from Turkey. I am a child of the diaspora, and the culture I experienced was a mix of French colonialism, Arab Modernism fused with American suburbianism. It was difficult growing up because there was never a sense of belonging; I had a fragmented identity, and going to Armenia helped me realize how unique the culture is in Yerevan and other cities, and how the “Armenian” culture I experienced was so different from what I experienced abroad. It helped me reassess my values, helped me explore new themes, and helped me realize that I didn’t have to belong, and could create my own space and identity. Many of these ideas are making their way into my newer poems, and it’s an infant theme that I would like to develop further.
 

S.R. What projects are you working toward?

L.P. I am working on an Art Collaborative in the Bronx, and I hope to link writers, artists, poets, photographers, etc.,  to have them explore themes together, create new discourses, and give them the opportunity to have physical spaces for expression and exhibitions. 

S.R. Who would you like to work with in the future and why?
 

L.P. Honestly... Eminem. He was the person who made me think about words and really want to write. I watched an interview with Eminem and Anderson Cooper a while back, and saw that he too had a box of scribbles, and writes on everything from matchbooks to receipts to hotel stationary. It was nice to know there was another compulsive writer out there. I also have a love of euphony, and he’s a genius when it comes to playing with sounds and extended metaphors.
 

S.R. Where do you see yourself in 10 years poetically?
 

L.P. I would like to publish a book of photographs and poems. I see myself traveling, and creating Photo-Poem/Prose books that aim to capture an image and the essence of a moment.
 

S.R. What advice would you give to an aspiring poet?
 

L.P. Write every day. Don’t judge yourself too harshly. Sit and observe a place and person, write down your observations. Look at recurring themes and images, see how you can develop those further.
 

Learn more about Lia Parisyan on Facebook

Adam Zagajewski's "Another Beauty"

(Originally published on Yahoo! Voices on April 21, 2011)

This is a uniquely written book that will echo in your consciousness for some time and readily welcome repeated readings.

It's difficult to catagorize this work. It reads like several genres at once. It has the lofty, heady, thought-provoking euphoria of poetry. It is compiled like a collection of quotes or vignettes. Time is not linear in this book. No, the memories recounted herein are written exactly as the flashes of meandering imagist thoughts that memories really are, colored as deeply by emotion and perception as by fact. Ultimately, this is a memoir of the Polish poet's years as a university student in Krakow in the 1960's and '70s.

Zagajewski grew up in Gliwice, next door to an empty, silent, and not yet fully acknowledged Auschwitz. He fully describes the ghetto of Krakow's Kazimierz District- he calls it "the graveyard quarter"- , once the home of the city's Jews who had been systematically murdered by the Nazis and which by then was almost empty and open to the elements and whatever weeds wanted to grow in the cracks of the floors.

He labors under the expectations of an ever-watchful Soviet state. He dwells much on how he managed to teeter on the fence between cooperation with totalitarianism and resistance to it. The colors of this book are dark- grays, browns, blacks, with an occasional wisp of indifferently blue sky. Most of his memories are of winter and heavy, reeking furs. But it is plain he very much loved Krakow. Perhaps his youth is accountable, but he seems to manage a happiness there that evades the rest of the poor and struggling population. It was anathema to throw anything away, even if it had broken, because there might be a time- and often was- when finding some way to force the broken piece to work was necessary for survival. People patched their clothes and bragged about how many decades they wore them. Elevators existed but were seldom operational. Zagajewski paints for us the vivid recollections of youth in a world of old, beaten, disillusioned, or deeply compromised souls- some of whom seemed to have had their souls completely stolen or killed outright. He shows us a people, including himself, who remained religious and frequented the churches and cathedrals as more than tourists. This, it seems, was coldly tolerated by a wearying regime. In fact, places of worship become havens of art as the book progresses, at least in his mind.

He talks about music a great deal. He dwells mostly on classical music and its masters, but he does open a window to the jazz bands that would frequent Krakow in the winter, and brought a completely foriegn but vital breath to the place. He also loves birds, particularly the contrast between swallows and blackbirds.

Woven throughout are excursions into the present: into beautiful, erotic Paris and very briefly to Houston, Texas, U.S.A.. These are the cities Zagajewski splits his time between now. His discussions of Paris are almost mythical in their fantasy. It stands in sharp contrast to the misery of Krakow, which is softened only by his youth and the dominant question of his life:

How to reconcile poetry and philosophy? (Interestingly, in an age when Freud was revered as a god, he did a master's thesis in defense of introspection under a professor who regarded Freud as a fraud of the worst kind. The unusual insight that shows impresses me.)

This book is a necessary read for anyone who loves poetry, is interested in history, remembers what it was like to live in the terrible shadow of the Cold War, and who loves life- the joys and the sorrows. I can't imagine a better book to have spent National Poetry Month 2011 with.

Learn more about Adam Zagajewski.

Buy "Another Beauty" on Amazon.

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"Emerald Hills" by Artemis Blithe

(Originally published on Yahoo! Voices on October 23, 2013)

Artemis Blithe is a poet currently living in Eastern Kentucky, U.S.A., but he is far from the stereotypical Appalachian poet. Blithe's work falls squarely into the realm of performance poetry. His book "Emerald Hills" is available through lulu.com.

Blithe's poems are written in a flow-of-thought prose style, so it is difficult to sense the rhythms that one hears when he reads. His grammar is at times intentionally askew. The odd misspelled word is thrown in. He writes with an almost overbearing megalomania that clearly draws from Walt Whitman. In fact, he could be a modern version of Whitman. Blithe rages all over the pages, declares general superiority, and champions a return to living in harmony with the earth. His statements are just as absolute, his declarations just as forceful, as Whitman's ever were.

But the power of the words and lines is greatly diminished in the medium of print. His is a poetry not meant to read. It is meant to be heard, to be delivered in a bombastic whirlwind of dramatic rapping, to be punctuated by audience participation in the form of applause and spontaneous shouts of agreement as if it were a sermon delivered by a hiccupping old regular Baptist or Pentecostal preacher. Maybe that is what Blithe is: a preacher of his own unique faith. But if he is a leader, the path he intends to lead us on is not well-defined. It is the path of an angry soul who is still searching himself. Was that perhaps true of Whitman in the day?

As a book of poetry in print, "Emerald Hills" does not work. But should you have a chance to hear Blithe read, then the mess of the print will make sense and ignite with hard-hitting gunpowder. Artemis Blithe proves himself a solid descendant of the Beat generation and of that universally acknowledged father of American poetry Walt Whitman.

Artemis Blithe's Facebook page.

Buy "Emerald Hills" on lulu.com.

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Spoken Word Review: Michael C. Ford's "Look Each Other in the Ears"

(Originally published on Yahoo! Voices on June 29, 2014)

"Look Each Other In The Ears" is the latest Spoken Word offering by Grammy-nominated poet Michael C. Ford. At 74 years old, Ford has had a long, thrilling career as a poet and all that experience comes to bear on this album.

Ford often reminisces about the by-gone days of Los Angeles and that makes his poetry very location-specific. Not having ever been to L.A. made it difficult to conjure the images he clearly means to draw upon. But the spirit of the poems is clear. These are dark meditations on the negative aspects of "progress" and suburban squalor. Ford certainly has the deep-seated anger and discontent common to contemporary poets. We are taken along through the L.A. of his youth and its deterioration through time in a way that is both very straight-forward and layered with multiple meanings. He rails against the loss of orange groves and the building of cookie-cutter housing developments, the growing disrespect for the arts and poetry in particular, and against his own profession as a Spoken Word artist. In one poem, he goes on a trip to Mars to escape modern American life only to find Mars has its own version which causes him to de-evolve - an interesting commentary on how Ford sees the world. My favorite line on the album is in the fourth track, "I Don't Wanna Go (Said The Suicide)":

"We stand on the bridge with John Berryman; but we relinquish our inclination to jump and it has nothing to do with religion; it is simply, as we grow older we discover there's not that much left to kill!"

The second half continues with the themes of environmental destruction and general decay but takes on a decidedly more political element. The eighth track, "(Autobiography of) An American Bomb", is unsettling but not as jarring as the Christmas jingle turned into "Halliburton's cashing in" in the next track, "Wartime Carol (Bringing The War Back Home)". The final track, "Float Of Drive (Triple Bypass)" seems to attempt to transcend the grimy negativity of the rest of the album by introducing rain. Rain makes music wherever it falls, no matter how miserable the surroundings. This is an effective metaphor for poets. As the track progresses, however, we feel that transcendence ultimately fails until we come to the final word: "over". This is pronounced in such a way as to suggest that, finally, Ford is over it all.

All this darkness is well counter-balanced by the music on the album. This music was mainly made by the surviving members of The Doors - John Densmore, Robby Krieger, and Ray Manzarek. In fact, it is one of the last recordings made by Ray Manzarek prior to his death on May 20, 2013. To support Ford's clear, enunciated performance, these men went back to their jazz roots. They were accompanied on various tracks by a full list of musicians and vocalists. Most notable of these were those who wrote the choruses and bridges: Tommy Jordan of the band Geggy Tah with Harlan Steinberger. There is even a moment of delicious scatting. The result is a light, airy, funky vibe that carries the heaviness of the lyrics perfectly.

All in all, this is a highly relevant, if slightly harrowing, album that will age very well, I think - like fine wine. There is unlikely to be a more accurate expression of the times we are currently living in. It has been an honor to listen to and review this CD (which is also available as an mp3 download).

Learn more about Michael C. Ford.

Buy "Look Each Other In The Ears" on Amazon.

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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.

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Rusty Morrison's "The True Keeps Calm Biding Its Story"

 

(Originally published on Yahoo! Voices on April 26, 2009)

Rusty Morrison, The True Keeps Calm Biding Its Story, (Ahsahta Press, 2008) 72 pages, poetry, $17.50 U.S.

Rusty Morrison here offers us her sophmore collection of poetry and It did, however, win the Academy of American Poets' prestigious James Laughlin Award in 2008.

Morrison is grappling with the death of her father. To her credit, such an experience is fundamentally indescribable. At least she tried. It almost feels as though she didn't have a choice. Most artists have no other alternative in the face of challenging events but to process them through art and so she has. The end result is a true, tangled labyrinth of emotion and clever lines. Morrison knows how to manipulate the beauty in language and occasionally a particular line will give pause.

But the book seems to fall short of its goal and flounder where it most needs to shine. At times, whole poems implode under the weight of what Morrison is attempting to describe although they do so spectacularly. The poet falls victim to loving her own sound too much. Many lines are clever descriptions and observations on life, but seem to have no purpose other than that. One is left wondering, "What was that about really? What is it she was trying to say?" Morrison thus allows herself to sabotage the full emotional effect for the sake of flowery music.

Every line in the book is ended with one of or a combination of the words "please, advise, stop". The idea of doing this is interesting and required a boldness that should be applauded. However, 72 pages are too long to sustain this effectively. What begins as an interesting structural and artistic device becomes annoying. After a while, Morrison's use of this device makes the work sound desperate, whiny, even boastful of her grief. From there it loses all emotion (and poetic value) and the lines roll off the tongue like cold excerpts from old telegrams.

Morrison used her art to try to make terms with one of the worst experiences of a person's life. I hope she did draw much solace from the effort. Ultimately, though, the collection fails if viewed as art alone. The True Keeps Calm Biding Its Story is an extremely ambitious project that over-stretches itself.

Learn about Rusty Morrison.

Buy The True Keeps Calm Biding Its Story.

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Book Review: Milo Martin's "Poems for the Utopian Nihilist"

 

(Originally published on Yahoo! Voices on October 28, 2008)

Milo Martin, Poems for the Utopian Nihilist, (Echo Park Press, 2008) 132 pages, poetry, $13.95 U.S.

This is one of those books one cannot help but wish one wrote. Milo Martin writes poems for what is being touted as the first new movement in poetry in the 21st century: the Utopian Nihilists, (for an idea of what that is Martin has kindly included a Manifesto in the back).

These poems follow a flow-of-thought pattern, not always coming full circle, and are always surprising. The rhythms, use of repetition and long rambling lines point to a body of work clearly meant to be performed. Precursors to Martin would include the Beats and the Slam culture. Yet Martin's almost jazz-like compositions are very much products of this time. It may be that no other poet writing today has yet captured the uniqueness of 21st century living and viewpoints as has Martin.

Each piece in Poems for the Utopian Nihilist feels like a wild, rollicking and spontaneous journey. It is clear, without reading the author's bio, that these works spring from the beautifully varied and energizing culture of California. Martin has composed a book that a reader will revel in again and again and always sense something new. Intoxicating, delightful yet unflinching, Martin sings like a tarnished bell proclaiming the imminent death of our time while enjoying every moment of madness as if each were the consummate joy of all joys.

Visit Martin's Facebook.

Buy "Poems for the Utopian Nihilist" on Amazon.

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Review of "Tomorrow, Yvonne: Poetry & Prose for Suicidal Egotists"

 

(Originally published on Yahoo! Voices on January 30, 2013)

In literary mythology and legend, poets were beings of a lofty kind. They were prophets, messengers of the gods or at least of the times. They were eccentric, crazy, lonely, fools, and wisdom personified. They were terrifying and compassionate, cold and warm, dazzling and puzzling. They went through the worst life had to deal out so as to sing of the most beautiful. But after 1914, two World Wars, Modernism, the bloodiest century in history (the 20th), followed quickly by what is stacking up to be an even more harrowing one (the 21st), we're all grown up now. We don't believe the stories. Our poets today are not heros with hearts closer to divinity. They are as dirty and ordinary as we are. And we treat them accordingly.

Yvonne De La Vega both embraces this notion and challenges it in one breath. Her debut collection (which is also her Collected Poems) titled "Tomorrow, Yvonne: Poetry & Prose for Suicidal Egotists" is a thick volume full of surprises. The language is ordinary, sometimes in the gutter. The rhythms are those of Spoken Word poetry - lending itself more to audio than to text. And indeed, up to now, that is how De La Vega's poetry has been presented and enjoyed. She is a lady of the street and of the moment, of seedy hangout joints and alleys where nothing much has changed but the drug in vogue. She can tell the stories of folk we tend to overlook: the homeless, the down-and-out, the never-had-glory-days, the castaway veteran, the bewildered immigrant, etc. But she also carries the lofty calling: declaring that poetry without a purpose isn't poetry at all, that the war between good and evil is real, implying again and again that somehow she is meant by some higher power to write, and even reporting from the front lines of the Occupy Los Angeles Movement.

This book is larger than life, like the city she writes from. De La Vega has a stated passion for jazz and her poetry reads like jazz, particularly when read as a whole as this book allows. Free-form like water and hard to take in all at once - that's Yvonne De La Vega. Eccentric, crazy, lonely, terrifying and compassionate, cold and warm, dazzling and puzzling, a witness to our times, and as ordinary as your neighbor. Somehow, she's all those contradictions. "Tomorrow, Yvonne: Poetry & Prose for Suicidal Egotists" is a contemporary answer to the literary legend.

Learn more about De La Vega at Facebook.

Buy "Tomorrow, Yvonne: Poetry and Prose for Suicidal Egotists" at Amazon.

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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.

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's "The Song of Hiawatha"

(Originally published on Yahoo! Voices on January 14, 2010)

"The Song of Hiawatha" is one of the most beloved American classics and yet has been a little neglected recently by the literary community at large. Perhaps its pre-modern origins make it uninteresting as a modern study, or maybe it has simply become a text that is taken for granted? Who knows.

My mother found and gifted to me a 112 year old copy of this book. It was published within 50 years of the epic's first appearance in 1855. It is the Minnehaha Edition with illustrations published by Thompson & Thomas of Chicago in 1898. It is cloth-bound with what looks to have been at one time a beautiful gilded cover. It has a very short uncredited introduction and six pages of notes in the back. Otherwise, there is no scholarly material.

Longfellow was a poet of his time in many senses. One evidence of which is his careful attention to form and musicality within his work. Another was his choice of subject matter which he was at a opportune time in history to explore and record. What makes Longfellow stand out is the ease with which this book-length poem can be read. I am generally not inclined to read book-length poems because of their ungainliness. Poetry sustained over such a long stretch can tend to become cumbersome, dull, and difficult to follow. Not so "The Song of Hiawatha".

Such as the introduction and notes to this particular volume are, they do shed some light on Longfellow's sources for the material contained in "Hiawatha". The disadvantage of reading such an early edition is that these sources are stated as though generally known and accessible, which is not the case for the average modern reader who has not already made a scholarly study of the poem. These are stated this way: Schoolcraft's Algic Researches and other books, from Heckewelder's Narratives, from Black Hawk (one of the most famous Native American chiefs in U.S. history and who Longfellow associated with in Boston. Black Hawk died in 1838), and from the Ojibway chief Kahge-ga-gah-bowh, whom Longfellow entertained at his home.

Though the legends that inspired "Hiawatha" are more or less common to the Native American populations and there are references within the poem to locations throughout the United States, "Hiawatha" largely concerns itself with the Ojibways (modern spelling: Ojibwe or Ojibwa) and much of the story takes place on the southern shores of Lake Superior in Michigan. Hiawatha himself is depicted as an Ojibway of supernatural origins.

There are many similarities in the action of this poem with other known legends and narratives of other cultures. In one part, Hiawatha takes a journey to settle the score with his father, the north-west wind, who jilted his mother who later died of heartbreak that, although told swiftly and briefly, echoes the Odyssey. There are also some similarity with Greek myths concerning stars, etc. Biblical narratives are also brought to mind when Hiawatha gets swallowed by a fish, wrestles an angel-like creature which gave corn its name, and whose friend is the strongest man ever to live and has only one weakness which is fatally exploited, etc.

What may be the most remembered moments of the epic are those involving Hiawatha's relationship with Minnehaha. She was of one of the Dacotah tribes (the notes tell us that those known as the Sioux are most likely meant here) which were longtime enemies of the Ojibways and Hiawatha's marriage to her brought peace between them for a time. Lines 1-5 and 15-20 of Chapter 10, in which Hiawatha and his grandmother Nokomis discuss marriage, are possibly the most quoted passages of the whole poem.

The singular beauty, musicality, and readability of the work may be most owing to the proliferation of Native American names and terms throughout. Except place-names, these are usually explained within the text of the poem as part of the form. For the names of locations, one usually has to refer to the notes in the back or to small clues left in the text and one's knowledge of U.S. geography.

There can be no doubt of the service that Longfellow rendered in preserving these legends in surprisingly accessible form for future generations and readers. It would be beneficial to see more scholarly papers written about "The Song of Hiawatha", from both the viewpoint of the "white" majority and especially from the viewpoint of Native Americans.

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Review of "You and Three Others Are Approaching A Lake"

(Originally published on Yahoo! Voices on March 9, 2012)

Anna Moschovakis, "You And Three Others Are Approaching A Lake" (Coffee House Press, 2011) 119 pages, poetry, $16. Winner of the 2011 James Laughlin Award given by the Academy of American Poets.

I was a little distracted by the title when first opening this. It suggested the scenes at Lake Silencio for this fan of the BBC series "Doctor Who". But, of course, Anna Moschovakis had nothing of the sort in mind when she penned her second poetry collection "You And Three Others Are Approaching A Lake." What did she have in mind? I'm not sure. The lake does have some metaphorical significance, but I couldn't sniff it out with certainty. What is clear is that this is poetry with a mission.

Moschovakis employs lines that are aurally as far from poetry as one can get. They are often almost dry statements which seem to be clipped from various news broadcasts and stitched together. This is not to suggest that this is not poetry, however. This is poetry in the sense of its not-showing-all-the-cards aspect. The careful choosing of her prosaic lines leaves a great deal unsaid, inferred, and the pregnant pauses are uncomfortable ones.

Moschovakis attacks everything Western culture is and she attacks it violently. From over-comsumption and waste to commercialism and materialism to what passes for recreation to the new lows that technology has allowed mankind to reach, she places the whole of Western vice before the reader and forces one to look long and hard at it. Not only does she bloody the culture itself but she also points out exactly what its effect on the human psyche has been. Humans are in the background of this collection and so are human emotions. In fact, those emotions society might consider as virtuous in a human being- desire, humor- are addressed only through the viewpoint of a "Human Machine" and "Annabot". Violence to the planet and its others species is a recurring theme. This is industrialized and technologicalized poetry. It is hard, unflinching, and it wounds.

The oddest thing about the four long poems that make up this book is that they do not feel political at all. One's logic says they are, that they must be and fiercely so. But they do not feel it. They do not read it. Somehow, despite extremely dark and heavy material, Moschovakis manages to maintain an intimacy that precludes an obvious political rant.

What Anna Moschovakis has achieved with this work is to rudely awaken her readers to a reality that is very uncomfortable to admit and nearly impossible to come to terms with. It is a reality so condemning that it is easier to forget it, ignore it, or remain in ignorance of it than to address it. Bravo to Moschovakis' bravery in not only making her readers consider it, but also in being willing to face it herself.

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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.”

An Interview with Poet Ellyn Maybe

(Originally published on Yahoo! Voices on May 24, 2012)

Ellyn Maybe is a formidable figure in contemporary American poetry today. Her work in fusing the so-called separate arts of music and poetry into one art form has been groundbreaking. Her most recent work, a CD of her poems set to music called "Rodeo For The Sheepish", continues to garner praise and notoriety wherever it is heard or performed. This interview was conducted via email on May 11 and 12, 2012:

S.R.: What was it that drew you to poetry in the beginning?

E.M.: When I was living in Manhattan, I was walking by a bookstore and a poem came to me inspired by something that I saw through the window. Something tends to spark a poem and then the poem comes quickly.

S.R.: What is it that you hope to achieve with your work?

E.M.: Resonance.

S.R.: What is it that most inspires you in your daily life?

E.M.: The arts. Watching a YouTube clip of Leonard Bernstein talking about Beethoven or seeing Ray Charles doing Ring of Fire or hearing Lou Reed singing Perfect Day are inspiring, stimulating things for me which I thrive on. Plus, I work at a literary center so I see a lot of poetry readings and other various events, including film screenings, talks, etc. I also attend events around Los Angeles. I've been doing that for many years.

S.R.: What would you say is the most exciting or fulfilling thing your work in poetry has given you opportunity to do, and why?

E.M.: My poetry has been nourished and appreciated which has led to some really amazing things. It's an ongoing process.

S.R.: Is there a specific opportunity or event that stands out to you? Why was it particularly special for you?

E.M.: When Greil Marcus, the amazing music writer, got in touch to write about Rodeo for the Sheepish, it was a very touching experience. He had heard half of City Streets on KALX in Berkeley. When your work impacts people whose work you admire, that is incredible. Many years ago, I gave my chapbook to Howard Zinn and Michael Parenti and they both wrote back lovely things immediately. That was amazing.

S.R.: Why are you so drawn to music, and what further projects do you have in mind to bring your passions for poetry and music together?

E.M.: I've always found music a kindred language. I'm planning to do another album with my band and continue writing and performing with them.

S.R.: What were your objectives for "Rodeo For The Sheepish" in particular? What do you think could have been done better? Do you feel that it has lived up to those objectives?

E.M.: I didn't have particular objectives for Rodeo for the Sheepish. It happened somewhat spontaneously and we were very happy how it turned out. The fact that The Ellyn Maybe Band now exists is awesome. We're writing songs together and have performed in Ireland and at the Glastonbury Festival in the UK as well as Shakespeare and Company in Paris.

S.R.: What are your other hobbies/passions? How would you like to bring them all together some day?

E.M.: Film, theater, art. I would like to collaborate in these various art forms. Expand my horizons. Some of this is already taking place. I wrote a book of poems inspired by my cousins' nature photographs. I would love for Rodeo for the Sheepish to turn into a musical someday, but don't really know when that will happen. Five videos have been made for the songs on Rodeo and there are ten tracks so, hopefully, they will all have a video someday.

S.R.: In a lot of ways poetry is as much about humor, play, and having fun as it is about serious issues and art. Which of these would you most like readers/listeners to take from your art? Or do you prefer a balance between them and why?

E.M.: I hope the mixture is something that people find compelling. Humor and sadness dwell in there and hopefully add to the emotional landscape.

S.R.: What do you think is most important for a poet in this digital age? Do you think it helps or hinders the art?

E.M.: I think connecting with others is very important and also finding community. It's crucial and I have found it to be helpful. Being computer savvy helps with social media, that sort of thing, but you don't have to be too technical to do it.

S.R.: What would you like to see change for poets?

E.M.: It would be truly awesome if the financial situation would get a bit brighter!

Ellyn Maybe's FaceBook

Learn more about Beyond Boroque

Buy "Rodeo For The Sheepish" on Amazon

Spoken Word Review: Ellyn Maybe's "Rodeo for the Sheepish"

(Originally published on Yahoo! Voices on April 16, 2012)

A friend of mine said I was brave. But we all know there's a thin line between brave and stupid, and sometimes it's hard to know the difference. When Ellyn Maybe 'liked' my Facebook page, without thinking, I offered to review her latest work "Rodeo For The Sheepish." Never mind that she is a giant in the world of poetry. And never mind that she has worked with the likes of Viggo Mortenson, performed at the Glastonbury Festival (the same year as U2), has her own band, The Ellyn Maybe Band, and eats little known poets like me for breakfast (in terms of accomplishments). Brave or stupid?

One thing I came armed with to this endeavor was a similar love of poetry and music. While much of the world sees them as the same (often using the same word for both in language), the U.S. seems singular in its need to debate the point. Are they the same? If not, which is the superior art form and why? Does it somehow degrade one or the other to suggest they are the same? There is a growing legion of poets and musicians who are answering by putting music and poetry together. Musicians provide the score of either original music or cover tunes to which poets read their work. The results can vary considerably.

Ellyn Maybe teamed up with Harlan Steinberger for musical composition and Tommy Jordan of Geggy Tah for vocals for her latest answer to that debate. The end result: "Rodeo For The Sheepish." I'll cut to the chase by saying straight out this is the best of the attempts to marry poetry and music I have heard thus far.

At first, the music strikes one as 1980s pop updated for a new generation. Listen more and it grows. All true art has the ability to grow and never stop. I soon found myself choreographing for it in my mind. What better compliment is there than that? And Maybe's poetry is a deceptively light tripping through 20th Century pop culture and bent social order. She describes with painful accuracy what it is like to be a woman in today's world and what it is like to be an artist.

For me, it really gets going in the second half of the album. Tracks like "Silvia Plath," "Room Part Two," and "People" make me come back again and again. There is a magic in those tracks - a witty turn of phrase and a compelling sense of rhythm in both the poetry and the music that reverberates through the soul. By far my favorite track, however, is "Being An Artist." It is humorous, both self-deprecating and self-glorifying at once, and an overwhelming chronicle of truth. The music is contagious, joyous, begs to be danced to. Who can resist drums like those?

When I first listened to the album, I felt a sense of disappointment. But like all truly good and challenging work, it grew on me into something fabulously unique and wonderful. The world is just a tiny little bit more joyous because this album was made.

Are music and poetry the same, or at least equal? I think Ellyn Maybe's "Rodeo For The Sheepish" answers a resounding yes! As for brave or stupid, maybe the not knowing is part of what makes life a work of art in and of itself.

Buy the CD/mp3 on Amazon.
Find Ellyn Maybe on FaceBook.

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"Marrow" Featured on SpicyLetter.net

Yon Walls, Senior Editor for SpicyLetter, has written a beautiful review about my little art book "Marrow" on SpicyLetter's Culture Spice section. She spoke of it as "a lovely, heartbreaking handmade chapbook" with "poems that emerge from a deep place of suffering and anguish as experienced by children with cancer and their families." She also printed the title poem. Read the entire piece here. She has graciously agreed to post a review of it on its Goodreads listing page in a few days. I will update this post when I see it. Another 4 reviews of "Marrow" are pending. Also, I am slated to be interviewed for SpicyLetter in the Autumn. Watch this space for that.

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.

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.

Review of Jim Webb's "Get In, Jesus"

Jim Webb, "Get In, Jesus: New & Selected Poems," (Wind Publications, 2013) 111 pages, poetry, $13.50 U.S.

"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.

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