Pushcart XLIII: John Ashbery, “Just the One Episode” (poem) from Litmag #1

Art by Stacy Hutchinson (detail)

Art by Stacy Hutchinson (detail)

My thanks for these various emails,
and regrets for not responding sooner.
I was weighing myself on the old-fashioned scale
in front of the druggist. It delivers your fortune
along with your weight – “your wate and fate.”
Mine was, to say the least, distressing,
but, like all prophecies, contained
in the narrow groove of its delivery.

John Ashbery died in 2017 after a life of poetic greatness. Poetic dunce that I am, I only became aware of him about five years ago via the Modern Poetry mooc (Modpo) lovingly cultivated by Al Filreis at Penn. Ashbery was a featured poet during that iteration of the course; “Some Trees” became the source for my own vid-poem during my mesostic phase, and his “Instruction Manual” likewise found its way into my “When MOOCs collide” video. The haunting “As Long As You Are” were the last words spoken in the final live webcast of the course, and left many of us around the world in tears. So I have a strong affection for Ashbery.

What I don’t have is the expertise to do him justice. But I shall give it a might try, as this is likely the last opportunity I will have in these pages. This is, by the way, his first appearance in Pushcart, presumably because he rarely appeared in small presses.

In the category of happy coincidence, my Vermont Poet friend Patrick Gillespie put up a post just a couple of days ago that used Ashbery as an example of what he calls representational poetry as opposed to notional poetry. One of the many useful ideas I found there, one that seems quite specific to this poem we have at hand, is: “Ashbery disrupts any notional content with a kind of notional incongruence that defies the communication of a larger, consistent idea or notion.”

The above quoted lines seem congruent enough, but then again… Does the speaker imply that he didn’t reply to the email because he was busy weighing himself? Or is the apology dispatched with in the first two lines, and now he is merely sharing details of his life, starting with the weighing?

Do those old-fashioned scales still exist, other than on eBay? Is this a memory of days gone by? Or is this more of a daydream, a fantasy, or a metaphor for a more realistic scenario, such as a medical appointment, or perhaps the routine weighing of oneself on a bathroom scale and discovering significant, unintended weight loss? It seems very much like the delivery of personal prophecy, one with menacing implications.

That line, “contained / in the narrow groove of its delivery” resonates, not so much with considering the source, but with my cognitive-behavioral training, the recognition that words are neither good nor bad, kind nor insulting, encouraging or scary, but that our interpretation makes them so.

These are all somewhat mystifying but recognizable ideas. Then the poem goes into metaphoric hyperspace about “The French doors of truth” and, while the speaker’s eyes may be open, I am lost. I don’t know what the “tragically hemispheric wall of our deliverance” might be; I keep wanting to connect it to birth, to death as a birth into something else, something unknown, but that seems a bit fanciful and unsupported. All I come up with is, we know we must come to an end, and we don’t know what comes after.

But what are the apples, the painted rags? Somehow I connect this with Frank O’Hara’s poem “Oranges” which involved a painting, paint on canvas. They were close friends, sometimes wrote poems in conversation; could this be another of those, to one who’s gone before? But that may be comparing apples and oranges, and I may need to see someone about my loose associations.

I realize I’m fully invested in the poem as premonition of death. That’s not a completely unjustified option, but I wonder what I’ve turned away from as I turned to this. How much does my prior knowledge of Ashbery’s death, combined with the persistent elegiac tone of this entire Pushcart volume, bear upon this unconscious decision, and how much is in the text?

Then to end the poem we come back to the concrete:

The horoscope wasn’t wrong, only a little late,
while I have stuff to do, and crates to open.

The crates feel urgent to me. Somehow I come up with the image of unpacking from a move, but I have a move coming up soon so I might be imposing that on the poem. Has someone else died, necessitating a move or some kind of rearrangement of belongings, and the horoscope’s prediction was of a loss, rather than of personal misfortune? In any case, the turn is from contemplation of bad news, to more mundane and practical matters. This is a turn I should take more often.

I wonder if this is itself a letter to O’Hara, or what such a letter would have been like had O’Hara not died young. If Ashbery’s mortality was weighing heavily on him, he might have had an impulse to write O’Hara again. In updating to email, it would be as if the lapse in time, acknowledged in the first lines, wasn’t that important, as if he’d been corresponding with the dead poet all along.

This O’Hara connection comes up only because it happens to be something I am aware of. That’s the problem, isn’t it. I’m unaware of so much, perhaps there’s another reference that better fits the bill. I just read a commentary on one of the Umberto Eco novels which declared that it’s a puzzle for the reader to guess the historical and philosophical references within; I wouldn’t stand a chance. How can this referentiality work, when each reader has a different exposure to outside material?

What of the title? I read this medically as well: one episode of syncope, of chest pain, of some symptom that is a harbinger of more to come. It would be possible to see it as more of an episode in a series, as of a television series or the real-life program of every day living. But I am pretty much stuck on this coming to terms with one’s demise.

I went through some of the PennSound material on Ashbery and discovered a 1966 interview on “These Lacustrine Cities”. He distinguishes between obscure and incomprehensible, and asserts the importance of a poem communicating something, even if it is obscure, because it can be easier to communicate some things obscurely. I was most interested in his preface, in which he explained what he was thinking when he wrote the poem, but he adds, this “doesn’t bear on the meaning since no reader could ever know”. He was thinking of the ancient lake dwelling centers in Europe, Zurich in particular, settlements of thousands of years ago with houses built on stilts (if I recall my History of Architecture, similar structures existed in Japan and in northwest North America), now only left in ruins. While the poem does not specifically reference these settlements, knowing about them made the poem a lot more meaningful to me; or maybe I just enjoyed hearing it, who knows. And sure enough, his explanation of the poem didn’t include any references to anything specific, but to ideas, emotions, motivations anyone can access. Identifying them, however, is the challenge.

The “notional incongruence” Patrick raised is not necessarily a bad thing. We often combine unlike images, find inspiration for the sublime in the absurd. “One commonly reads something to the effect that Ashbery’s lines should be allowed to wash over the reader like evocative abstractions. In other words, like art,” says Patrick in his post. And here I am trying to nail down imagery, metaphor, to present them like butterflies pinned to a board, instead of enjoying their flight.

Where Patrick is less than enthusiastic about words as art rather than meaning (his sentence closing that above thought is: “That said, the purpose of language is to communicate. Full stop.” I’m pretty sure I disagree with this, but that’s between Patrick and me), Meghan O’Rourke expanded favorably on Ashbery’s less interpretable technique in a Slate article from 2005: “The best thing to do, then, is not to try to understand the poems but to try to take pleasure from their arrangement, the way you listen to music. It’s only then, for most readers, that the meaning begins to leak through.”

It’s a poem that evokes the hell out of me (but is it the poem, or the associations?), but also frustrates me as I fail to catch the butterflies. Maybe that’s the lesson I need to learn, to just enjoy the pursuit. But then someone will come along and explain every syllable, and I will again feel inadequate to the task, stupid, unworthy of the oxygen it takes to keep my fingers tapping.

Oh well. I should get to opening some crates of my own.

Pushcart XLIII: Molly Cooney, “Transition: The Renaming of Hope” (nonfiction) from Georgia Review, Summer 2017

Ashley Mackenzie: Phase Transition

Ashley Mackenzie: Phase Transition

I will miss Anne, with the well-placed e and easy shape. Steep climb, perfect point, and the slide into the runout of three short, round letters. The way the letters smooth across the page in a tiny creek of repeat, nn, and slip into silence. Anne. I will miss the way her name sighs. Anne. It’s quite ordinary, really, the taper into nothing and the beauty of that sweep.
I will miss the way Anne fits with Molly and Ellis. I’m Molly, and this is my partner Anne and my kid Ellis. Anne doesn’t say her name, unless she’s standing in front of an extended hand, forced to own something. But I say it, like a mantra sometimes, a reminder of where my feet stand. Molly, Anne, and Ellis. A reminder of where her toes are headed. She doesn’t even know her own name yet.
I will miss the voice of a decade of whispers, of vocal cords still short and lithe. The voice that hides behind compression shirts and silence and my willingness to speak, that presses down and adjusts its register, wishing for longer, thicker cords pushing sounds to a depth her small voice can only imagine now.
I hope she lets me record I love you before I have to let her voice go.

Complete story available online at Georgia Review

We all know the politics, the important civil rights issues (who knew plumbing would become part of political debate). But Cooney’s essay, though it touches on some of those topics, focuses on the interpersonal effects of transgendering. What is it like to pick a new name, to hide breasts, to need adult masculine clothing in petite sizes, to consider costs, including financial costs, and benefits of medical treatment? And: what’s it like to have one’s life partner transition? For all our sophisticated pondering about gender fluidity and spectrums, real life experience can be a lot more uncertain, a lot less classifiable into moral certainties.

One focus of the essay is the voice, how it defines us. Anne sees her voice as a betrayal; she’s masculinized her appearance, but without testosterone, her voice remains feminine. All her life she’s been quiet for various reasons: an overwhelming family, bullying at school. Now her voice becomes her tell. I would very much like to know, if she starts testosterone and her voice deepens, she will speak up more.

Names turn out to be more complicated than we might expect. We all use pseudonyms in the form of screen names these days, and many of us use nicknames, middle names, or other variations, but when it comes to changing one’s name, that seems like a bigger deal. The choices are infinite, raising the dilemma of overchoice, too many choices. And what do the kids call a transitioning parent? Anne’s process came late enough that she was able to pre-plan (they decided on “Poppy”), but other situations might get more complicated.

Then there are the more subtle aspects of gender, things we don’t notice until norms are violated:

There are layers and layers of learning how to re-gender yourself. It’s not just new clothes and a new name. Not just wide stance and strong shoulders, nor just taking up space and talking loudly. For many transmen it’s about how a guy props the door with his foot, that imperceptible difference in the kick of leg and tilt of hip. The tight nod hello. How a guy holds his toddler, no hip, arm crooked high. To teach yourself gender is to walk through the world as an artist, noticing details not meant to be noticed, watching each shift and sway and breath to find out how we codify and signify gender, and then to try on that skin day after day after day.
….There is no manual, no checklist, no comprehensive website; the process is mostly about so many details that are learned along the way, observing people and listening to stories shared by other genderqueer and transpeople, and it’s about so much patience.

When I read this, I immediately thought: why is there no comprehensive website? On causal googling I was able to find a few message boards, but they might not be sufficient (there are tons of message boards for all sorts of things, and most of them are crappy). Anyway, message boards are merely updated versions of word-of-mouth. But each situation is so different, and there are a huge range of needs; is large-scale advice possible? For very subtle features – posture, communication style – there may be no substitute for practice with feedback.

The article transitions into a different consideration: what is it like to be the partner of someone transitioning? Pop culture plays these things for laughs, or solves them neatly in 30 minutes or 10 pages, but again, real life isn’t as easily plotted. Cooney describes her reactions with exquisite clarity:

Holding Anne’s hand queered me. Standing next to her gender-nonconforming cuteness outed me to the world. What a relief. Anne fought all her life to blend in and I clamored to be noticed. As Anne transitions, she’ll shift from being seen as a queer dyke to being a straight white guy—suddenly tossed up from years of isolation to the place of privilege in our narrow mainstream world. And me? What will become of me? I’ll be seen as a straight girl living in the Longfellow neighborhood of South Minneapolis with her husband, toddler, two cats, and a dog in our two-story house with a porch in front, raspberries in the garden, and a giant maple out back. I try to imagine the assumptions people will make about my family and my life, about who I am and what I stand for. You can see us now, standing side by side. Hand in hand. Ellis tight on my hip. Anne’s feet facing forward and my toes outturned, the way they always are.
This is not what I signed on for.

As it happens, in a former job I was acquainted with a woman who began undergoing transition. When he mentioned his intent and new name, my first thought was, “How is Carol doing with this?” I didn’t know either of them well enough to inquire. But now I have something of an answer, even if it doesn’t wrap things up neatly in 30 minutes. Love is love, and love is complicated, and all of us follow different paths through it. I wish my colleague, and Cooney and her partner, the very best, however they work things out.

Pushcart XLIII: Julian Randall, “Codeswitch Decomposing into Lil Wayne Lyric” (poem) from Ninth Letter, Winter 2017

Jeff Manning: Find Your Wings II (detail)

Jeff Manning: Find Your Wings II (detail)

                                          After Danez Smith

Lord Please Forgive Me for My Brash Delivery
A face is for other people’s benefit, a brochure gospel
undone by a mouth. I am the most marketable sin since 2004.
A smile that yields only bones, a mouth slick with restraint.
I am a good filament, a bright obedient electric. I speak,
and sometimes am found.

Complete poem available online at Ninth Letter

And once again, the disclaimer that’s getting worn out: I’m out of my element. But that’s what google is for. This seems to be another conversation in poetry, though I’m unable to locate the original Danez Smith poem that inspired it. I regret to say that, while I am vaguely familiar with Lil Wayne, at least the name, I’m unfamiliar with his work. Hey, gimme a break, I’m a senior citizen still mourning the breakup of Simon & Garfunkel; the only contemporary music I hear these days is on tv shows and ice skating competitions (yes, I’m really that boring).

The poem has an interesting structure, so at least I can start there. Each of five sections begins with some version of the sentence “Lord Please Forgive Me for My Brash Delivery”, with each iteration losing a word or two from the end. Thus the second stanza continues:

Lord Please Forgive Me for My Brash
body and especially my mouth, for-
give me my scholarships, for-
give me my name brand ambition, for-
give me my tattered skin on my G-Unit sneakers
how easy I drenched all the photographs

I’m not sure why the apology is necessary, if it relates to the speaker, to the poet, to Smith, or to Lil Wayne (or all of them). I do like the way the lines are enjambed by for-, which makes it sound like a continuation of “for this, for that” but is really a repetition of “forgive” hyphenated. And I’m fascinated by the sneaker competition between rap stars.

As the stanzas continue and the first line is whittled away, the language becomes less formal, until, as promised, the final stanza is a reframing of a Lil Wayne lyric, or possibly a mash-up of lyrics.

Fortunately, the poem is available online, so I’ll just step aside and get out of the way.

Pushcart XLIII: Thylias Moss, “Blue Coming” (poem) from Abstract Magazine TV, Sept. 2017

Yves Klein: People Begin to Fly

Yves Klein: People Begin to Fly

Poetry is connected to the body,
 
 
part of my fingertips, just as blue as anything
that ever was or will be blue—
 
–blue that dye aspires to, true blue
denied to any sapphire, Logan sapphire included, even
 
if she wears some
on those blue fingers, blue spreads, consumes her
 
as if she hatched from an Araucana egg:
 
SHE IS BLUE, fingers, bluest hands ever, Tunisian blue, Djerban blue hands,
shoulders, breasts, every
nook and cranny blue, big bad wolf says: how blue you are!
The better to blue you….

Complete poem, and audio of poet’s reading, available online at Abstract Magazine

April is National Poetry Month. As it happens, many of the Pushcart entries I’m encountering this month are poems. And a lot of them baffle me. I’ve been feeling pretty bad about that.

Like this poem. It starts with a nod to poetry, then turns into a paean to blue. Is the initial blue of the fingertip ink from a blue pen? The depressive nature of blue, the musical Blues, all roll by, and we get to orgasmic blues, blue as the color of sex. I always thought blue was the color of thwarted sex. I guess I was wrong.

So I was feeling quite … um, blue… about yet another “I have no idea what’s going on here” post in National Poetry Month. But then I started poking around, and discovered some things that made the poem much clearer to me.

The poem can be found in a variety of places on the internet, in addition to the Abstract Magazine site where it was nominated to Pushcart. Many of those versions differ slightly, and some of them mention it is in conversation with a poem by Bob Holman,. This poem, reproduced in an interview with Paulo da Costa, also references blue, the National Enquirer, a fly buzzing, and other elements that appear in Moss’s poem, including the orgasmic ending. In the interview, Holman explains:

What I am talking about here is of course not sex. It is about how you come to understand a poem. It is the same way as making love. It is a give and take between you and the poem. You never know if someone’s way of understanding a poem is righter than yours but it doesn’t stop you from having your orgasm with that poem, with that poet.

Bob Holman interview

I wish I could believe that. I still cling to the notion that there is a right interpretation of a poem, which adds to my frustration as I keep trying to find it, always worrying about being wrong. Part of that is just my natural insecurity, but a lot of it is the byproduct of poetry classes in which, even in the most generous sections, one reading was favored. I’m quite fond of some unorthodox readings of a couple of poems, but could I stand behind them?

How about looking at the final lines of the two poems side by side:

Blue static
Blue stuttering
 
Blue hands
 
Blue – Code Blue
coming together, what a mighty tincture,
–not exactly at the same time, but coming, connected
to coming
Her fingertips writing a
 
Blue coming.

                            Moss

….you never know
If someone else’s orgasm is better than yours
But that shoudn’t stop you
From coming together
Even if it’s not exactly
At the same time.

                            Holman

Based on the lines about fingers, Moss’s poem seems to focus more on the orgasmic quality of writing a poem, rather than reading/hearing it. But it could be a male/female comparison, or just two different people with different ways of communicating the same idea: that poetic interpretation is individual, and not a competition. And when you “get it”, it’s orgasmic.

Knowing Moss’s poem was riffing on something else helped a lot in dealing with the Enquirer and flies and such. I like conversations across poems, between poets. Even if I’m not sure what they’re saying. They know what they’re saying, and it’s nice to just listen, and see if I can hear.

Pushcart XLIII: Emmanuel Oppong-Yeboah, “Kra-Din” (poem) from Kweli Journal, June 2017

Wiz Kudowor: “Migratory Forms” (2014)

Wiz Kudowor: “Migratory Forms” (2014)

                        i. okra (soul)
 
I pray my dead speak to me // and my dead stay silent
I pray my dead speak to me // and my dead say “no”
I pray my dead speak to me // and my dead say ________
 
which I don’t hear // in a foreign language
which is to say // my own

Complete poem available online at Kweli Journal

Once again, I’m at an extreme disadvantage. But this time, I have some resources that can help. Take everything here with a pound of salt – I’m at the most superficial level of understanding here – but I think I have a glimmer of what’s going on here. It’s a poem about diaspora, separation from one’s origins, ancestors, and what can be lost.

From the starting point of Oppong-Yeboah’s bio, which states he is “a Ghanaian American poet living out the diaspora in Boston”, the poem speaks to the African diaspora via the concept of personhood, that is part of the philosophical and religious foundation of the Akan people of Ghana. The three philosophers who most clearly articulate this concept are Kwasi Wiredu, Kwame Gyekye, and Kwame Appiah, although Wiredu’s ideas differ from the other two; I’m slightly familiar with these names, if not the concepts, thanks to the recent six-month exploration of Africana philosophy by the wonderful HoPWaG podcasts. In addition to several excerpts, fragments of sequestered articles, and limited Googlebooks pages, I found two articles (Sykes, Antwi) to be particularly helpful in understanding the poem. Again, since I have insufficient experience to evaluate the reliability of sources, some degree of skepticism on details is warranted, but for the major ideas, these seem to fit nicely with the language of the poem.

The title of the poem, Kra-Din, is the day name of an Akan child; the first part of the name is determined by the day on which the child is born. The titles of the three numbered sections are the three aspects of personhood: okra (soul) originates with the deity, and enters the child at birth; sunsum (spirit) comes from the father, and mogya (blood) is contributed by the mother at conception.

The first section of the poem (soul) is in the form of a prayer/conversation with ancestors; the form is reminiscent of a chant. It starts out with great frustration: the dead are silent, say no, or speak in a foreign language, which, the speaker recognizes, is really his own, distanced now. “what parts of you / have you lost // that you now seek our forgiveness”. It ends with “I am learning let me succeed”; I’m not sure if the learning is the purpose of the speaker’s distance from the ancestors, in which case it is an explanation, or if it refers to learning from the ancestors, in which case it’s a request and apology. In either case, “let me succeed” is clearly a plea, a request for help or leave to pursue more.

The second section is prose-like, and serves as an expansion on the idea of sunsum, spirit. I have no idea if the Akan word for father is papa but it’s evoked anyway in the line “when we say sunsum papa we mean all that glimmers in the night when the moon looks into the face of a brackish pool.” Maybe a brackish pool holds all kinds of terrors, but to me, it’s a lovely image.

The third section, mogya, blood, begins with references to genealogy, appropriate since this is the part of the self that carries lineage and is received through the mother. It ends with something like a message from the speaker’s mother:

son, you come from a place called love
all our people are held in your name
 
it’s said, an entire sea of peoples pulled before a full moon
it’s said, the waves puddled and now each one carries their names
 
son, you come from what remains of them
our people braved water and discovered flame

This is the message of diaspora: don’t forget where you came from. It’s the message, for all of us, of family, of culture, of belonging: wherever you go, whatever you become, you are still you, and you still carry, and represent, those who made you.

Pushcart XLIII: Heather Sellers, “Pedal, Pedal, Pedal” (nonfiction) from The Sun #493

My mother’s fear of people contributed to my shyness. I could not figure out how to interact socially in a light, carefree way: not at school, not at the restaurant where I hostessed, and not at Disney World, where I ran a cash register. I was often mute, unable to get my words to move out of me and into the world.
Whenever I went for a ride, though, I breathed easy, because of the way a bike moves through space: fast, quiet, smooth, each moment unfurling into the next. I could sing and often did: songs from The Sound of Music, Man of La Mancha, West Side Story. When I was on my bike, I could not only envision a happy, outgoing future self; I was her. The true me was the girl I was on the bike, and the other me was like a girl under the spell of a horrid witch in a fairy tale.

Complete story available online at The Sun

Sometimes, a girl’s best friend is her bicycle.

Sellers tells her autobiography through the bicycles she has loved. From her first tricycle, to the red bike she had at age five, to the purple bike she got at age ten, to her mother’s unused green bike borrowed after the purple bike was stolen, to more adult bikes later on, bicycles were her version of a talisman as well as transportation. And later, they were her entrance into social interaction and friendships.

Despite the struggles of her youth – or maybe because of them – it’s a warm, hopeful piece, the stock in trade for The Sun. I found her description of her introduction to university to be both funny and familiar.

At college I’d been expecting to find wise professors, studious young people, and a new intellectual life waiting for me to step into it. Instead the campus was inhabited by heavily made-up girls with jewelry and sandals, and smug-faced boys in chinos and polo shirts — perfectly groomed, confident, and involved in one long conversation that I couldn’t join. I walked around the campus in a daze, unable to fit a single syllable into their flow of words.

That’s exactly why I didn’t go to college right after high school – I wouldn’t have stood a chance – but took night classes until I was in my thirties. Too bad I didn’t have a bicycle.

She tells us of Texas, where no one rode bikes, and Michigan, where she found a bike shop that welcomed her and folded her into a social circle. It wa there that she truly learned to socialize. How someone gets a PhD with the limited skills she describes is beyond me, but more power to her.

Sellers wraps up the piece with a declaration: “On land I have fallen so many times. On my bike I have not fallen — not ever, not once.” That sounds like pressure to me, but to her, it’s safety.

Pushcart XLIII: Melissa Stein, “Quarry” (poem) from WordTemple Press

Josh Phillip Saunders, Visible Poetry Project

Josh Phillip Saunders, Visible Poetry Project

A girl is swimming naked
in dark water. She doesn’t see herself
as graceful but the water tells otherwise,
the way it loosens and strikes
and burnishes. Exposed
ledges, rocks crumble on surfaces
and the surface of the water broken
by her body, marine and white.

In a discussion with Jake Weber, I mentioned that flash fiction often strikes me as having more in common with poetry than with the standard short story. My Vermont Poet friend Patrick Gillespie feels that some poems are really short fiction, or short essays, in disguise. I’d thought that might be the case here, but I’ve changed my mind. While flash makes use of language elements, I see some important moments here that would be lost if the lineation were abandoned. It is a narrative, if a short one, turning dark at the end.

I keep wanting to say the opening above is placid or benign, but is it really? The scene would have been ripe for gentle, flowing language, but there’s little lyricism; I’d call it rather neutral, factual. Look at all the words of violence ending four lines: strikes, exposed, crumble, broken. They are used in non-violent semantic context, but the position in the line, the enjambment, emphasizes them. The scene feels slightly tense, rather than warm and bucolic as it could be.

A boy joins her in the water. Again, we have a few lines of description – he’s small, probably pre-teen, a “mirror stripling” which seems to indicate he’s the same age as the girl – and some words of violence in nonviolent context: pummel, thrash. It’s not clear from the poem if they know each other, or if he just happens to go swimming at the same time.

The girl and boy
pinwheel in the water
and do not touch
but are connected by invisible currents
their bodies manufacture.

Is this going to turn into a romance? The connection might hint at that, but we will see this is not in the cards. “Days of this, weeks.” Is this time dilation, the afternoon swim seeming like forever, or do they literally swim together many times? I’m taken with the image of pinwheeling, which implies communication on some level, cooperation. Even with her eyes closed, she’s aware of where he is when he dives into the water. She doesn’t feel threatened. Yet there’s something not quite summer-day-magical about this; the language doesn’t go there.

The subvocal darkness becomes manifest:

Then, detaching itself from
sun, water, blasted rock
another body comes,
a grown man, all smiles
and cigarettes
and offering….

Whereas the girl and boy are introduced as that, this person is introduced as more of a thing, “detaching itself”, not himself, first introduced as a body, and only then as a man. The description is chilling. We’ve all known men like this, and we know what they’re capable of.

The punch in the gut comes from the final lines:

….I still dream
that the red haired boy held my head
underwater
to spare me what’s the man did

After the pulse returns to normal following the reading of such horrific lines, we can notice a number of things. First, we are spared the details; whatever happened is implied rather than described. This is a change from the close focus on the girl and the boy, even the man, who were carefully, if briefly, described. Some things are universal, need no description.

Second, these lines spring directly from the prior quote; there is no separation of the man with the smiles and cigarettes, and the recollection of brutality. The violence is attached to him, part of him.

The narrative point of view switches from third person to first. That’s interesting; you’d think that the pleasant memories of swimming would be more closely narrated from inside the speaker, with the attack kept at a distance, but it’s the opposite. This could mean that the beauty of the day was pushed into the background, and violence, running through the poem in subtle ways, is foregrounded in the speaker’s memory, not by choice, but because that’s what violence does: it ruins beauty. Yet, in this recollection, the boy’s hair color is foregrounded as well, maybe as a stubborn need to retain something good.

As for the title, let’s not forget that quarry has two meanings. A quarry is a pit left from excavation of stone; these are prone to groundwater flooding after mining is concluded, resulting in a somewhat dangerous but irresistible rural swimming hole. Quarry is also the hunter’s prey. Interestingly, these words, both from the French, have different origins: the pit comes from the Latin for square, while the hunted comes from the Latin for heart, the most valued part of a slain animal, often separated out. As such, both include the sense of excavation, removal of what is valuable. The implications for the poem are striking, as the girl still deals with what was removed from her that day.

The poem has an interesting publication history. It first appeared in the September, 2016 edition of Thin House, then was anthologized in Know Me Here, a collection of poems by women edited by Katherine Hastings; it is from this anthology that the poem was nominated for Pushcart. It was also included in Stein’s 2018 collection, Terrible Blooms, published by Copper Canyon Press; in fact, there are four poems in that collection titled “Quarry”, one in each of the four sections.

Although the poem isn’t available online, it was included in this year’s Visible Poetry Project; the resultant video, directed by Josh Phillip Saunders, includes the full text.

Pushcart XLIII: Emilia Phillips, “Pathetic Fallacy” (poem) from Poem-a-Day  7/31/17

the sap that I am springtime
                 makes me want to reread Virgil’s
 
Georgics while eating cacio
                  e pepe with fresh-shelled
 
peas….

Complete poem available online at Poets.org;
Poet reading also online at Soundcloud

Even I can see there’s a lot in this poem – which means there’s way more I can’t see – so let’s start from the beginning.

Pathetic fallacy has nothing to do with anyone being pathetic. The word, from the Greek for “suffering”, implies a connection with emotion; it’s only in the 20th century it’s acquired the pejorative sense in which we typically use it today. The Poetry Foundation, who brings you Poetry magazine, widely considered the premiere poetry journal in the US, defines the poetic term as : “the assignment of human feelings to inanimate objects…. emphasizes the relationship between the poet’s emotional state and what he or she sees in the object or objects.” This, too, has undergone some evolution; it was originally considered cheating, and is now accepted as… well, what poetry does.

While there are examples of pathetic fallacy in the poem (most notably, the spinach/heart; be patient, I’ll get there) I see the poem as a whole, even poetry in general, as an example. We say things like “this poem was sad/happy/scary”, and maybe that’s only a shortcut way of saying “it made me feel sad/etc”, but maybe not. The act of writing is a transfer of emotion; who’s to say that the poem – not the words on paper, but the aesthetic object – retains those emotions, and transmits them on reading.

Now, about that spinach heart:

…this morning over coffee I
                 watched a video of spinach
 
leaves washed of their cellular
                  information and bathed in stem
 
cells until they became miniature
                 hearts vascular hopes capable
 
of want to roll down a hill
                 of clover to cold-spoon chrysanthemum
 
gelato or to stop whenever
                 their phones autocorrect gps
 
to god….

The spinach heart is real, if a bit exaggerated; what was produced was a patch of tissue that beat spontaneously for three weeks. Seriously. Google “spinach heart” if you don’t believe me.

The poem imbues the spinach heart with the human emotions we connect with hearts. All the metaphors of the human heart is, of course, itself a pathetic fallacy, as the actual human heart is a mass of cells and no more loves or yearns than does your liver; that sort of thing is part of the mind, which no one’s quite sure how to define yet but the phrase “an emergent property of the brain” serves as a placeholder. So now we have a spinach heart (which isn’t a heart, remember, but a small piece of tissue) seen as hoping and wanting and getting pissed off by autocorrect. This doubling of pathetic fallacy delights me, but I’m not sure why.

Why Georgics? It’s in part a paean to rural life, to farming and beekeeping, with a political underpinning (at least that’s what various internet sites say; I have no idea), which makes sense in the light of the spring theme, the spinach, the hill of clover. As for the menu, I understand that. There’s a certain mood that gets me craving herb tea. I’ve never found an herb tea that I could stand for an entire cup, but still, the mood calls for it.

The poem goes some other places I’m not sure about; maybe “the earth has gotten sentimental this late in the game” is similar to implying emotion onto a poem; it isn’t the earth that’s gotten sentimental, it’s we who are sentimental about the earth as we continue to destroy it because dammit we want bottled water and air conditioning and SUVs but we feel sad about the wasteland left behind and the homes destroyed in storms-of-the-century that now happen every couple of years. But it comes back to a heart-rending finish:

….I wish I could scream
                 into someone else’s rain

Don’t we all. I’ve often said that just because I ruined my own life, that doesn’t mean I’m not able to see how other people should run their lives. Sometimes I even say it unironically; not being emotionally involved in a situation allows reason to prevail, lets solutions present themselves without fear or anger or love camouflaging them.

But, hey, remember when I said “pathetic fallacy” has nothing to do with anyone being pathetic? Well, the contemporary sense still hovers, even if we stomp on it and hide it under the bed, and a person who wants to scream in someone else’s rain might be viewed as pathetic. But that would be a fallacy.

I’m really reaching now, huh? Shut up, I’m having fun. Let’s go back to the beginning: “the sap that I am….” It’s a kind of reverse pathetic fallacy: instead of seeing emotion in sap (the stuff oozing from trees in early spring), the speaker considers herself sap (in the 21st century, a Sad And Pathetic person, perhaps originating from the earlier sense of being sapped of vitality) because of her emotion. I never realized what an interesting word “sap” was until I googled around a little.

The lack of capitalization and punctuation, irregular enjambment, makes the poem something of a puzzle. I spent an embarrassingly long time trying to parse the first couple of lines, wondering if this was another word-salad poem, and finally rewrote it with more traditional cues:

The sap that I am,
springtime makes me want to reread Virgil’s Georgics
while eating cacio e pepe with fresh-shelled peas.
This morning over coffee I watched a video
of spinach leaves washed of their cellular information
and bathed in stem cells
until they became miniature hearts,

This isn’t the only way to parse things, but it’s the way that made the most sense to me.

The question is: why write it in such a way? I’ve read some analyses of unpunctuated poetry that claim it makes the lines move faster, or results in varied readings, or just slows the reader down. It certainly slowed this reader down. In this particular case, what is lost by rewriting it in more standard form? The lines as written tend to take three or four beats, but I’m not sure there’s a pattern, and even if there is, what is the significance? These are not rhetorical questions; I really want to know.

So much here. I feel this post is disjointed, because I’m not able to quite synthesize it all into a whole; everything just comes tumbling out. Maybe that’s fitting in light of the format of the poem: the reader will need to punctuate as they* see fit. I should go back and edit out all the nonsense (as I often do), but no; I did have fun, and I’ll let it stand, for a future day when I wonder when I stopped having fun doing this.

*I’m really, really trying to get down with the gender-neutral use of the singular they, but it’s going to take a while before I can confidently write it without indicating it’s not a mistake.

Pushcart XLIII: Cortney Lamar Charleston, “How Do You Raise a Black Child?” (poem) from Telepathologies

From the dead. With pallbearers who are half as young
as their faces suggest and twice the oxen they should be.
Without a daddy at all, or with a daddy in prison, or at home,
or in a different home. With a mama. With a grandmama
if mama ain’t around, maybe even if she is. In a house, or not.
In the hood. In the suburbs if you’re smart or not afraid of white
fear or even if you are. Taking risks.

Complete poem, and short film adaptation, available online at MotionPoems

The first line, the first phrase, is killer. It’s not “title enjambment” as I call it, where the title of the poem is the first line; here, the title has closing punctuation, and the first line begins with a period, and all the sentences in the body of the poem are separate answers to the question. The first line is just the first answer. But that implication of “How do you raise a black child from the dead” sets the tone pretty firmly: although there are many ways to do it, it’s an uphill battle, with all the struggles all parents face, plus quite a few that only those of color have to overcome.

This is the second “duo” I’ve noticed in this volume, both regarding people of color. That is, two pieces approach a broad topic from different angles. The first duo was “The Whitest Girl” and “The Hunter”, exploring the interaction of Latinx and Anglo cultures. And now we’ve just read “Field Theories” examining the baggage that comes along with African heritage in America, and this story, which adds child rearing to the tightrope walk, raising the stakes even higher.

As with “Field Theories”, music makes an appearance, lightening the middle of the poem: “With hip-hop or / without. At least with a little Curtis Mayfield, some Motown, / sounds by Sam Cooke”. We all have our generational spreads. There’s a really nice section playing with enjambment that changes direction: “Putting some wood to their behind. With a switch. With a belt / to keep their pants high”. This leads right into a few phrases on high-ness, which comes back to serious business.

Then the final lines bring us back where we started:

With a little elbow
grease and some duct tape. Sweating bullets. On a short leash.
Away from the big boys on the block. Away from the boys in blue.
Without the frill of innocence. From the dead, again. Like a flag.

Every time a young black man dies because he looked dangerous or he moved to fast or didn’t move fast enough or might’ve had a gun that was a toy or a cell phone or whatever, and justice is not forthcoming, we raise from the dead, again.

This is also the second poem in this volume (Maggie Smith’s “Parachute” was the first) to be realized as a short film; not a Youtube video, an actual film with cast and sets and lighting. Purists may not like this: the film adds elements that increase emotional impact, and the poem should stand on its own as a work of language. I admit, particularly when kids are involved, there’s a tendency to bend towards manipulation. But I, with my weakness for sentiment and schmaltz and landing the familiar on the plagal cadence (those who have seen my “When MOOCs collide” video know exactly what I mean), appreciate the additional dimension of film. Poetry has been growing and changing since the first words were spoken; why shouldn’t it participate in technology. And these poems were chosen for filming because they were moving in themselves, not to make them more than they were.

The poem is from Charleston’s 2017 collection, Telephathologies, which examines various themes of Being American While Black. The word “telephathology” is real; in medicine, it’s the practice of pathology from a distance, literally. In poetry, turns out it means the same thing, except the distance varies with the reader.

Pushcart XLIII: Samiya Bashir, “Field Theories” (poem) from Bettering American Poetry #2

Cover art by Toyin Ojih Odutola: “Lonely Chambers (T.O.)”

Cover art by Toyin Ojih Odutola: “Lonely Chambers (T.O.)”

sold for poker chips
left cold left thawed left
 
bent into the yawp
ass up
 
let be
let air
 
bones
unknowns
 
ash
everywhere
 
curved space
dark—breath
 
dark—breath
dark—what?

This is the title poem from Bashir’s 2017 collection, described by publisher Nightboat as “melding blackbody theory (idealized perfect absorption, as opposed to the whitebody’s idealized reflection) with real live Black bodies”. That makes an incredible metaphor, doesn’t it.

While I have some grasp of that description, I’m afraid I have little grasp of the poem except in bits and pieces, individual phrases that stand out to me. It’s a poem that begs to be read out loud, with some phrases sounding much more interesting than they look on the page (“We’ll / build a fort and fill it / with maple trees gone gaudy // with cobalt wishing stones”. Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to work?

It includes references to slavery, to darkness, Christianity, mythology, and no doubt a hundred things I’m not able to pick up on. Again I’m in the position of wanting to apologize for not being able to read well enough.

… Huh ? music ?
 
music anyone ever really heard us sing?
let’s move this :anyone ever asked ?
 
even so we sing all day period even so we pass
our days whatever ways we can –
 
we know some folks don’t listen.
Just look. And trace. Look :
 
what is a thing of beauty
if not us

What is a thing of beauty
if not us?
 
Repeat

That “thing of beauty” stanza appears three times in slightly different form, including the final stanza above, which does not end with a period, indicating the continuing repetition, maybe intended to be repeated until it’s believed, by us, by them, by everyone.

Pushcart XLIII: C. J. Hribal, “Do I Look Sick to You? (Notes on How to Make Love to a Cancer Patient” from Bellevue Literary Review #17.1

At first you don’t. You hold back, stroking the small of her back. You kiss her ear. You nestle in behind her. Finally she says, “What, you’re afraid I’ll break? You’re afraid it’s contagious? Trust me, the cancer will not stick to your dick. It’s not gonna rush up your urethra, pummeling your little spermies on the way, and explode like an IED in your insides. It’s only trying to do that to me.”
This is how it’s going to be—she is going to kick cancer in the ass. Everyone says this, “She is going to kick cancer in the ass,” until it becomes a mantra. Everything is going to be as it was before, only now you are “living with cancer.”
“‘Living with cancer?’” she says when her oncologist uses this phrase. “What, I’ve lent out rooms? I’m just supposed to think it’s a particularly sloppy roommate? It leaves its clothes everywhere, its dishes mound up in the sink, it leaves its towels on the bathroom floor and clots of hair in the drain, and when I say, ‘This is not
working out,’ my cancer roommate gets to say, ‘Screw you, I’m staying’? That is so not right.”

Complete story available online at BLR

If you search google for “language of cancer”, you’ll find a great deal of material – written by linguists, psychologists, medical practitioners, and everyday bloggers – on the way we talk about cancer. The military metaphors of battling, fighting, defeating, waging war, have their defenders and detractors, and it’s quite interesting to read. It serves for some as motivation to keep appointments that will result in horrific side effects.

For others, these battle metaphors are less appreciated. They set up the patient as brave and strong, as on a mission. That puts a lot of pressure on someone who is already dealing with enormous obstacles. Soldiers don’t cry. Warriors suck it up and continue once the vomiting stops. The brave have sex because sex is fun and life affirming even when your portacath is aching or the mouth ulcers are painful.

And the significant others of these warriors make love to their partners, because they have to be warriors, too.

The story pays close attention to these language tricks we play on scary things. Take the phrase “living with cancer”. The character in the story reacts to that as absurd. My offhand, completely unresearched impression is that it’s a phrase that came about as cancer treatments improved, as people were no longer sick or well, but in the middle ground of chronic disease that can be managed. It’s better than being labeled terminal, but nowhere near a cure, and knowing one’s life will be impacted by frequent tests and ongoing treatments may or may not be cause for celebration. As the story moves on, it becomes evident Charlotte is no longer living with cancer, if she ever was (I have a feeling the oncologist was a bit optimistic), but dying of cancer.

I have to agree with Jake Weber on this one. In his post, he makes it clear how impossible it is to actually critique this story (particularly since Hribal’s interview indicates it’s based on actual experience), given the emotional content. I’m glad I don’t have to critique, but just report my reading experience.

Telling the story from the angle of the boyfriend tells a slightly different story, but most terminal-illness books (and I have a whole shelf of them, dating back some 40 years) are told by significant others. Hribal’s choice of second-person narration also creates a somewhat different dynamic. I have a particular interest in this point of view, so I was happy to see him include both the tendency to draw the reader in, and the simultaneous distancing effect, that I’ve mentioned before in connection with second-person narration:

I kept coming back to second person because second person, when it’s done well (and I hope I’ve done it well), can do several things simultaneously—it invites the reader to directly enter the story as a character, and it can convey to the reader the feeling that the character him- or herself doesn’t quite want to be there, that they’re in a situation from which they’d like to be slightly distanced. It’s not happening to me, it’s happening to this other person, this “you.” For this story, I did want the reader to be in this particularly uncomfortable situation, to experience it as the character might, which includes his both wanting and not wanting to be there.

CJ Hribal, interview at BLR

I also like his comments about giving two emotions at once to the reader, the fear/horror and the humor, as this couple tries to be brave. The humor schtick, however, is, like the military metaphor, so overplayed as to be almost a requirement, at least in books and film/TV, and again, it demands a lot of cancer patients: not only do you have to be brave and heroic, you have to be funny, all while pain, nausea, and existential panic follow you around. Maybe it helps to cope; I know I can be pretty funny when the chips are down, but I’ve never had to put on a full-frontal-denial defense while in chemotherapy.

The story turns when the defenses break down:

And later, after her brain surgery because it’s spread there, too, and the radiation that follows that, and the ascites that causes her belly to swell like a late term pregnancy, which gets catheterized so it can be drained daily—three liters, four liters, where is all this goddamn fluid coming from? you wonder as you empty the bags into the toilet—when she asks, “Wanna make love?” you say, “Can we just cuddle?” And she says in a tiny voice, her grin exhausted, “Why, do I look sick to you?”
Then she sees the look in your face.
“You’re really afraid you’re going to hurt me, aren’t you?” she says, and you say, “Yes.” And when the tears start to your eyes, she says, “Good, I was waiting for that.”

Two brave warriors, side by side, until one puts down his sword and shield, inviting the other to do so as well. Yes, they’re both more vulnerable, but they’re also more connected without all that armor between them. Maybe it was time. And maybe it should’ve been time long before. They’re the only ones who can know.

Pushcart XLIII: Oliver de la Paz, “Autism Screening Questionnaire – Speech And Language Delay” (poem) from Poetry, July/Aug 2017

1. DID YOUR CHILD LOSE ACQUIRED SPEECH?
 
A fount and then silence. A none. An ellipse
between — his breath through
the seams of our windows. Whistle
of days. Impossible bowl of a mouth — 
the open cupboard, vowels
rounded up and swept under the rug.
 
2. DOES YOUR CHILD PRODUCE UNUSUAL NOISES OR INFANTILE SQUEALS?
 
He’d coo and we’d coo back. The sound
passed back and forth between us like a ball.
Or later, an astral voice. Some vibrato
under the surface of us. The burst upon — 
burn of strings rubbed
in a flourish. His exhausted face.

Complete poem available online at Poetry

I was stuck on this poem. It’s moving – of course it is, how could it not be – and the use of unusual form is right up my alley. I started working on ways each “stanza” answered the question asked. The first question of losing speech is answered by a lovely image of “a fount, then silence”, and ellipse, words stored in a cupboard, vowels hidden. A question on repetitive language evokes a “pocket in his brain”, grooves, tracks. When asked if the child “speaks gibberish or jargon”, the speaker raises a defense (or admits denial) with “We make symbols of his noise”. One verse acknowledges the boy does not inhabit the human world of language, but sensation: His god is not our words…. / It is entirely body.” Frankly, on this topic, anything would evoke emotion, and these images bring truth to the questions. But I didn’t feel like I had it.

Then I did my usual google around for other ideas, and found a blog post from Dora Malech on the Kenyon Review website that crystalized the power of the poem: “The fairly flat interrogative language of the questionnaire serves to highlight the intense intimacy and arresting sensory detail of De la Paz’s own writing.”

In the immediate sense, the poem is a heart-rendering story of one family and one child. But in a much larger sense – and this may well be expanding beyond the poet’s intent – it’s a look at how every day, people try to deal with the questionnaires our medical system has come to rely on. The reductionism is mind-boggling, just as the world the speaker in the poem creates with his answers is worlds away from the yes/no answers the questionnaire demands. So much information is lost. A child whose parents don’t give the right answers might be shuttled into a fruitless category. Does any truth remain, except in the speaker’s mind?

And worse, does demanding answers that conform to research protocols change the perception of the parent? Will he edit his own perceptions, see what he’s told is important rather than what is there, see his son differently, as a series of yes/no answers, rather than as a person with his own approach to the world? Does that help the boy?

Zoom out even more, and it shows the consequences of reductionism in a data-driven society. Cost/benefit analyses result in lead in Flint’s water and a fire in Grenfell Tower, resulting in who knows how much loss in human potential, how much suffering to come. Students deciding on computer science majors when their hearts are in history or art might well result in lowered quality of work in all disciplines in the interests of selling more iPhones and creating a culture that sees – and respects – only cost, not value.

Every wrong form
is a form which represents us in our losses,
if it takes us another world to understand.

It comes back to a little boy who has something to say, a parent who can’t understand him, and how to bridge that gap. Maybe the answer is found in the gap between the questions and answers.

Pushcart XLIII: Lisa Taddeo, “A Suburban Weekend” from Granta #140

On a scorching Sunday in late August, Fern and Liv lay out in the sun at Liv’s parents’ country club. At twenty-seven, they were old to be coming in from the city for the weekend, swimming in the pool and eating chicken salad lunches on the patio, signing the bill to Liv’s fat father’s account.
But last night was weird – broken rubbers, lukewarm digestifs – and to stay in Manhattan after that kind of night, during a heat wave, would have been too much.

Fern and Liv were always trying to decide who was prettier, hotter, who could bypass the line to get into Le Bain, who looked more elegant drinking cortados at a cafe with crossed legs. The answer flickered, depending on whether they were assessing themselves from far away or up close, and what each was wearing, how her hair looked, how much rest she’d gotten and, of course, who had recently been hit on hardest by tall guys with MBAs.
The facts. Fern was skinnier than Liv, but Liv was blonde and tall and her breasts were enormous and thrillingly spaced. Liv could have been called chubby in certain circumstances, in jeans or leggings for example, or at power yoga. Fern’s face could look misshapen, in weird lighting, with no makeup. Liv had a better chance of being called beautiful, especially by black guys and Danes. Fern was more often sexy, mysterious. Small, Jewish men liked her. Also, men from any of the Latin countries, and Italians from Jersey or Delaware. Cleft-lipped financiers and Bushwick bloggers. Irish guys went for both girls. Bartenders liked neither.

Complete story available online at Granta

Three paragraphs into this story, I already hated it. Yet it stretched on for another fourteen, fifteen pages. I did a very poor read, almost a skim, holding my nose the whole time, of what I classified as another slacker story about these girls who fuck around, literally and figuratively, on someone else’s dime, be it Liv’s rich dad’s, or the guy they just met wherever. True, Fern is depressed – suicidal, even – since she lost both her parents recently, but is that enough to make her interesting?

Then I read Jake Weber’s comments on the piece. He loved it, called it “a nearly perfect girl-girl buddy story”. So I gave it another, more careful read, and though it’s still not my kind of thing, I can see what he means. It’s always helpful when someone has your back; it keeps you from making a fool of yourself. Or worse.

Turns out it’s a very subtle story wrapped up in a not-subtle-at-all story. I couldn’t really tell Fern and Liv apart on first read (I was relieved that Jake had the same problem for a few pages) but I wasn’t trying that hard. Telling them apart is crucial. One is spiralling down, and the other is trying – however ineffectually – to help.

So Fern knew it was important to let Liv know the plan.
‘Did I ever tell you how I was obsessed with Jeremy Mullen when I was twelve, you know, from that stupid movie at the aquarium?’
‘The child actor who hung himself.’
‘When I found out he killed himself, I was like fuck. I thought, if only he knew how I loved him. I would have taken care of him. You know? I would have done his laundry or told the maid what was dry-clean only.’
‘Yeah,’ said Liv, sounding exhausted.
‘Now I’m like, fuck no. Whatever ridiculous child actor nonsense. I would have just stolen his pills.’
‘Probably he had a small dick. That’s why he killed himself.’
‘My point is, it doesn’t matter. He killed himself because it was time. Every night is the same, going to clubs, whatever, it doesn’t fix anything.’
‘I think if we were celebrities going to the Chateau every night, we’d make it work, you and me. Anyway I totally disagree with you. I think people can be saved by people who love them. You just have to be dedicated. You have to like, be there, every day.’
‘I couldn’t save my mom.’
‘Your parents died of fucking cancer, man.’
‘My mom’s was basically suicide. Suicide by cancer.’
Liv snorted. But covered Fern’s hand with her own. Liv’s nails were bitten but she had pretty, feminine fingers. Fern’s hands were small, boyish. They looked silly giving hand jobs.

Finally, she finds a way.

Along the way, we have some really nice moments slipped in there. Fern’s getting her parents’ house ready for an estate sale, selling everything but old TV Guides and a bowl of Italian candies, lacrime d’amore, tears of love. “She passed the antique mirror on the wall, which as a child she thought could reflect the demons in her soul. Now it said $25 or best offer.”

The ending has an interesting ambiguity (and since Jake deliberately avoided a spoiler, I, too, will be circumspect; the story is available online). Does Liv show that “people can be saved by people who love them”? Or is Fern’s attitude of “It was time” more accurate? Even if Fern was right, does the effort to help matter at all? Forgive me for delving again into pop culture, but this is straight from Doctor Who: “The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but vice versa, the bad things don’t necessarily spoil the good things or make them unimportant.” Does adding to the “pile of good things” count? I think so; like I said, it’s always nice when someone has your back.

I was going to skip my usual second read on this one, I hated it so much the first time. I’m glad I didn’t. It’s still not a favorite, but that’s just my personal taste, like my general dislike of Westerns. I never felt comfortable in the “hang around drinking and talking about men” stuff when I was that age, and I’d rather not read about it. But there’s definitely a story there, though it’s largely obscured by the noise and flashing lights. For me, it’s a bit like trying to listen to one of Satie’s Gymnopédies in a dance club. But I’m glad I was able to hear the Satie at all.

Pushcart XLIII: Daniel Tobin, “The White Road” (poem) from Flume #73

Nelya Shenklyarska: “Nostalgia”

Nelya Shenklyarska: “Nostalgia”

I am walking along the dazzling ruin of a road I knew
When I was fourteen, summer, and the days stretch out
Like the road itself, or like that song about a road heading
Somewhere far off into the unseen and the one walking,
Caminante no hay camino, knows he’s come upon his life
Rising up to him in white quartz macadam and heat-haze.

Complete poem available online at Plume

Immediately, a yellow glow of nostalgia fills the page (in spite of the white of the road). Is this a dream? A memory? Either works. In any case, the speaker is brought back to another time, to the neighborhood star Dante Tedeschi, known as Boone for reasons that are not disclosed.

It’s a time in the late 60s, perhaps, a time of patio parties and citronella candles and whisky sours, of bikes with banana seats. We’re told an outline of a story of Dante pulling an Evel Knievel stunt on his bicycle, and because the tone is hushed and reverent, we expect this to end in tragedy, but no. Dante is the kid with the “incongruous swagger and coke-bottle glasses”, who “attained whatever he desired, slaughter / On the game board, sliding catches in left-center / On Power’s Field, even the soft-limbed Patty of dreams.” A good kid, it seems, remembered affectionately.

But we know there will be something that brings the poem to an end, a reason he is remembered so vividly. And there is.

He was first to go,
The buzz coming by phone one winter evening
After those summers had disbanded to intimations
Of more necessary longings, for jobs, for departures,
The bullet passing clean through his skull at a sister’s
Wedding, the trigger pulled by the groom’s hand.
What he had done or said, none of us would come
To know, though all of us could hear inside
That rapid fire laugh, haughty, untamable, and saw
His shambling, self-assured walk as in a heatwave
Off the White Road, Dante alias Boone, in saddle
On his Schwinn wheeling breakneck from on high
Down Heart Attack in the mind’s would-be perpetual
Now, hair flying, pot-holes loose gravel be damned,
Down to where the rigged ramp rose upward above
The waiting lake, our crowd of bored numb-nuts cheering
As bike and rider flew treacherously up into the air
And out beyond the shore, and disappeared—circlets
Of waves radiating out like visible ticks from a clock face,
Slowly softening into nothing one by one by one
As we waited for the quick-eyed, impudent head to rise.

The holes in the narrative (why did this happen?) match the holes in the reported memory (why was he called Boone?) and perhaps are details not considered important. Maybe we’re better off not knowing, not remembering some things, if we’re going for the golden glow of nostalgia.

It’s almost an elegy, turning from the summer of golden nostalgia to the present to show a white road going forward, a way of remembering Dante, waiting, again, for him to surface.

Pushcart XLIII: Nomi Stone, “Wonder Days” (poem) from New England Review #38.4

NER art by Birgit Bunzel Linder: “Wind”

NER art by Birgit Bunzel Linder: “Wind”

What I meant is that when the child shook the branch,
the beetles, quiet, somnolent, darkly, fell and again fell
like plums. Once woken, they bzzzed towards
the street lamps, loving each light well, thwacking
against them until they landed face down or face
up, trying to find their feet….

“Oh, no, a nature poem, and, worse, a nature-through-the-eyes-of-a-child poem.” That was my first reaction. Before you denounce me as an inhuman monster (She hates nature! And children!), I have no problem with nature or children, but with how they’re so often used in literature as emotional can-openers.

But a few moments with this poem convinced me otherwise. There’s a lot more going on here, and in large part, it stems, I believe, from the poet’s background. Nomi Stone is a cultural anthropologist as well as a poet; her 2019 poetry collection Kill Class focused on her field work in the Middle East as an anthropology postdoc at Princeton.

I think that my great goal is to bring in everything as fodder and to not create partitions within myself. So, the anthropologist self, the poet self, the human self, these are all strands, these are all different streams. How do we bring our most composite selves together every time we write a poem? That’s what I want.

Nomi Stone, interview with Len Lawson at Up the Staircase

I see the poem as accomplishing this, by switching things up with grammatical, semantic, and thematic shifts throughout. Take the first phrase: “What I meant is…” That implies a prior statement; this is the middle of a conversation. If this is part of a cycle of poems, or a section of a larger poem, that may make traditional sense, but as presented, it asks us to let go of rigid linear processing and see things from other views. Then we have the description of the beetles falling that instigates the body of the poem: “the beetles, quiet, somnolent, darkly, fell….” Quiet and somnolent are adjectives, but darkly is an adverb, shifting the focus from the beetles to falling-of-beetles, from things to what things are doing.

In the middle of the poem, we zoom out, and the boy’s family appears:

The dusk’s gray mute
unfolded its scrolls, while his mother made toast
with boysenberry jam, his father played solitaire,
and think of his sister doing her biology homework.
But they are under the tree, he is, the bright ones falling
upon him like stars,

This is a bit disorienting; not only do we zoom, but we have some confusion of pronouns to deal with. “They are under the tree” at first seems like mom, dad, and sis are under the tree, but then “he is” seems to bring the focus back to the boy, which retroactively shifts the prior “they” to the beetles, solidified by “the bright ones falling” and the metaphor of stars. But wait… weren’t the beetles “darkly”? Why are they now bright? Are they dark when observed objectively by others, and bright when observed subjectively from the boy’s pov?

This section also establishes an inside, where mom is making toast etc., and an outside, where the boy is showered with beetles. This prepares a path to the final lines of the poem:

His face was a diary of leaves: dark,
lit, risen with laughter, then suddenly at rest. This
was one way to be inside the world rather than outside
looking into a bright window.

Now, in a massive shift, an inversion in fact, of what is primary and what is other, the boy, rather than being outside, is inside, and the family, who was inside, is outside, only able to observe through a window. And by the way, the “diary of leaves” is another clever shift of meaning via pun, since pages are also called leaves, all the while his face shifts “dark, / lit,” showing a variability of light perception already hinted at by the beetles going from darkly to star bright.

Whether we see things as light, or dark, whether we consider ourselves to be looking from the inside out, or the outside in, is not necessarily permanent. And, continuing with my insistence on the synergy of knowledge and emotion, of study and experience from the Books about Birds poem, we can all be anthropologist-poets and shift our viewpoint to see more of reality.

Not bad for a poem about nature and children.

Pushcart XLIII: Allegra Hyde, “Let the Devil Sing” (nonfiction) from Threepenny Review #149

Violet Brunton: "Orpheus and Eurydice" c. 1910

Violet Brunton: “Orpheus and Eurydice” c. 1910

The road to hell is narrow, bordered by a serpentine river and sheer mountain cliffs that swagger upwards and out of sight. Road signs warn of tumbling rocks, landslides, car crashes at the blind corners. The weather is fair and crisp. My husband drives our rented Peugeot. He does this calmly, effortlessly, while I sit in the passenger seat and stare at the road unblinking, as if I might intuit the speeding approach of a brakeless eighteen-wheeler or the meteoric plummet of falling rocks. But what would I do if I could? A car bound for hell will get there one way or another.
Dyavolsko Garlo, the locals call it. The Devil’s Throat. A cavern plumbing Bulgaria’s Rhodope Mountains. The site where, according to legend, Orpheus descended into the underworld to seek his beloved Eurydice, who had died of a snakebite soon after they wed.
….
“The Devil’s Throat,” reads a sign, “44 km.”
My husband and I love one another, but our marriage feels like a sham. This is one of our problems. The other is living in Bulgaria.

Complete story available online at Threepenny Review

The Bulgarian Tourism Office is not going to appreciate this story, which paints their country as a worn-down place full of sulky teenagers forced to take English classes. Does the speaker (this is nonfiction, so presumably it’s Hyde, but I’m uncomfortable nosing into the marriages of real people) hate Bulgaria because her marriage is depressing, or has her marriage – apparently arranged to get a visa for work in Bulgaria – taken on the depressed air of the country?

The real-life couple’s trip to the Devil’s Throat is interlaced with the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, allowing comparison between the two couples. The key scene in the myth takes place when Orpheus, trying to rescue Eurydice from Hades, looks back, and loses her to death forever. A scene of comparable impact in the present occurs on the 300 Steps of the cave, when hubby casually looks back at our speaker, provoking her decision to remain in the marriage but let go of the resentment and anger that has become such a prominent feature.

I’m far more taken with the interpretation of the myth than the current-day domestic drama playing out. Hyde is right; the story, the operas (the Gluck setting has one of my favorite arias, Che Faro Senza Euridice, which I didn’t realize for years takes place after he loses her since it’s a peppy little tune), all focus on Orpheus and his grand failure, rather than how Eurydice must have felt when he fails her by looking back, and she again falls back into Hades. They are reunited when Orpheus, distraught by his failure to redeem Eurydice, takes his life, and thus joins her.

The speaker’s view of marriage is rather grim, but perhaps realistic given the circumstances:

Perhaps this is marriage, I think. It’s not the paperwork, signed for one reason or another; it’s two pairs of feet making the same steady climb, the same bid for light. Two souls seeking the same fate, doomed or otherwise.
I let my scared self fall backward, peel away, that ghost of me, bottled up and angry. I grip the railings tighter. I scramble upward after my husband, back into Bulgaria, our daily struggles, our yearnings, the grayness and the poverty, and I hear the waterfall roaring in the cavern behind me, the Devil’s Throat loud with its heady music, made from a river tonguing deep into a mountain, carrying things in and bringing nothing out, like a lover’s heart, a promise, a tale told for the dead as much as for the bereaved.

This story was also published in Best American Travel Writing 2018. The Bulgarian Tourism Office will have to take some comfort in that.

Pushcart XLIII: Catherine Pierce, “I Kept Getting Books about Birds” (poem) from Gettysburg Review #30.1

Joan Miro: woman, birds

Joan Miro: woman, birds

I kept getting books about birds as if
in the Great Ledger Of What I Had Accomplished
I could simply fill in some Latin names
and notes on skeletal pneumaticity
and be done. I kept getting books about birds
because those days I had no reason
to go to bed, and so the night stretched
and yawned and stayed awake,
because my corn fritters from scratch
didn’t pan out, because the garden had all
the hot peppers the neighbors could eat,
but the tomatoes stayed hard and green
no matter how I coaxed them, because
I wanted to write a novel but never made it
past a protagonist, because I wanted
to understand how some people galloped
through their lives as if they were astride
tall white horses, and here I was
spending my drawn-out days researching
elements and likelihoods.

We’ve all had those days, those periods in our lives, when nothing seems to be going well. Here our speaker is failing on so many levels, from the most trivial (corn fritters that don’t pan out – oooh, pungroan) to the more significant (she has no reason to go to bed because… there’s no one there waiting for her? There’s no job to get up for in the morning?). She seems to feel resentment, knowing some people have it all figured out. So she turns to books about birds. The phrase “I kept getting books about birds” is repeated four times, including the title (which, though not shown here, runs right into the first line, a feature I still haven’t found a canonical term for, but I rather like title enjambment as suggested by a cognitive poetics professor the last time I tried to research this issue), mimicking her repetitive book buying. Why birds? Unknown. Poetically, it’s a nice symmetrical sound with just enough alliteration but not so much as to be annoying: books about birds. Well, maybe a little annoying.

Burying herself in books about birds (ok, yes, the corn fritters not panning out got me started, it’s time to stop now) doesn’t seem to be working, though. She admits she never reads them; she just looks at the pretty covers, but the text is boring, “with their migration / pattern charts and seed particulars”. And so, like Whitman on hearing the Learned Astronomers, she tries something else:

….I knew as I looked at the congregating
backyard starlings or whatever they were
that the only real solution was to walk outside
and startle them so that they rose in one
of their gorgeous rivers, one of their gorgeous
bed sheets, one of their gorgeous
choreographies of shadow, and to see, at last,
in that one bright, cacophonous moment
something I had made.

I love those murmurations – I did some research into the technical aspects, the parameters of separation, alignment, and cohesion, all of which must work together in specific ratios to produce the beautiful effect – for a prior post – and I can see her, looking into the sky, triumphant to at last be the Creator she wants to be.

Bullshit. I disagree with this reading on every level. Except for the coolness of murmurations.

First of all, I have a problem with the speaker feeling a sense of creation with the birds’ taking flight. It seems to me the birds do the creating, she is merely the trigger. But it’s possible the poet is being ironic here, in which case, I feel truly sorry for the speaker.

But more importantly: What is this obsession with separating technical understanding from aesthetic or emotional appreciation? I can understand the pleasure of recognizing a yellow-winged bird at one’s feeder; as a kid, I remember recognizing a black bird with a red stripe under its wing, visible only when it moved in certain ways. But doesn’t it add to the pleasure to know the bird is called s golden-winged warbler, or a red-winged blackbird, just as it’s nice to know the name of the nice person you often meet at the bus stop, or the librarian who is sometimes at the desk when you check out books? And if you realize the golden-winged warbler may have spent the winter at a coffee plantation in the Caribbean, yet made it back to your yard safe and sound in time to feast on the caterpillars it so enjoys, doesn’t that make the experience all the more special? The migration tables and feeding charts have meaning, after all.

I suspect the poet is warning more about becoming obsessed with details to the exclusion of experience. I almost hear a kind of hibernation, a crawling into oneself when things go wrong; then, there is this moment when she wakes and returns to the world. But isn’t an occasional short hibernation sometimes helpful in pulling oneself together? And can’t she use the research during hibernation to supplement what we will find? Can’t both have value?

I may be reacting so strongly to this because I have always been someone who prefers to read about things than to do them. When I decided to get a fish tank, I spent months studying all kinds of materials to plan a tank I could handle as a novice with little experience, and afford on a shoestring budget, yet still feel enjoyment and this sense of creation. My husband finally, quietly said, “Don’t you think it’s time to buy a fish tank now?” after my magazine pile grew to the point where the cats didn’t find it fun to sit on any more. I was pleased with the results, however, when I finally had a tank of tetras and rasboras, plus some utility players, swimming around the java fern and hornwort as my homemade CO2 injector bubbled away. Not that there weren’t some glitches along the way, but the technical knowledge paid off.

And now we come to the real point, for me: my obsession with understanding poems, from a more technical point of view, my tendency to “tie the poem to a chair with rope / and torture a confession out of it” as Billy Collins’ poem about poetry class tells us. I enjoyed this poem, even though – maybe because? – I disagreed with it; it raised strong feelings, so I danced with it, made it my own, heedless of what sophisticated signals I might have missed (the potential for irony is a big one; how would one signal that, or recognize that there is no signal?). But I still want to know the official version(s), the real meaning, what the critics see, what the poet meant, be they all the same thing or four (or more) different interpretations. And I think that only adds more beauty, more rhythm and flow, to the dance.

Pushcart XLIII: David Naimon, “Acceptance Speech” from Boulevard #32.2&3

It is fitting, I suppose, standing here before you, a room of fellow gardeners, that I confess to a dirty little secret. For what is dirt if not a repository of such things? Non-gardeners the world over stomp across its surface without a thought. They imagine it as a flat and homogenous thing, merely a stage for their lives, if they imagine it at all. Never do they break the skin; never do they willingly, solely for the pleasure of it, or with great purpose and design, stick their hands deep down in the stuff…. We gardeners are always unearthing secrets, the subterranean love affair between taproots and earthworms, the unconquerable underground of morning glory networks, the white softness of larvae in the fetal position, so little and helpless in the darkness, yes. But also human things, turn- of-the-century pharmacy bottles woefully absent their drugs, green mesh from a long-gone sheet of sod, maybe even a tin penny. We peddle in these dirty things.

Complete story available online at Boulevard

I admit to my fondness for atypical narratives. While the form of this story – literally, a speech given to an audience, presented as one paragraph stretching over six pages – would seem to be stuffy and inert, instead it’s full of motion as our speaker outlines her journey from one end of her spectrum to the other. The title says it all: it’s an acceptance speech, that becomes, by the end, a speech of acceptance, an acceptance of the dirt in her morality she has found on digging deep.

Our speaker and her husband are on opposite poles at the beginning of her journey. She cuts slugs in half to kill them, squashes ants with her fingers; he puts out traps that accomplish the same purpose, but without the personal involvement. Which one is the barbarian?

The couple’s high-minded philosophical differences come down to a very personal, very real situation

One day, the fateful day in fact, he rescued yet another recycle- approved plastic yogurt container from our trash and waved it in my face, pointing at the recycle symbol, a Bermuda triangle of self- referential arrows embossed on its bottom, in grave accusation. “Why won’t you have babies then?” he yelled in a weird and random flourish. “If, as you say, we should accept the purpose of the fever, if we should stop recycling to advance it to its inevitable conclusion, then why on earth won’t you have kids with me? That would be the ultimate act toward filling the petri dish, wouldn’t it? Both the most natural of human things to do and the most effective embodiment of your warped world view?” Needless to say, I was furious. So furious that I stormed out of the house and drove straight to the nursery. And I came home with the absolute ugliest plant I could find, the lumbering purple- leaved Sambucus Black Tower. I brought it home and, flummoxed where to put it, saw the azalea my husband loved so much and decided to put it right there, uprooting the azalea and recycling it in the bin for yard debris. It seemed like poetry.

She’s right; it does seem like poetry. And this is the beginning of the transformation of their traditionally beautiful garden into what Naimon calls a “garden of hate” on Twitter: she buys the ugliest, most toxic plants she can find, and replaces the roses, honeysuckle, and all the other plants to create a garden without greenery, a “black and blue yard”.

The fig tree – their first joint planting – is the last to go, and on that day she digs below the soil into the dirt and bacteria and realizes the terrible truth of her own dishonesty: of course, the fastest way to destroy toxic humanity is to contribute to it. And so, the speech becomes a sort of announcement of her pregnancy, among other things.

I have a small problem with Hubby here. If he’s Mr. Garden and Humane Disposition of Pests and Recycle Freak, I would expect him to be the sort who doesn’t want to overpopulate the planet, who wants to adopt a bunch of needy kids who’ve already been born. But that would break the poetic symmetry of the story. So I suppose the urge to procreate overwhelms the urge to recycle people.

If there’s one thing I like more than a story taking an unusual form, it’s a story that teaches me something. Otters? Really? Jake Weber’s post about this story, in addition to his usual insightful analysis, includes a hilarious anecdote about his own research on whether or not otters are assholes. Spoiler alert: they are. Accept it.

Pushcart XLIII: Hugh Martin, “Iraq Good” (poem) from Cincinnati Review, 11/17

Calcite disk of Enheduanna

Calcite disk of Enheduanna

    The small boy smiles, kicks roundhouses across
the potholed road, says, Van Damme good? & I say, Yes,
 
Van Damme good.

Complete poem available online at Cincinnati Review

It’s a snapshot, a little scene that on closer look reveals tension and foreboding. Martin served in Iraq, so he knows the scene: Iraqi kids playing around a military post, making piecemeal conversation with soldiers on guard in limited English. Then some scenic details that evoke the overall tragedy of the scene: “on the ground where written words were first made, / where Enheduanna, Sargon’s daughter, wrote her poems,” now holds Humvees and protective Hescos. I had no idea who Enheduanna was, so looked her up: she was a poet in the ancient land of Ur, but more than that, she is the first author whose name survives attached to her work, written 4200 years ago. I’ve taken courses on ancient writings, read chapters about Ur; why did I not know that the first named writer was a woman? And why does this mention of ancient civilization, again a battleground, always touch me so deeply?

The poem ends with the kids again reciting associations they imagine the soldiers want to hear (“Sadam bad… America Good”) yet ends on a note of foreboding:

….Still, these silences, brief,
 
would break when one of the boys might point to our rifles
    hanging over our vests, muzzles aimed at the road, the black red-dot scopes
 
    clipped to the carrying handles, & say, Laser . . . good, then point to our dark
ballistic sunglasses, say, X-ray yes, good, &, although we’d agree,
 
there was really no laser, no X-ray, but if we kept those boys there,
    talking, on that street as evening came, we’d be,
 
    for the moment, okay if only we kept it going: Ali Baba
no good, chicken good, Sadiyah good, Iraq good, & good, & good.

Although we share poems primarily by means of written page, poetry is a primarily oral form, meant to be read out loud, where the form is not usually evident; a recording of the poet reading is helpfully included on the page with the text, linked above. Still, I’ve been a bit obsessed with form these days, trying to understand why a poem is written in the way it is, how that form came to the poet, what it imparts to the meaning and overall reading experience. It may make me appear to be approaching these poems mechanically. I’m not (I can see the soldiers nodding and agreeing with “lasers, good” even though there are no lasers, just to keep the good going and forestall what may be inevitable), but I am trying to understand how poetry works, how its impact is created.

So I noticed, again, the two-line structure, usually indicating a relationship, in this case, a friendly one that has the potential to turn adversarial. I noticed the indentations, in an ABBA ABBA pattern, which reminded me a bit of the crenellations on top of a castle wall but might more appropriately call to mind the Hescos (which, I learned, are wire mesh barriers filled with earth as protection against attack or, in some cases, flood) to someone who has a more accurate mental picture of the scene.
.
The poem is included in Martin’s 2018 poetry collection, In Country.

Pushcart XLIII: Robert Coover, “The Wall” from Conjunctions #68

1879 etching of Pyramus and Thisbe by Max Klinger

1879 etching of Pyramus and Thisbe by Max Klinger

Once, there were two lovers, separated by a wall that divided their city, a wall they had helped to build, recruited by the warring city fathers, who declared that only a wall would ensure their freedom. It was across the wall, trowels in their hands, that they first saw each other, lovestruck as soon as seeing. Such amorous gazes between separated wall builders were not rare, but soon were outlawed, stolen glances being treated like common theft and punished with solitary confinement or, when those found guilty were deemed incorrigible, blinding. Looking away became a way of looking, a trowel’s clicks a code, the placing of a brick a form of erotic suggestion.

Complete story available online at Conjunctions

The issue of Conjunctions whence this story comes is themed: “Inside Out: Architectures of Experience investigates the vast range of architectures crucial to our being: stories, poems, and essays that center around a pivotal architectural structure or space.” It’s not surprising the subject of a wall cropped up. But the story goes well beyond the current discussion of wall building, using as its starting point a familiar situation: two lovers separated by a wall between their communities. I’m very grateful to Jake Weber for his post naming Pyramus and Thisbe as the seminal legend using this trope; I couldn’t come up with it, kept getting stuck on Heloise and Abelard (no, no, no).

Coover abandons the ancient myth early on, however, and moves in a very different direction: the interplay of freedom and constraints. This happens to interest me very much, since it’s a popular theme in philosophy. We can start with Hobbes’ social contract theory (unless you want to go back to Confucius and Mozi, who also used elements of sacrificing freedom for social harmony and security, resulting in more freedom) who saw life in the state of nature as being absolutely free, but also, “nasty, brutish, and short”, requiring a sovereign to impose constraints that improved communal living, which led to Locke’s ideas of consent to governance. Or we can look to Kant’s categorical imperative, which constrains absolute freedom based on rational considerations, and leads to the idea that freedom is only attained within constraints. I recently took a mooc that examined free will, and outlined how constraints – such as the discipline to learn to play a musical instrument or a sport at a high level – then creates freedom within that arena, as constraints become automatic and allow expression and innovation rather than adherence. Applied to writing: once syntax, vocabulary, and enough experience to provide content are acquired, writing is not about remembering rules but about creating something new, something unique

I’m not sure if Coover had these, or anything like these ideas, in mind when he wrote the story, but it follows an interesting course: when the wall is finally defeated, there’s a honeymoon period of joy, but that soon turns to discontent.

Then, as time passed, the two lovers, along with many others who had lived through the construction and fall of the wall, found that they missed it. They studied old maps, took walks along its buried contours. Sections of the wall were said to exist still; they searched for them, getting lost from one another as they did. They accepted that, discovering that the wall had been a barrier to their desires, and a stimulus to them, but freedom had deprived them of their intensity, provided other options.

Another idea at play here, a bit more subtle but still present, is that of the human need to struggle, to work, to overcome obstacles. Once the wall is down – or the journey is complete, or the question is answered, or the skill is acquired – we don’t typically sit around and enjoy the achievement for very long. A new goal presents itself, a new question, a new exploration, a new war. This is an evolutionary advantage, by the way; without this drive, we’d still be sitting around various fires in isolated clans, saying “Hey, look what we did.” So I wonder: is it that the people miss the wall, or that they miss the struggle to dismantle it?

In any event, the wall is recreated, though not literally, but in the form of personal boundaries:

And meanwhile, slowly, though none knew how, the myth of the “city fathers” having crumbled with the wall, the wall itself, as if seeded by the chips of bricks that had been left behind, did indeed return, or seemed to, seen by some, if not by all. A kind of personal choice as with all perceptions of reality, though it did not feel like choice. Perhaps its reappearance, to those who witnessed and acknowledged it, was provoked by that longing for a significant life the estranged lovers felt, for there they were, gazing at each other across the wall, real or imaginary. They nodded curtly to each other, looked away. They could have stepped over this young wall, but did not, for their separation had seemed permanent and desirable.

Psychology is full of the need for personal boundaries, for every individual to have a clear understanding of where “you” end and “I” begin, an understanding that begins in infancy and continues throughout a lifetime. The story’s metaphor gets a bit stretched here, but it’s very true that removing physical boundaries can intensify anxiety about psychological boundaries; ask any newlywed. But personal boundaries are not in themselves destructive; in fact, it’s the lack of boundaries that leads to dysfunction. Just ask anyone who’s ever lived with someone with borderline personality disorder.

The final line has such a peculiar syntax, I wonder if ambiguity is intended:

They turned away, aware that the loneliness they felt was in effect that freedom they’d been promised when citizen bricklayers still, and sadly they wished it so.

Here’s where C. S. Lewis comes in: “One doesn’t realise in early life that the price of freedom is loneliness. To be happy one must be tied.” But he was talking about personal ties, and by extension, ties to the deity, the separation from which is a kind of loneliness so extreme as to be alienation from all that exists.

With such a wealth of ideas playing, it seems ridiculous to throw in another one, but it’s something I’ve been pondering for a while: freedom and constraints in creativity, in arts. Recently I’ve been emailing Patrick Gillespie, a Vermont poet whose blog I discovered last year, about poetic forms and how they contribute to meaning, and how some poems seem to resist formal analysis; I even threw in the Frost thing about free verse being like playing tennis without a net. As poetry, and other arts, have moved towards greater freedom – throwing off constraints of meter, rhyme, length, subject, adherence to reality itself – it’s true there’s a much wider spread of art, but it’s also true that other constraints have been substituted. To deny rhyme and meter is itself a constraint, particularly to someone who has an ear for such things. Oulipo exists as a way to allow writers to create their own restraints as creative exercises. Technology and business recognize the creative spark only constraints can give, typified by the motto “think inside the box”. In the 60s, the nonconformist impulse was summed up by the ironic statement, “I want to be different, like all my friends.”

If we are denied external constraints, do we automatically create internal constraints? Is this a bad thing? And to get back to Kant and Hobbes, can we exist as a social community if we all have our own individual constraints, rather than common constraints imposed by consensus and consent?

I’m a big fan of Coover, but one of the anxieties I always face is, am I getting it right? And this is the constraint I force upon myself, even here, where there are no external requirements – no professor imposing a particular length or academic style or stamping this post with a grade – I create my own constraint, to figure out what the writer meant. Maybe it’s enough to use these pieces as a way to explore what is possible, rather than looking for what is right.