Emerging Writers Network

Poem by Norene Cashen

A little over a month ago, I saw Norene Cashen read and really loved one of her new poems. She's been kind enough to allow me to post the poem here at the EWN:

 

WAR
By Norene Cashen

I’ve never seen peace.
I’ve seen a foxhole, combat boots, a drill sergeant
and a gun. I’ve heard the gun rattle
and talk and talk and talk
in its fast language, the clink of brass casings
spit out after each syllable.
I’ve seen girls in dog tags and dust
crawling under the barbed wire of the world
as if their mothers waited for them
on the other side, but there is no other side.
That’s what you learn.
There’s only more war.
There’s war outside and inside
war speeding on the highway
to get to work on time.
There’s war in our mouths, our hair,
our eyes. The best wars are in the movies
where we eat popcorn and tell ourselves
nobody dies. Then somewhere in the middle
of Afghanistan a boy from Wisconsin
is smeared inside a turret
just like the old poem says. It’s possible
we’re all walking cages
and it’s our job to keep ourselves closed
to keep the violence
from shaking out of our bones.

National Poetry Month

What a poor job I've done covering National Poetry Month. On its last day I finally remember to point out that Black Lawrence Press is selling all of their collections at a fifty percent discount this month (ie, order today!):

 

Deeeeee-Troit Poh-et-reeeee

Detroit Poetry is kicking a little rear end these days!

Today's Poem of the Day at Verse Daily was Terry Blackhawk's "The Burn," from her most recent collection, The Light Between.

The Light Between is also slotted as the 7th Best-Selling contemporary poetry collection for the week of March 4 according to the Poetry Foundation.

The number 1 Best-Selling contemporary poetry collection? 
Allegiance by Francine Harris.

What do these two books have in common up there among the collections published by FSG and Random House, Ecco, W.W.Norton and Random House; written by Billy Collins and Philip Levine, Mary Oliver and Patti Smith?

These two collections are both recently published by Wayne State University Press (Detroit, MI) and written by women in Detroit.

Two of Terry Blackhawk's previous collections have recently been contracted to join Dzanc Books rEprint Series as eBooks in the coming months (Body & Field, and Escape Artist).

NPM - Book Review 2011-005 - Walking Papers by Thomas Lynch

Book Review 2011-005
Walking Papers: poems by Thomas Lynch
2010 from W.W. Norton, 88 pages
(This copy sent for review from the Publisher)

 

While I've heard Mr. Lynch read from his work, and am well aware of his profession as an undertaker, this, sadly I admit, is the first of his collections I've read in full. It will not be the last. 

Perhaps not so surprisingly, considering his profession, Lynch definitely covers mortality in this collection, such as the beginning to the poem "Asleep":

Often as not I crawl in bed like this,
wondering if the general discontent,
the ball and socket misery, sore ass,
shortness of breath, the tightening sense
of doom and occlusion close at hand,
might mean the dark is nearer than the light
and death's dull angel, like a one-man band,
is arming up to play my tune tonight.

And while he slips in these reminders of our impending endings throughout the collection, they're not his only muse.  Not having read his earlier work yet, I'm unaware of just how political Lynch has been with his poetry prior to this collection, but there are a few works within Walking Papers that has him allowing his anger at those recently in charge to come through on the page.  In "Dear Madam Secretary," for instance, a shot at Donald Rumsfeld as the poem ends:

Or, as one of your
colleagues once opined,
"stuff happens."
Surely what he meant to say
was shit, Madam Secretary.
It's shit that happens.
Ask any ass.

And within "The Names of Donkeys" we get shots at Prince Charles, George W. Bush and:

We call the little she-ass Sarah P.,
though truth be tole we had some choices.
When it comes to names and asses, there's no shortage.

My concern at this point is that reading the above might lead one to believe that this is a dour, or angry, collection of poetry and nothing could be further from the truth.  Lynch doesn't constantly worry over the fact that we'll all die one day, nor is he ranting over and over about our politicians.  The poetry is much more about celebrating those things that make us happy, looking at the laid out fish at a Kerrytown market, the hourly routines we have, and beyond.  It's his simple usage of mortality throughout that makes the happy memories and times we have that much more powerful. 

5 stars

NPM - Book Review 2011-004 - Lucky Fish by Aimee Nezhukumatathil

Book Review 2011-004
Lucky Fish by Aimee Nezhukumatathil
2011 from Tupelo Press, 80 pages
(This copy purchased from the Publisher)

 

This is the second collection from Aimee Nezukumatathil that I've read (the other being Miracle Fruit) and based on my enjoyment, I'm sure I'll continue to look for her work in the future.

Lucky Fish is broken up into three sections, and for the first time in a few poetry collection readings, I can actually say I see some specific themes developing in each section.  The first section, "A Globe is Just an Asterisk," has Nezukumatathil showing some of the wonderment at the universe we all reside in that I seem to recall from my reading of Miracle Fruit a few years back.

THE SECRET OF SOIL

The Secret of smoke is that it will fill
any space with walls, no matter
how delicate: lung, cell, soapy bubble
blown from a bright red ring.

The secret of soil is that it is alive--
a step in the forest means
you are carried on the back
of a thousand bugs. The secret

Throughout this section Nezhukumatathil writes of the origin of paper, of red dye, of various state soil types, of the Phillipines and India, and the globe itself.  There's a youthful inquisitive nature to these poems, and they are very clear, very accessible, and Nezhukumatathil's interest, genuine as it seems, lends itself to the reader.

The second section, "Sweet Tooth," has more of a personal ring to it, poems of reflection from the author.

MOSQUITOES

When my father wanted to point out galaxies
or Andromeda or the Seven Sisters, I'd complain
of the buzz of mosquitoes, or of the yawning
moon-quiet in that slow, summer air.  All I wanted

was to go inside into our cooled house and watch TV
or paint my nails.  What does a fifteen-year-old girl
know of patience? What did I know of the steady turn
of whole moon valleys cresting into focus?

This poem continues on up through the current day with the narrator's realization that it won't always be the case, that at some point her father won't be asking her to share in this experience.  There are poems about her parents, about her experience as the high school mascot, about meeting her future husband and a Thanksgiving meal where he's just about all she remembers. 

The third section, "Lucky Penny," seems to be heavily affected by the fact that Nezhukumatathil has become a parent of two sons not so long ago.  The third poem in this section, "Birth Geographic," is a bit of a tour de force, covering five pages through an eighteen section romp that includes varying styles from section to section.

3. 
Suppose you had a ball at birth.  A literal ball--one you could hold in your
arms, bigger than a beach ball: I brought my very own to the hospital. Mine
was rubber, a good weight, blue. A whole planet beneath my legs. Nowhere in
that world was it cloudy. In between contractions, I rocked and rocked on the
Earth and it was good.

4.     [[In the Philippines]]
It is said that if a woman has a lot of blemishes on her face, or if the face
        changes shape, the baby will be a boy.

It is said if the mother glows and radiates beauty, the baby will be a girl.
It is said if a mother is craving sweets and other carbohydrates, the baby will
        be a girl. It is said if a mother is craving oily or fried foods, the baby
        will be a boy.
                                                                          I only craved sleep, so I thought
                                                                  for sure I would give birth to a pillow.

It is said the mother cannot eat anything slimy or she will miscarry.

It is said the mother should eat fish (especially bangus) to make her child
         smart.

It is said the mother should not eat mango to avoid having a hairy baby.

                                                                                Oh dear heart--
                                  I fear we may have a very smart and terrifyingly furry child.

Lucky Fish is a very strong collection of poems, and very well put together.  There's a symmetry, I think, to the sections with Nezhukumatathil's wonderment of the world, even down to such tiny levels as thorough examinations of something like red dye, one one side of her personal poems, and then the motherhood inspired poems on the other side of her more personal poems. 

4.5 stars

NPM - Book Review 2011-003 - We Are All Good If They Try Hard Enough by Mike Young

Book Review 2011-003
We Are All Good If They Try Hard Enough by Mike Young
2010 from Publishing Genius, 80 pages
(This copy purchased from the Publisher)

 

I've enjoyed reading Mike Young's work in the past, finding a poem here or story there, but having a full collection of his poetry to sit down with brings that level of enjoyment, of excitement really, to a much higher level.

An aspect of Mike's poetry that I've always enjoyed is a combination of playfullness and sincerity, and to be honest, this could be something that I've attritubed to Mike's poetry through growing to know Mike a bit over the past few years via emails, AWP, and readings I've attended.  But reading this collection a couple of times this past week has me thinking that what I think of both Mike and his poetry is pretty accurate.

Reading any single Mike Young poem straight through does not always leave the reader with a feeling that there was a topic Young was writing about; he twists and turns throughout each poem, casting observations as rapidly as one clicking through television stations with their remote control.  For instance:

"Do You Pray in the Shower"

No, but I do pretend to give interviews.
Which is another kind of complex, right?

Anything you can do, I can make a doll.
Zee mirror is a kind of punch clock, too,

and then you go, "Then so--" "Exactly."
Wouldn't it be nice to serve a head less?

Can't a guy say uh oh, chocolate maltballs?
Ride an antelope into the breaker room
or even be of snow on almonds generally?

This is this's fault, and I won't call you
"okay" unless that's really your name.
I wanted to show you more, but you were

in it, so I couldn't.  Lillian zydeco hill bait.
I want to be useful as secret mouthwash.

If you rest halves of ping pong balls over
your eyes and indulge a bout of radio static,

it's like no one can judge you for being
afraid of LSD. It's hard to admit, but not all
of us will dance on your birthday at 4:52.

Look, they come in your house and nothing
is missing after they leave and you want to
thank someone.  That's natural. I can see you.

God, grant me a belief in mostly everything.
Please don't make me call you selfish again.

There's the playfullness throughout the poem, but it wraps up with two lines that just hammered me to my chair.  And Young does this time and again, interspersing his poems with lines that seem like they could be cast-off ideas, for instance the line above about riding an antelope into the breaker room, with lines like those last two, or:

When you are near me, I am a confident paper boat
in a bathtub full of Kool-Aid, where I tilt in circles toward
the drain, which does not worry me, for I know that a wet
hand will reach up and carry me into the kitchen.

or:

And they list all of the things they love, but
they do it in a language you don't seem to have.

The title of the book seems to come into play for me as a reader--that if I tried hard enough, I'd understand.  Or perhaps Mike Young felt that if he tried hard enough as a poet, we as readers would be good, that we'd understand that everything is important, or at least has importance to somebody.  The list of things that get brought up, again seemingly randomly, throughout this collection is immense:  Craigslist, MySpace, emoticons, antelopes, NyQuil, The Decemberists, and the list just goes on and on.  But each of these is important to somebody or they wouldn't exist, or co-exist with each other. 

5 stars

NPM - Book Review 2011-002 - Human Resources by Jesse Waters

Book Review 2011-002
Human Resources by Jesse Waters
February 2011 from Ink Brush Press, 88 pages
(This copy sent to me by the author)

 

In Jesse Waters debut collection of poetry, Human Resources, he gives readers his honest and straightforward views of love, youth, aging, relationships, sex, and life in general.  They're not always pretty or uplifting, but they're also not completely negative or dumped on.  While there's a sadness and a bit of a "what can you do?" attitude behind these poems there is also a dash of hope underlying them.

With forty-nine poems spread over five sections, Waters allows readers plenty of opportunity to dig in and appreciate his particular world view.  To be very honest, I'm not sure what led to which section each individual poem would fall into--I wasn't able to determine how the sections were different from each other.

When I turn sixteen—on my sixtieth birthday—
in my greatest dreams the smell of pastry baking
will again wake Cape Joseph under the dead sycamore
at the end of my mind: The kindergarten teacher I bit,
Cindy Harris—Martin Syzna, the friend who swallowed mercury
and dies so young, first gone blind—Gloria Tern, the first girl I hated,
and loved—my ex wife—my father…
They’ve all come to the Be-Lo in the fog of my old sorrow.
One by one they ask me for forgiveness,
I can hear them, and I reach out begging to be forgiven
but I cannot see one clear face—I see that I don’t
know them anymore.  Have I forgotten them?
Did they forget me? I’d give anything
to kiss them each one last time, on the cheek,
see my own eyes in theirs.

Their soft bodies burn away

in the light over the east wing roof

of the ice and coal plant across the street,

and there’s a faceless boy in the Pittsburgh
of my last, young day, in Madison, in DeMoines, everywhere
I’ve ever been, or would’ve been, pedaling fast
in the cold morning’s fist through block
on block of wet, lightless Annapolis street.
He’s racing fast with a basket of the good news,
trying to beat that cold January rise,
and the world around him
moves like a scene in which
the day never gets past dawn’s first rays.

This comes from a longer poem in the collection, "Gather the Last Young Day," and it captures much of what I enjoy of Waters' writing.  There is reminiscence, and it is both negative and positive, lending some honesty or authority to the writing when I read these works.  I can't think of one of these forty-nine efforts that completely leans in one direction or the other.  "It's Not Me, It's Me" begins with a stanza making it clear that both the narrator and a friend of his had been involved with a specific woman and that she had chosen the other, the friend.  While there is regret that he wasn't the one still receiving pleasure from this woman, at the same time he's happy for the duo as "The plain truth is they're meant for one another."

The last stanza of the last poem in the collection, "Penquin Logic," leaves the reader with:

With patience, and a fine layer of fat, I'd crawl
back whole continents, for one last faceful of your hair
I'd pull the few hours of each day's sunlight
into fires made of luck and lust.

which I find to be a fitting end to this collection.  It ends with the hopeful positive that can be found in each of Waters' poems.

4 stars

National Poetry Month/Source of Lit - The Quarterly - Spring 1987 - Robert Gibb

Robert Gibb has five longer (all at least a full page in length) poems and unfortunately, the thing that stood out the most to me wasn't specifically the work itself, but the fact that every line, whether it was after a period or not, started with a capitalization.  I realize that if you're typing a poem in MS Word this will happen to you, but it's not difficult to remove and replace with lower case letters, so I have to assume that Gibb meant for the work to have this--I just don't understand why.

From "The Knife":

"We have not yet stumbled

Against the furnaces of steel

Mill and marriage.

                          Tonight

It is his father who careens

Into the room, smiling and drunk,

And holding to his mouth

A blood-soaked towel

And the knife he's been using

To cut loose a tooth.

National Poetry Month/Source of Lit - The Quarterly - Spring 1987 - Linda Gregg

There are three poems from Linda Gregg up next in this issue of The Quarterly, none of which is overly long.  The first two in particular gave off a particular sense of history that I liked:

 

From "Whoever We May Finally  Be, Said Rilke":

Seeing the bodies at Belsen is not simple.

Bodies the shape of their bones, mouths,

and the fresh holes in the earth.

The illusion of tenderness in the arms and hands.

The people who were in charge standing in warm

     coats

on the dirt ridge above watching the excavations fill

with corpses. Other soldiers carrying other dead.

Two pulling a body with its lax hand dragging

on the dirt. Worst of all is seeing

how beautiful these bodies are in their ruin.

 

I simply found the poem(s) putting me in these locations, creating a visual for me that I guess I expect when I read prose but am still surprised by when it happens to me when reading poetry.

National Poetry Month/Source of Lit - The Quarterly - Spring 1987 - Paulette Jiles

Having finished the Jane Smiley novella, I found myself in the land of Quarterly poetry.  The first poet is Paulette Jiles, with "The James Poems," thirty poems spread over forty-three pages.  As I've noted before here at the EWN, I'm not one versed in the language of poetry, or the various styles.  However, I kept finding myself reading these works as prose and not poetry.  I wasn't finding meaning or reason for the line breaks.  In such cases, I usually blame myself, my lack of understanding, and my lack of having read volumes of poetry to date.  As I got deeper into this near chapbook worth of poetry though, I found myself blaming myself much less than I usually would.

From "Frank Surrenders: October 5, 1882"

"I have known no home, I have slept in all sort of

     places...I am tired

of this life of taut nerves...I want to see if there

     is not some way out

of this."

I might not have mentioned that the poems are about Frank and Jesse James--the James Gang.  Having read these, I did feel like I knew much more about this family and time period than I did before sitting down with this issue. I just didn't feel like I'd read a lot of poetry.