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Jess Williard on Montage, Utterance, Logic

Movement betweenimages is what I find most fascinating in poems. In this respect, film and poetry are kindred mediums. Logic in both spaces, whether it be conventional narrative logic or something internal and unique, is built through sequence. Montage in film is often described as “poetic,” and this is no mistake: films and poems go places. And they do so through close attention to and manipulation of continuity in image. What’s more, the “frame” in film presents a useful correlative in the image framework of a poem; what appears, how it appears, and the influences exerted on that appearance share a cinematic language.

A film I constantly return to for its “poetry” is Steven Soderbergh’s The Limey [see video excerpt]. The Limey describes the trajectory of its protagonist through temporally disjointed, fractured vignettes. It utilizes omniscient narration in a voice-over track, a technique typically employed to cohere a visually disparate narrative. But coherence isn’t really the point with either the editing or the narration: the continuity of The Limey is offered as felt or understood rather than explained. Where it occurs, the voice-over track is repeated dialogue from elsewhere in the narrative. Or it is recurrent ambient sound (humming, wind chimes, a running shower, the drone of an airplane, all of which occur as diegetic elements before they occur in the temporal sequence of the narrative; flashbacks and flashforwards function in the same way). As articulated by film theorist Guan-Soon Khoo, “the non-continuity montage is not so much a summary of diegetic events as it is an utterance via editing and use of sound by the omniscient narrator.” (Diegetic sound: sound in film that is coming from something within the frame.) This overlay—what’s in frame carrying the scent or sense of something out of frame—broadens the possibility of the poem for me. It instructs me.

For some poem examples of what I perceive to be the play of diegetic and non-diegetic elements, check out “Nothing Stays Put” by Amy Clampitt, or “Elegy Ending in the Sound of a Skipping Rope” by Larry Levis.

Jess Williard’s debut book of poetry, Unmanly Griefwas selected by Billy Collins for the Miller Williams Poetry Series from the University of Arkansas Press.

On Cynthia Cruz’s “The Last Film of the World”

From Cynthia Cruz, Dregs

The Last Film of the World

The black panorama
Of poverty,

Its warm lies and death.

Its liquor stores and detritus.

The fevering ghost
Of compulsion:

Whiskey, death, or the book.

I cannot stop—

The music is a feral, silver milk.

It is my filthy home.

I walk to the broken gates
And enter—

Cruz’s “The Last Film in the World” will trigger diverse conversations and interpretations for different readers. The title suggests that the poem wants the reader to see the poem’s topic as the panorama of a film, although the “black panorama / Of poverty” may discomfort some readers. But the interpretation that feels more resonant allows me to see poverty as an interior, private impoverishment, and as the human deficiencies of any life. The “fevering ghost / Of compulsion” that the speaker describes is “Whiskey, death, or the book,” but these words may also form the axis of a written work: life, death, our vast literary tradition.

And when I read “The music is a feral, silver milk” the poem seems an ars poetica allowing the reader to interpret music as poetry. The “filthy home” then describes the clutter, soil, corruptions of a poet’s poetry and language. All poets enter through the “broken” gates of their own writing or word-shaped perceptions. Yes—broken—that too makes sense to me. Our words are always broken and inadequate, or perhaps we ultimately want our words and language to be broken (to make poor gates, boundaries, or separations) because we do not want to keep out lived experience, our relationship with the world, not if we truly want to write poetry. And yet the poem says “walk to the broken gates / And enter—” The speaker enters, but the poem is ambiguous: enter through broken gates into the filthy home, or exiting the gates into the material world? Does the speaker seek the security implied by home? Or do they enter through the broken gates into a material world? Does it matter? Couldn’t a poem serve both purposes? Might even a broken interpretation prove useful?

Cynthia Cruz, DregsFour Way Books, 2018

JNH

On Melissa Stein’s “Lily of the Valley”

From Melissa Stein, Terrible Blooms

Lily of the Valley

In the lake bodies shift
with the currents. Waterskaters
traverse their tapestries. On the bank
grow plants that no longer have names.
Some have tongues to catch the feet
of flying things. Two shoes lie
on the bank as well. A child’s shoes.
A girl’s. Can you see her, dirty dress,
dirty soles? The arms that held her?
In a convulsion of tenderness
that wasn’t tenderness. In a fever
that wasn’t fever. In this heat
the lily of the valley exudes
such sweetness a man can’t think.
All you want to do is stop up
those pealing mouths. Those white
white skirts, unutterably clean.

“Lily of the Valley” disrupts romanticized views of nature. Linnaean classifications cannot describe the plants in the landscape that this poem imagines. The nameless plants lie beyond reach of human order or control. Readers immediately know that something horrible has happened: bodies shift with whatever current they encounter, unnamed plants prevent escape, the suggested tenderness is only feigned, and fever means not illness but more agitation. Something terrible has happened to a child. Can you see her, dirty dress, / dirty soles? The arms that held her? After asking the reader to imagine the child, the poem merges the image of the child with the image of a lily of the valley. The poem also merges the reader’s mind with a mind that wants to stop those pealingmouths, pealing which might mean the bell-like flowers of a lily of the valley or the peal of a child’s voice: her shriek, shouts, or screams. A mind that also cannot tolerate a child’s white dress. The innocence of childhood torments the man who cannot control his fever. He’s overwhelmed by the images that reach him through his own senses: the sight of a child’s dress, the shaped petals of a lily of the valley, or maybe merely by an odor of sweetness—goodness, purity—that makes it impossible for him to think, and therefore makes him capable—perhaps—of doing anything.

Melissa Stein, Terrible Blooms, Copper Canyon Press, 2018

JNH

On Micheline Aharonian Marcom’s A Brief History of Yes

From A Brief History of Yes

And yes is the hillside grove; the invisible songbird inside of it. Yes the three-legged dogs in the white clay city. The blue pushing the sky out like a girl pushes from behind her mother’s skirts and her hands to see what she has hidden from only moments ago. His feet, bony, ugly and black, and her toenails painted with lacquer a red or brown. Water. The water in the glass. The clear glass, the clear water. Water and the glass the same color which is clear and the word clearwhich doesn’t say the yes of the color or the isness of all of life in the color or nothing in the glass holding water oxygen light refracted on the glass which is the image on glass of the window, the blue peeking sky, fingerprints, greasy and earthy, so that the glass doesn’t fly off into ethereal metaphors and the girl herself, Maria, in the glass: thin stretched-down face, dark eyes, the right darker than the left, the right hand lifted in prayer, in benediction, and the mouth smiling now, open, saying, singing herself.

This month’s image, or rather images, come not from a poem but from Marcom’s lyrical novel, A Brief History of YesIn this paragraph, Marcom’s images flow one into another, expanding as water does to fill the spaces of the narrative. The prose twists round to connect the songbird in the grove and Maria singing herself, implying that the same affirmation—yes—lies in her song and in the bird’s song. The girl pushing behind her mother’s skirt, the girl that is the sky’s blue, might also be the child that Maria was once, and as a result also memory. The prose moves, shifts from a water glass, to a window, to a reflection, from a grove hiding an invisible singer, to a window pane reflecting a girl’s presence. Images inside images. Seen through the glass-like clarity of other images. Refracted by a juxtaposition of images into other perceptions. But images that must also be messy, dirty, and grounded, before they can reveal or portray.

Micheline Aharonian MarcomA Brief History of YesDalkey Archive Press, 2013.

JNH

On Ada Limón’s “Cannibal Woman”

From Ada Limón, The Carrying

There’s nothing but this sailboat inside me, slowly trying to catch
a wind, maybe there’s an old man on it, maybe a small child,

all I know is they’d like to go somewhere. They’d like to see the sail

straighten, go tense, and take them someplace. But instead they wait,
a little tender wave comes and leaves them
right where they were all along.

In this lovely extended metaphor, the poet never reveals the metaphor’s tenor. What is the sailboat? An emotion? An inner capacity to hold and move elsewhere? The imagination? Memory? Longing? And yet if there is a sailboat, there is also a body of water, and by implication a changeful energy inside the speaker. The speaker doesn’t know the sailboat’s occupants—maybe there’s an old man, a child. The boat holds both old age and childhood, both longing and longing to leave, to journey outward. But it’s the tender wave that pleases: the wave that won’t move the child into adulthood or the old man toward death. The two imagined personas will remain together and where they were all along—in an imagined space filled with uncertainty and doubt, desire and desire denied, youth and age, but also tenderness and resistance. The speaker thwarts the desires of these imagined lives. The speaker can leave them as they are. They won’t be injured or lost. They are safe from storms, suggesting why we need stories and the consolations of imagination.

“Cannibal Woman,” from Ada Limón, The Carrying, Milkweed Editions, 2018

JNH

On Christopher Kennedy’s “Postulate”

From Christopher KennedyClues from the Animal Kingdom

                                       How did I feel when I heard you were gone?

Picture a hunter’s moon above a white barn, the barn on fire, the
yellow flames, straining toward the moon. Then the sound no one
could ever forget, the sound of burning horses, moonlight branded
on their blistering flanks.

How does the loss or death of a loved one feel? Kennedy answers the question with an imaginative drama. The poem opens with a hunter’s moon, the full moon that typically appears in October and, according to lore, that hunters used to kill fatted deer for winter. It’s also called a blood moon. After this foreboding beginning, the poem asks readers to imagine the terror of a barn fire and the poor horses perishing inside: pain, terror, agony. The poem escalates from sight, to sound, to touch: moonlight branded / on their blistering flanks.The poetic icon of romantic beauty brands, injures even more, the burned bodies of the horses. How did it feel when I heard you were gone? As if, the poem suggests, my dying body had been cruelly marked for property by a romantic notion of love, beauty, and mercurial emotion. Or then again, like a suffering animal, dependent on the failed care of its owner. Kennedy mocks the ideal of romantic love. The loved one has caused the suffering, so what does he leave us to think? How did it feel when I heard you were gone? Does the poem answer?

“Postulate,” from Christopher KennedyClues from the Animal KingdomBOA Editions, 2018. Book trailer for Clues from the Animal Kingdom.

JNH

On Tracy K. Smith’s “The Everlasting Self”

from Tracy K. Smith, Wade in the Water

THE EVERLASTING SELF

Comes in from a downpour
Shaking water in every direction—
A collaborative condition:
Gathered, shed, spread, then
Forgotten, reabsorbed. Like love
From a lifetime ago, and mud
A dog has tracked across the floor.

This short poem immediately intrigues—an everlasting self? Eternal? Inescapable? A self that participates in its own messy engagement with the natural world and with living, unable to hide away in dry domestic security. But it is the image—which compares love to the raindrops and storm flung from a dog’s fur, from the mess left by a dog simply responding as a dog, despite human ownership—that delights. The poem reveals a “love / From a lifetime ago,” love presumably connected to the speaker’s older self. Ah, the everlasting self, the self that is . . . shed . . . forgotten. But the poem implies that love shares the self’s condition. Love is also ongoing, reabsorbed, and like the self it is “collaborative”: not without agency, not passive. Love, self, and by implication the past (“a lifetime ago”) are all bound together, leaving messes. What can we do but clean them up?

“The Everlasting Self,” from Tracy K. Smith, Wade in the Water, Graywolf Press, 2018

JNH

Matthew Minicucci, on Trillium Falls Trail, Redwood National Park

By guest blogger poet Matthew Minicucci

Trillium Falls Trail, Redwood National Park

April 8th, 2018

It’s important to note, first, that I’m not a hiker. A walker, sure, but not a hiker. Not in that Northern California sense of the word. In the case of the above picture, I’m actually a listener more than anything. Ironic, perhaps, in reference to a photo, but true. Late one day I was four miles deep into the Redwood National Park on Trillium Falls Trail, just hoping to hear something in those ancient woods.

My newest book project, Epode, is a metrical examination of the soundscapes of the American West. On this particular day (of a four-day journey), I had been greeted by a park sign imploring me to “listen for the high-pitched hoots of the spotted owl or the rapid trills of the ever-present winter wren.” And so, ready to listen, I marched into the Sitka spruces and Douglas-firs.

Perhaps, in retrospect, “ever-present” might not have been the word they were looking for. There was neither a trill nor a hoot to be found. But, in the absence of those ubiquitous calls there was a slow boil from the churning falls; the hollowed-rubber thud of my shoes against fallen logs; and this simple sharp tap I heard exactly one time over the nine-hour length of the hike.

What was that sharp sound? Eventually I gleaned it was a single water droplet, fallen from the impossibly tall canopy; a simple sting against the tin cap of my exposed water bottle. A perfectly aimed shot, quite improbable, considering the distance fallen along the forest’s Y axis divided by my measured pace along the floor’s X axis (or some such hiking math). But, there it was. An undeniable ping. Naturally unnatural. Some sonic proof of that damp and perfect place brought into this world only by my very intrusion in it.

Matthew Minicucci is the author of two collections of poetry: Small Gods, finalist for the 2016 Green Rose Prize from New Issues Press, and Translation (Kent State University Press, 2015), chosen by Jane Hirshfield for the 2014 Wick Poetry Prize.

On Chanda Feldman’s “True Autumn”

From Chanda Feldman, Approaching the Fields

The long chain, slime-gray,
lovingly scrubbed clean of grit.
My mother says it’s not true autumn
without eating them, as vital as blood-
rich colored oak leaves. As a kid
I loved the slurp of entrails
slicking my throat, but I never forgot
my white neighborhood friend’s table
set with bowls of lobster bisque
and baguette slices. Contained. Not all
food-juice mixing on the plate.

Feldman’s poem describes chitterlings or chitlins, a Southern dish of cooked pig intestines originating with slave cooks. While slave owners ate “high on the hog,” their captives only had access to the parts of the slaughtered pigs that the owners did not want: entrails, pig’s feet, etc. The “long chain” subtly suggests both the pig’s intestines and the chains of slavery, though the chains of slavery, unlike the chitlins, are never easily cleaned. The speaker doubly describes the chitlins through the enjambed linebreak, as blood and as blood-rich oak leaves. The chitlins are the lifeblood of a family (culture, heritage, story), and at the same time the chitlins are tied to the oak’s strength, endurance, and deep roots. Sustenance.

Feldman juxtaposes the sensuality of the entrails with another meal—lobster bisque and a French baguette—steeped in class consciousness. A white friend’s meal is contained and neatly separated into tidy portions. Unlike the chitlins, a lobster bisque isn’t an annual marker for the season, the labors of rural life, a robust sensuality, or the inventiveness of those who survived the depredations of slavery.

Contained reaches beyond the description of a meal and also suggests separate social worlds.  Controlled, restrained, repressed, stifled, the family that enjoys the lobster bisque does not imbibe the messy, free-flowing, sensual mixing enjoyed when eating chitlins. One thinks, the poem suggests, of all the possible and impossible mixing in the larger world around us, the chains, the links, and the messy bonds between us all.

“True Autumn,” from Chanda Feldman, Approaching the Fields

JNH

On Jennifer Wallace’s “What Do You Think”

from Jennifer Wallace, Almost Entirely

What Do You Think

What do you think of the little egret
tip-toeing through the marsh?
White feathers ruffed against
the slate-blue Gulf.

See how it lifts its foot,
like a Chinese painter who lifts her brush.

The poem immediately personifies the egret as human. It tip-toes, quietly searching perhaps as egrets do for food, or perhaps tip-toeing is the best wisdom, given snakes and a variety of predators. The poem turns and shifts the camera from the bird to a Chinese painter. In a sense this shift only continues the tradition of romantics and poets who peer into the natural world and see some reflection of themselves. And yet, the poet asks readers to see not merely the egret but the artist. Art and nature, if not mirroring, then at least resemble each other. The small bird before the larger gulf. The individual artists before the larger tradition. Both the egret and the artist hunting, seeking sustenance. Empty canvases, blank paper, a musical instrument, or a stage all have their dangers, require caution. To tip-toe, or step carefully, seems like good advice. Even so, we lift the brush and take the risk, even when we are small and alone.

“What Do You Think,” from Jennifer Wallace, Almost Entirely

JNH