SHORT REVIEWS (3)
pride fight,
by Meghan Harrison, chapbook, 2016, 20 pp
We’ve all been there. That dark cubby
hole above the local pub or the small recess at the back of a mostly charmless
café. Hunched over the microphone or circling it in suspicion: the performance
poet, by turns moaning or shouting their disdain for the audience or past
lovers. They’re cheeky, wear too much retro punk and menace for my taste, but
display enormous energy, linguistic verve and biting humor. A case in point:
Meghan Harrison’s poem in Pride Fight
whose opening line is its title:
I know it’s the economy
but I want
what everybody wants:
enough money
to stop worrying about money
and a beautiful man
on his knees.
Eavesdropping in on someone’s unhappiness
over a lover is not always very interesting - except where the prevailing
metaphor is a surprising one; in this instance, the alienation stirring within
capitalist economics: “Naïve and wire-stripped I wanted/to fuck you in those
fields/ but you’ve already/commodified your experience/of fucking someone else
in a field.” Love has product value only when you’re a determined onetime buyer, get first dibs and when a kind of a justice prevails: “I’m trying not to
imagine/the suffering of whoever/made the clothes that/I’m imagining us taking
off.” Poetic form itself can’t escape
the anti-capitalist gloss:
The pastoral
is a construction site,
the late-shift workers' radios
burr the air with
the stacked purring
of someone else’s money.
In all you have to like Harrison’s competence
in things like internal rhyme, sustained metaphor, and the kind of skeptical,
even cynical energy (not always a bad thing) she brings to her poems. If I have
reservations, it’s that these and other qualities tend to flag through the rest
of the chapbook. Keep an eye (and ear) open for this poet, though. She’s a
winner.
Helices by George
Swede, Red Moon Press, 2016, 118 pp
Many will
find George Swede’s newest collection hard not to like – if only because haiku
and other similar forms are almost guaranteed an immediate allegiance for being
short, pithy and sweet. I’m less easily won over by the form than I am by the
content in Helices. Like David
Zieroth, Swede possesses both the knowledge and courage to tackle tough subjects.
sandcastle my carefully constructed self
the fantasy that is me central singularity
self-scrutiny
as deep
as the snorkel
allows
a grain of sand
in my umbilicus
the theory of everything
between what
I think and what is
pink flamingo
Swede’s poems gain by the deep
typographical space between lines (not possible here because of my own limited
space). Unlike many poets, Swede also has the capacity to present bare images
that do more than squat on the page and dare you not to like them. Just being an image is not enough. You
have to feel a crackle between it and everything else surrounding and
intermixing with it - through the poet’s use of diction, syntactic placement
and attention to sound. Here’s the opening of “Rhapsody”
As the wind sways the tops of the trees, a sudden
urge to break free from the gnarled knuckles
and knees, the sunken skin, the exposed blood
vessels.
in the camouflage
of beached driftwood
bones from the sea
I don’t often comment on packaging
but I will here. At 4” X 6.5” the book’s densely packed pages fit nicely into
the back pocket. I’d like to see others do the same, but I’d urge people to buy
or rummage through the library for Swede’s poems themselves - taut,
authoritative little poems that occasionally come with a smile.
Sunday idleness…
from somewhere
in my DNA
a growl she finds
endearing
Okay, I admit it. I’ve been a little
hard on Tim Lilburn. Lilburn long ago took a gamble on the reader’s attention
by exercising his penchant for ontological speculation. Very bright, very caring poets I know say Lilburn is impenetrable either because
they don’t share his passion for the hermeneutical musings on divine
presence by 13th century theologian John Duns Scotus or because he has yet to provide us, implicitly or explicitly, a strategy for unpacking the chthonic, subterranean thickets he perp walks
us through. I know because I’ve asked.
What Lilburn
has done in his latest collection is lower his sights a bit to trade in
prejudices shared by a broad swath of Canadian
poets. The most overworked of these is the notion that otherwise nondescript
members of one’s family have something to tell us about what it means to be
completely human. Says Paddy Lilburn “The government is bad so we live
here/Half dug into a cliff of The End of Things/Precipice of crowbelly cloud
and Serbian wolves.”
Hughie of wounds
Four or five years after the war, mortal
shrapnel; they’d
Called his brother, my father, out of the lines
in Italy
To consider what stirred in the pillow’s cup;
Hughie and Ita, a beautiful TB-ed London woman,
they moved
To Vancouver in `46, then back to Liverpool, had
a son named (I think)
Pat, still likely there if not himself dead.
Lilburn is not
above working another common bias: that a poem to be good should end declaratively,
running counter to my experience that most personal discoveries in life and
literature are incremental rather than epiphanal. Thing is, Lilburn does it so
well.
In Normandy, Holland or any southeast
Saskatchewan bar, heart,
Truck gliding into a ditch north of Corning,
1971,
Wheat delivered, licence renewed, beautiful,
Beautiful, their heavy-wind-in-poplar speeches,
Their sweeping movements in my half-lit, plush
underage theatre; how they
Bent my breath.
Few poets
have benefited from as small and specialized a readership as Lilburn. His
critical acolytes too often engage in what R.P. Blackmur once described as “flag
waving”. It reminds you “what you ought to feel” - or where Lilburn is
concerned, what you are expected to think
or know. What is rare, or perhaps overlooked, is the movement of Lilburn’s heart as well as his head. As it
is revealed above. More please.
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