A Serious Call by
Don Coles, Porcupine’s
Quill, 2015, 64 Pages
“…he has outgrown us and deserves an
international readership.”
—Carmine Starnino
I have two reasons for writing again about new work by Don Coles – the first, my enormous
liking for the spare, compressed poem which opens
A Serious Call
and the long title piece which concludes it. My second reason stems from
Coles’ editor Carmine Starnino’s recent description of Coles as “world-class,”
an odd remark given Starnino’s historic opposition to this term and others like
it. But after reflecting, I think he might be right; as a category,
“world-class” will admit many more members than, say, “the best poet of his
generation,” so why not Coles?
This is important because of the danger we run of allowing reputation to
lull us into complacency about a poet’s work. If I stop short of liking Coles’
work in its entirety, it is because I continue to see his successes as
intermittent, his poems too often marred by faults that trail after him, e.g.
unconvincing conceits (“My Death as the Wren Library”), tonal miscues (“Too
Tall Jones”), and Coles’ Oxbridge sensibility – that dry understatement and
avuncular, donnish persona out of which so many of his poems emerge.
My other objections are filtered through personal biases towards
compression, lines rich in personality and driven by strong purpose. Declaring
these, my difficulties with Coles’ poetry should be immediately apparent in an
otherwise lovely poem about the poet’s relationship with his young daughter. In
“Flying,” she sings “Some day I will fly away. Like Peter. Like Peter.” To
which Coles responds:
…I had
allowed the call to enter me in a way
she had surely
not intended, which was no particular
way at all, really,
it was just a child’s voice
en route to
dreaming
and the call was nobody’s fault, not
hers and
not mine either, at the most it may
have been
a kind of intimation from the flown-free
pale-blue wing.
Any other poet would be hammered for subordinating the drive of his poem
through phrases like “which was no particular way,” “not hers and not mine
either,” or “a
kind of intimation.” His
eminence grise
lovingly shielded by a cohort of otherwise sensible critics, Coles’ persistent
hesitancies and digressions are normally interpreted – and not without some
justification – as the natural charm of the human voice. Robyn Sarah describes
his hesitations more precisely as an enactment of “a conversational intimacy
while guarding a personal privacy.” The problem: this constant recasting of
Coles’ thoughts, the structural looseness and never-wanting-to-make-too-big-a-deal-about
things, disperses the general force of a poem. The reader may be kept at a safe
distance, as Sarah suggests, but the poet’s ability to win a deeper connection
and more lasting allegiance through directness and purpose is lost. Nor would
it help to argue that the endless backtracking and other vagaries of his style
serve a larger, thematic purpose, i.e., his cosmological stance on the lost
human soul unaccountably suspended in time.
Often, Coles reserves his strongest effects for the end of a prose or
narrative poem, genres where our “expectancies,” as I.A. Richards once observed,
are “more indeterminate” than they are of verse: readers are held in check until
prose at last spills its magic. Coles’ narratives unfold in precisely this
manner. Too often, though, a strong, richly detailed poem drifts off the bottom
of the page rather than coming to a strong and satisfying close. “Moonlight,”
for example, starts out chock-full of colour and purpose: “A garrulous old
cuckold…gibbering under the moon, … his tiny wife … with her legs on either
side of his happy teenage apprentice … a young Canadian lieutenant in 1917
“studying the latest configurations of barbed wire from his lookout post.”
Surely the Second Coming is at hand. Well, not exactly:
I’ve so often wished I had asked him
much more
about all that, and right now there’s a
blurred
couple of seconds which could be my
chance,
but in the moonlight and the
remembered quiet
I let it go.
As does the reader; whatever power originally animated the poem trails off
into nostalgia and resignation, suggesting that the only adequate posture
towards life is to be underwhelmed by it. Is the Yeats comparison unfair?
Perhaps. Coles’ interests centre on images and narrowly conceived existential
ideas, not modernist symbols normally loaded as Clive Scott noted, “with
dimensions enough to repossess all the ideas which, as the occasion of the
poem, it engendered.” Coles’ images and ideas hardly ever coalesce into
anything more than the gentlest of imagistic denouements.
Again, other critics see method in Coles’ mildness. But more revealing than
what they have to say about Coles’ poetry is what they imagine the rest of us
might say
if they weren’t around to correct us. Though you or I might
consider Coles’ poetry to be “loose, drifting, undisciplined,” we would be
wrong says W.J. Keith. See those “basic words” he says of one poem. See how
Coles “skillfully juxtaposes” them to emphasize “a space in time.” Notice how,
despite this most overworked of defenses, it never occurs to Keith that our
original judgements might actually be pretty apt descriptions of Coles’ poetry.
A more fundamental unhappiness: whatever response Coles might wish to evoke
– sadness, disgust, illumination – the reader will recognize its
representation, but not feel its reality. Not so in the first poem in
A
Serious Call. “poem” is of an entirely different order than Coles’ other
poems, blending in a way he rarely does both feeling and perspective.
my mother said
last night you came
into my room
with your
quiet face when
you were small
and she said
I was not asleep
I was waiting to see if
it could be long ago
This simple little poem is one of the best Coles has written. The lines are
beautifully weighted, the effects impeccably distributed. Nothing is wasted,
but neither is everything revealed; Coles gets all that he can ask of a poem
without giving too much of himself away. But the best part is that we gain the
full emotional impact that the encounter with the otherwise absent parent has
on the child, and of the child as a vehicle of memory into the absent parent’s
own childhood.
The same can be said, though for different reasons, of “A Serious Call,” the
long narrative poem about Coles’ experience looking for work in London,
England. Like Coles’ best poems, this one unfolds organically, relying less on
the mechanical constraints of formal verse than on irreducible human experience
– total, immediate, intuitive. Nowhere can the reader point and say
here is
where the key to the poem lies. Coles tills his soil with light
observations or descriptions, e.g., the Southwark district of London:
Nowadays the area’s rampant with
wine bars
patronized by rich youths who got that
way
shifting currencies in nearby highrises…
and then nourishes the ground with a rich admixture of literary allusion and
anecdote, e.g. his new job at Grattan’s bookstore and the pleasant discovery
that he and his new friend/manager John Rolf (JR) get to spend most of their
time reading books at the back of the shop.
And – we were reading only books
that we
wanted to read.
If Grattan’s didn’t have a desired title
(and sometimes
it
did thanks to the Everymen), we’d
mention that title
to the ‘travellers’ who regularly called
on us from
almost every one of Britain’s major
publishing houses.
The travelers knew perfectly well that
our Southwark clientele
wouldn’t be queuing up for these
privately picked titles,
but they also knew that the titles
looked just as significant
in their order books as those exotic
dictionaries did…
That works for me. Why? Well first of all, it’s wickedly funny. But Coles
also reins in his signature interruptions and keeps his narrative relatively
clean, his subordinate clauses performing their traditional functions of
modifying principal thoughts and adding details which pique and sustain our
interest. See Coles and JR, cigarettes at their lips, “lounging, books in hand…
…in broken-backed but creatively-
cushioned
chairs in a small room at the rear of the
shop with,
for warmth on wintry days, a spool-
shaped electric heater
on a low, round, wooden table between
us.
Also regularly seen on that table:
four
booted feet.
This telescoping effect also works nicely later on.
So, amid the quiet and the smoke – flap
of a turned page.
Discreet flare of a match. Realignment
of a boot or two
On a low, round table.
Smoke wavering up from a beer-slogan
ashtray whenever
a stray gust
arrived from a doorless front-of-shop.
Starnino has said a reader must be alive to the “shades of meaning” which
occur from line to line in Coles’ poetry. There are many kinds of “meaning,” of
course, but I think he’s mostly right. But I also think when Coles later
acknowledges “there were/great books which we failed to find among our
Everymen” that he is after bigger game – and none bigger than Tolstoy’s
War
and Peace.
For Natasha, the two nights,
grand St. Petersburg ball and follow-up
wolf-hunt, are wand-touched,
are inhabited by adoring glances and
moonlit whispers, by
sights and sounds we want to believe
will charm and protect her
forever, but – Tolstoy spares us nothing
here – life chooses
for her instead a heartless near
seduction, a confused first love,
and eventually an unremarkable life
long marriage.
Never mind world-class. “Sparing us nothing,” Tolstoy enters that much
smaller arena reserved for exclusive masters of the genre. Following close on
his heels: George Eliot, summing up in the death of Dorothea at the end of
Middlemarch
the fruits of an unspoken, generational legacy.
…for the growing good of the world
is partly dependent on unhistoric acts;
and that things are
are not so ill with you and me as they
might have been,
is half owing to the number who have
lived faithfully a hidden life,
and rest in unvisited tombs.
“A Serious Call” is a poem for readers of both fiction and poetry. Part of
its appeal for me is the time I spent working through Tolstoy and Eliot,
Flaubert’s
Madame Bovary, Hardy’s poetry, and Camus’ essays. I’d like
to think others will take the same journey if they haven’t done so already,
perhaps filtering Coles’ poem through their experience of those books. Failing
this, our avatars remain the two young men in Grattan’s discovering that more
is actually needed than great books or even very good readers.
When the sentences
keep arriving and the realizations go on
stacking up,
the half-guesses that something, which
just might be
joy,
might possibly be waiting at the end of
them, and might even
last a decently long time – there’s this
need for
something else.
Or some
one else.
Yes? We began to circle yes.
Beyond the consumption of great writing is the need to
share it aloud,
Coles suggests, in lines “listened to by the other one,” depending “on who was
the first / to be prompted by a newly arrived sentence cluster.” All this is
beautifully unpacked by more of Coles’ own lines: “…to know / that there is
no
way he was going to move past
this cluster / its unexpectedness,
without getting some backup …” It’s not just our “expectancies” that drive
narrative, but also, as Coles clearly intimates, our desire, by poem’s end, for
the unexpected, for the surprising.
My surprise is what I had not expected from Coles: that he should reflect
back on a human relationship and that for once I should really care. “A Serious
Call” works because, as the product of human relationships and endeavours, it
is harnessed by competing forces – one force joyfully skittering along the
surface of Coles’ reverence for great books, underpinned by a deeper, more
unifying force within the lifelong relationship of two men.
The poem ends, as all deep friendships so often must end, in elegy – but not
before Coles remarks on a note he received from his friend asking him “to
explain, a few minutes’ calm and untroubled / thought at the start of each day
directed towards / one or another of a small number of friends, among them /
me.”
That note ended with him
expressing the hope that one day
someone might find
a name for what this non-praying,
prayer-less, thought
was.
Coles’ and JR’s shared delight in great books and our experience of their
growing mutuality quietly coalesce into something more special than even books:
the knowledge that the greatness of books, the reputation of poets or
novelists, are secondary to what readers share. Nor is the object to say who
among us have “outgrown” their readers or been unfairly denied the world’s
attention, but to expand on George Eliot’s remarks and ask if the “unhistorical
acts” upon which “the growing good of the world” depends might include our
grand, unheralded poetries.