Speaking Passions - The Georgia Review

Transcription

Judith
Kitchen
Speaking
Passions*
On the back cover of Randall Jarrell'sPoetry and the Age, Leslie Fiedler
writes,"Jarrellis everywherethe man who has just read somethinghe loves
or hates,sometimestheman baffledby what surprisedhiminto admirationor
exacerbatedhimbeyondpatienceby itsineptitude;but always theman speaking his passion,ratherthan an embodied institutionpronouncingjudgment.
committedto no methodologyor aesthetic
He is resolutelyunsystematic,
theory-responsibleonly to his own responses,hushedonly beforethe mystery of his own taste."This descriptionwould jar many contemporaryreviewerswho tryto be systematic,who committhemselvesto methodology
In fact,conor theoryand would love to have the authorityof institutions.
reviewer
would-be
act
the
reviewers
often
more
like
theorists;
temporary
shedshis or her passionin favorof a dispassionateacademic approach. Fiedler's quote, it seemsto me, is a prettygood descriptionof what a reviewer
oughtto be, but seldomis. The riskof tasteis the markof the reviewerwho
puts his or her responseson the line, knowingthathistorymay or may not
supportthatposition.What mattersmoreis the dialoguehe or she entersinto
(howeversilent)with otherreaders-readersnot of the reviewer'swork, but
the specificbook(s) being discussed.Such a reviewerassumesotherreaders,
and otherpassions.
Each book hasitsown territory,
and thatterritorydeservesto be entered
on its own terms.The ideal review does not limita book by looking only
at one aspector attempting
to comparethebook withbooks by otherauthors.
It may,of course,be relevantto compare a new book to an author'searlier
books, to look at how the new work extendsthe vision or moves in new
directions.And it may also be informativeto place a writerwithina larger
literarytraditionby noting similaritieswith well-knownpredecessors.But
the reviewershould not necessarilytake on the role of the criticor theorist.
The reviewer'smajor job is to chroniclethe presenttense; it is the task of
#An essay-review
of
An OregonMessage.ByWilliamStafford.
(New York:Harper& Row,1987).143pp.
$17.95.
$8-95»
paper.
To theQuick.ByHeatherMcHugh.(Middletown:
Press,1987).
University
Wesleyan
X,60pp.$9.95,
paper.
Shades.By HeatherMcHugh.(Middletown:
Press,1988).71 pp.
University
Wesleyan
$18.50.
$9.95,
paper.
The Imperfect
Paradise.By LindaPastan.(New York:W. W. Norton,1988).80 pp.
$i5-95.
To the Place of Trumpets.
By BrigitPegeenKelly.(New Haven:Yale University
Press,1988).xiv,70 pp.$14.95.
$7'95>paper.
Rose.By Li-YoungLee. (Brockport,
N.Y.: BOA Editions,
1986).71 pp. $6.95,paper.
[407]
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4O8
THE
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REVIEW
criticismand theoryto reflecton what has already happened and/or what
mightbe about to happen.
The last line of Fiedler on Jarrellreads, "And what unfailingtaste he
possessed." But Jarrellcared most about reading, and about an idealized
interestedpublic who would care about his caring,leaving it to historyto
characterizehis taste (in the formof Leslie Fiedler and others), just as he
leftit to the readersto enterthe world of the poetryhe discussed."Responsible only to his own responses,"he demonstrateda love for poetry and a
passionforreading.Isn't thiswhat mostof us are stilllookingfor?
Over the years,William Staffordhas given us such a consistentvoice and
vision that it is difficultto tell the poems in An Oregon Message fromthe
poems that appeared over twenty-fiveyears ago in West of Your City.
Because of this "mix-and-match"quality,William Staffordshould be read
in large doses- severalbooks at a time-so that his readerscan perceive the
vastlylargerpicturewhich emergesfromthe intricatelywoven tapestryof
a lifetime'swork. Like Wallace Stevens before him, Staffordhas built a
"language," an interlockingset of images throughwhich one can enter his
imaginativespaces. Unlike Stevens, he uses a seeminglytransparent,even
commonplace,vocabulary. Words and images are repeated from poem to
poem, and book to book. It takes accumulated reading to understandthe
complexityof his vision.So, if one has to choose a place to begin- and begin
one must-Stafford'slatestbook would be a good choice. An Oregon Message
is an extensionof Stafford'scentralvision and, at the same time,a return
to his roots.
An Oregon Message flagrantly
blends the humorous,the nostalgic,and
the prophetic.It revealsa more didacticside of Stafford,as thoughhe is less
willingto let time do its work for him.The messagesare gentle,oftenplayful,but alwayscarrythebite of truth.Its first"message"is foundin theform
of a prosestatementprecedingthe poems,where Stafford-calling his poems
"organicallygrown"- defendshismethodagainstwhatmustbe seen as hidden
critics."I mustbe willinglyfalliblein order to deservea place in the realm
where miracleshappen," he writes.Why should Staffordfeel compelled to
statethis at such a late stage in his career? The answer may lie in the new
way thisbook includes the reader as part of its subject matter,thus asking
the readerto be falliblewith him.
Beginningwith a section entitled"The Book About You," Stafford
equatesthe "I" of thepoemswiththe "You" of the title.His lifeis your lifeor very like it. In thisway, he allows you to take on his perspective,and his
wit. He beginsto have fun.He burnsbooks: "Truth,brittleand faint,burns
easily,/ itsfireas hotas thefireliesmake- / flamedoesn'tcare." He confesses:
"I let historyhappen-sorry."He lets out all the stopsin "Thinking About
Being Called Simple by a Critic,"where he alludes firstto William Carlos
Williams by opening: "I wanted the plums,but I waited." Then, sittingin
with his critic,agreeswith him,findshis own life "so
the dark,he identifies
no
was
there
way / back into qualifyingmy thoughts/ with irony or
simple
JUDITH
KITCHEN
409
anythinglike that."This playfulside of Stafforddominatesthe firstsection
of the book, thenservesas an undercurrent
throughout.
What the criticmissedin callingStafford"simple"is a realizationof just
how deep he is, how serioushe can be. This is a seriousbook- perhapsStafford'sbest since The Rescued Year- and it goes back to some of his original
his moral commaterialwith renewedurgency.It reexaminesand reaffirms
mitmentsto pacifismand social justice (as in "Servingwith Gideon," which
unforgettablyexamineshis own near-complicitywith racism). It looks at
the past-especiallyhis family-and triesto reconcilethe polaritiesof father
(patience) and mother(judgment) that have characterizedStafford'searlier
work. It continueshis concernsfor the land, and for how we will use our
that,like the bush fromMongolia whose roots
technologies.And it affirms
will not relax,"some of us have to be ready." What we mustbe ready for,
Stafforddoes not make clear, but he does suggestan eventual mergingof
self with the elements-a transcendencefar less rhetoricalthan Whitman's
and more convincingthan Emerson's:
. . . thatriverdividesmorethan
two sidesof yourlife.The onlyway
is farther,
thatcountry,
becoming
breathing
wiseinitsflavor,
a nativeofthesun.
("LookingforGold")
One of thebestpoemsin thebook is "1940"- a poem thatrecallshismost
anthologizedpoem, "Traveling Through the Dark," in both its contentand
itsformalstructures,
but mostin its shiverof premonition:
1940
It is August.Yourfatheris walkingyou
to thetrainforcampand thentheWar
andon outofhislife,butyoudon'tknow.
Litde lightsalongthepathglow undertheirhoods
andyourshoesgo brown,brownin thebrightness
whentheydisappearin theshadow.
tillthenextinterval,
You knowtheyare downthere,by thecrunchofstone
and a rustlewhentheytoucha fern.Somewhereabove,
cicadasarchtheirgauzeofsoundall overtown.
windfollowacrossthepark
Shiversof summer
andthenturnback.You walkon toward
thedepot,thedark,thelight,thedark.
September,
insistson makingthisa universalpoem. It is yourfatherwalking you.
Stafford
Moving throughtimeand space, thispoem reconstructsboth a personaland
a societalhistory.Sound revealswhat sightcannot,and the "gauze of sound"
thatis the poem transportspoet and readeralike into a place where the only
thingyou can be certainof is uncertainty:"but you don't know." Is this a
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momentof hindsight?Or is it man's continualstateas he hoverson the verge
of thefuture?Or is it thewriter'striggerforimagination?With characteristic
deftness,Staffordallows foreach of these-and more.
Stafford'smetaphorforthe daily practiceof writing(where one is most
open to uncertainty)is foundin "Run BeforeDawn":
I getaway,slipout
Mostmornings
thedoorbeforelight,setforthon thedim,gray
road,lettingmyfeetfinda cadence
thatsoftlycarriesmeon.
The poem goes on to describewhat he passes,what passes him,what dream
he findshimselfin. It ends in the solitaryvisionof the creationof the poem:
These journeysare quiet.They markmy dayswith
adventure
too preciousforanyoneelseto share,little
theworldgoingby,and mybreath,and theroad.
gemsof darkness,
themorning"run" over the blankpage is a way of
For William Stafford,
living.He faces himselfin mirroraftermirror,learningto "own" his own
face more. Perhaps thisis because, afterstaringat his eventual death (certainlythe largestthemein A Glass Face in the Rain, 1982), he has opted for
continuedlife. An Oregon Message is filledwith quiet joy- thereis even a
poem called "Why I Am Happy." Like the lie detector that proclaimsa
constanttruth,the heart makes its own optimisticsound: "saying 'Now,'
"
saying,'Yes,' / saying,'Here.'
What fascinatesme most about this book is a blurringof time which
demandsthe participationof the reader.Past, present,and futurefuseinto a
timelessness
in which all good thingscan- and will- happen. Staffordhands
thesemomentsto us witha writtengesture.Multipletensesmergeto create a
link between the poet's personalreflectivetime and the reader's present;a
new "presenttense"is establishedon the page in theact of reading:
You who comeyearsfromnow to thisbriefspell
of nothingthatwas mine:theopen,slowpassing
of timewas a giftgoingby.I haveputmyhandout
on themaneof thewind,likethis,to giveit to you.
("LittleRooms")
or
How who you are madea difference
once
but thewindblew,changingeverything
graduallyto here,anditis today.
("FiguringOut How It Is")
Stafford's
weightedvocabularyhoverson theborderof metaphysics.Key
words (dark, wind, hand, listen, jar, to name a few) surfaceover and over,
acquiringspecial meaningsthat,aftersuccessiveappearances,startto become
clear. One mustbe carefulnot to reduce thisvocabularyto a simpleseriesof
equationsor to attemptto harnessit into a "system."Still,the poems deepen
JUDITH
KITCHEN
4II
with thisextended,charged usage. The word listen, for example,is equated
with a receptivitythat generatespoetry itself,and any aspect of listening
carrieswithit some of thatextrameaning.Thus, thereaderdiscernsjusta bit
more than a falteringpiano in "Practice": "Maybe your stumbling/ saves
you,and thatsoundin thenightis morethanthewind."
Some critics (like the one in his poem) have been calling Stafford
"simple"fora long time.It's too bad thattheyhaven'ttakenthe timeto read
the body of work and to see how his interlockingimagesprovide a key for
readingthe poems on severallevels at once. Staffordis a major poet- and he
has yet to receive propercriticalattention.He is stubbornlysimple,but not
simplistic.This book is ample evidence that this senior figure,of the generationof Lowell and Berryman,has continuedto write remarkablepoetry.
An Oregon Message will surpriseany reader who thinksof Staffordas a
Northwesternmyth-spinner.
Despite its title,thisis not a book of place, but
of imagination.Its languageis alive,challengingthe readerto enterits many
dimensions
withmindas well as heart.
Two books withthe feelof one- that'swhat Heather McHugh has produced
over the last year. These are distinctvolumes,each with its own integrity,
yet one flowseasily into the next and they informeach otherin important
ways. Both springfromthe same source and fromthe same desire for explanation.Even theirtitlestellus thisis a matterof lifeand death.
To the Quick is concerned with motion, with relativity.McHugh's
physicsgo beyond thephysicalintothe realmof the emotional("Earth / has
our own great ranges/ of feeling-"). Movementitselfcauses speculation:
". . . the whole nightlong on the highway,moved, I'll have // a moon to
keep me company,as still/ as I am, in the glass,while trees and signs and
homes keep racing//toward the past. What's staying/ anyway? What's
going on? . . ." Everythingis slippery,and the only thingmore slippery
than love is the language we use to speak it. Wordplay is the norm for
are all used, in the
McHugh, but the puns,the twists,the double-entendres
end, to call attentionto change-and to the very way that naming calls
somethinginto question:
We putoursignature
on everythingwe drawtheline
at skinfordifferent,
at heartfordead; butnow and then
theEKG machinegoeson
all by itself.Therewas a time
we reallysang,forgetting
andwhenwe did
differences,
theairitselfwouldseemalive-butthen
we fellbackintodream;our definitions
froze.
("What We Call Living")
What's dead, here,is love. But it won't stay dead; it rearsits ugly, onesided head and won't let go. T о the Quick rages againsta particularlover,
severalpervertedaspectsof love, and the body thatharborsunrequitedpas-
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sions,as well as againstmemorythat fixeslove, locking it foreverinto time
and place. And yet ... if you hold thismirrorup to see your breath,there
it is- proofthatyou're alive.
What's really alive here is language-and a quick mind receptiveto its
contradictions,aware of all its facets,intriguedby how it holds itselftogether.Chance is as good as rule:
For a secondthewordexpressappears
in apposition
to thewordespresso(that's
whathappyis about) andthen
thebusis gonefromthecoffee-house
door.
Againyou'rein thelucklessworld,world
without
whereyouswearto do
fortune,
something
unspeakable
ifonemorepersonmentions
consciousness.
("СаркаГ')
This is a chance world, where neitherlove nor life are guaranteedforever.
One poem, writtenin memoriamfor poet Mitchell Toney, takes off the
veneerof languageand asksthequestionfromthe heart: "What could we say
to you / while you died?" The answer seems to be- nothing.Silence is the
only language that can take in death. Words skitteraway, draggingtheir
baggage of meaning,and, in the face of death,will not suffice.
Each sectionof To the Quick leads offwith delicatepoems inspiredby
(and near-translationsof) the French poems of Rilke. At once sensuousand
wary, these"afterRilke" poems not only set a tone but also provide a perspective from which McHugh can explore her own world. For example,
opening the finalsection is one of these short poems suggestinghow the
naturalworld and the world of love diverge: "The fruitis heavierto bear /
than flowersseem to be. / But that'sa lover talking,/ not a tree." And McHugh's finalpoemin thebook extendsthistheme,buildingon an earlierimage
-a starfishwhich the poet has returnedto the sea ratherthan send it to an
old lover. Reminiscentof Elizabeth Bishop's "The Fish," McHugh's "The
Matter Over" gives a careful,detailed descriptionof the starfishbeforeshe
throwsit back to a world "the sightedhave no rightsto." Unlike Bishop's
but a resignation.
lettinggo, however,thisis not a joyous act of affirmation,
The second book, Shades, pulls away from obsessivelove, struggling
with the largerissuesof griefand self-definition.
The firstthirdof the book
moves fromthe fact of the death of a friendto the accompanyingcrisisof
faith.It's hard to question a faithin science, but this book startswith the
universeand unravelsit down to the atom,leavingquestionafterquestionin
itswake. In theend,a senseof selfis what is at stake:
... I can'tlocate
old
self,
my
youngself,youknowwho-
JUDITH
KITCHEN
413
be-all-end-all,
myone-and-only,
andmyex,theoneI was
myintended
with. . .
mostsmitten
("RoundTime")
The middle thirdof the book triesto reconstructthe self-a self built
mostlyon words,and its knowledgethatwords shed meaningsas rapidlyas
they gain them.It is a slippery,wily self thatmustbe wheedled and willed
into existence:
Languagewasn'tany
funnymoneyI wasplayingwith,
no toysurprise,
no watchor wooden
nickel,not
twice
a nickelnickeleither,
removed,
signofa sign.
I meantto make
so deepa song
itheldno endoflove.
("Inflation")
If the poet is honest-and thereis honestyin this play with words- the old
in
love and rage and rage to love must surface.There is a putting-to-rest
Shades, but it is angrierand more knowingthan thatin To the Quick. Intimateknowledgeof deathis broughtto bear on the dyingof love.
The play with words that oftenunlocks the meaningof the world can
also be a way of holdingthe world at bay. Shades moves into a new phase in
its finalthird;the poems take a good hard look at thisworld, piling image
upon image withoutthe characteristicsheenof languageat play. The poems
are fascinating,but the balance is precarious.They are dense, descriptive,
as thoughdesperateto prove thatthe fivesensescan make a largersense. If
thereare shadesof meaning,theyare discoveredin juxtapositionof image or
in flowof idea ratherthanin the quick minďs skitteryrelativism:
fornow,it'sfiveam,beforethebreak
of day,beforea soulwould eventhink
dovesare castingold
to subdividethesun,andmourning
silversdownfromtrees,andevenlastnight'strashis washed
consoling
one can find
by cool lightin thestreet.In thiscafe,unhurried,
for:thecoffee's
to be grateful
a steadiness
of commonplaces
regular(as sureas shit,Maggiewouldsay): thesweetpea
windingbackandforthalong
window
thecordwork
ofa southern
testifies
tominorlightsandlittleluxuries;
thebabyhasa pieceoftoast.It'sallherown.
("Forecast")
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Whereas T 0 the Quick plays with languagein orderto release emotion,
Shades examineslanguage as the possiblesource of the problem: "Justthink
of it / and you surroundit with // its opposite." Shades opens with a poem
"about" (thoughthepoemitselfwarnsthatherpoemsare "not / about about")
a planeflight;"20-200 on 747" acknowledgesDerridiantheory-"Just/ whose
storyis thisanyway? Out of my mind//whose words emerge? Is there a
self the self//surpasses?"The book ends on anotherflightwhere meaning
does,in fact,seempossible-seenfromtherightperspective:
. . . Earth'sunderlying
naturemightbe likenesslikenesseverywhere
disguised
by wave-length,
amplitudeand frequency.
(If we gotfarenoughawaycouldwe
) ...
decipherthedesign?
("From 20,000Feet")
Facts, numbers,the world's naturalorderingsare all there,only to be incorporatedintoMcHugh's ironicsenseof how smallwe are- and how endless
our longings.By using language to capture the many shapes of experience,
Heather McHugh has made it possiblefor us to see more of the world in all
itsfragmentary
wholeness.
For years now, I have counted on Linda Pastan to alert me to the nuances
of "common" familylife. More thanany poet I can thinkof, she chronicles
the subtle insightsthat distinguishour ordinarymoments-what she terms
"the whole riptideof dailylife."Oftenshe does thisby juxtaposingour dailiness againstthe world of myth,specificallyEve in her earthlyParadise or
Penelope as she waits at home for Odysseus. What Pastan learnsas she examinesthe old, timewornstoriesis applied to the presentmoment,oftenwith
a surprising
twistthatleaves thereaderreeling.
The ImperfectParadiseis no exception.We encounterourselvesin recognizableevents-a daughterleavinghome,a husbandand wife reestablishing
familiar(and resented) patternsafter one has been away, the predictable
cycles of birth(a grandchild)and death (a parent). Builtinto each of these
momentsis a questioningvoice, one thatwill accept the inevitableonly after
it makes a kind of haphazard,intuitivesense. This is the voice that most
intriguesme,a voice thatcan confrontwhat manyof us pretendis not there:
Sometimes
I believe
ifI haddoneanyonething
insomeotherway
wouldbe fine,
everything
andwe wouldbe happy
are
thewayfamilies
whoseinnocencegoeswiththem
tothegrave. . .
("Root Pruning")
JUDITH
KITCHEN
or
415
summer
closer
So we moveanother
to ourlastsummer
togethera timeas realand implacableas thesea . . .
("The OrdinaryWeatherof Summer")
comes an acceptance of what is temporary-and
Out of such a confrontation
a knowledgeof what is important.It is importantto learn to live with imthatthe factof deathunderscores.Pastan
to love theimperfection
perfection,
seemsto conclude,likeFrost,thatearthmay be all we will know of Paradisebut not untilaftershe has questioneda creatorwho would inflicton us "the
strictcontractbetweenlove and grief."
Love and grief(and theways each leads to the other) are at the heartof
thesepoems. The "balancingact" is made clear in a poem in which Pastan
envisionsa humanacrobaticact consistingof her dyingmother,herself,her
son,and hernewborngrandson.For one precariousmomenttheyinhabitthe
earth simultaneouslyand then time moves remorselesslyon. The seasons
come and go: dogwoods blossomfor one impossiblylovely week in spring,
snow offersits consolations,and summerpoints up the ordinarylife by its
verycessation.With the death of her mother,the poet feelsthather "whole
childhoodis coming apart,/ the last stitches/ about to be ripped out." She
trieson the infinitepossibilitiesof otherlives-the one she mighthave lived
in her grandfather's
peasantvillageif he had stubbornlyrefusedchange,the
one she glimpseswhen she sees her mother'sface in an old photograph,the
one sheimaginesforthebeaverswho "mateforlife."
On theundersideof the ordinary"lived" lifeis theimagined"other"life.
One section,entitled"RereadingThe Odyssey in Middle Age," gives Pastan
a vehicleforlookingat aspectsof desire,infidelity,
and thetraditionalroles of
male and female withinmarriage.And "middle age" provides a new lens
throughwhich to view the old themes,just as "the imperfectparadise"seen
throughEve's eyes allows Pastanto imaginefamiliareventsas thoughforthe
firsttime.This shadowyimaginedlifelends some of its passionto the humdrum and the everyday,providingnew insights.Using legend and myth
againstwhichto measureher own lifehas been the hallmarkof Pastan'swork
fromAspectsof Eve on. Often,she rescuesthe mythfromstereotypeby seeing it throughcontemporaryeyes:
I thinkoftheusesof"shroud":
howthenightcanbe shroudedinfog
inplaceslikethisone,nearthesea;
how leavesin summershroudeach motherbranch;
andhowyourhusband's
father
looksatyou
withwrinkled
lidsshrouding
thoseknowingeyes.
Whatisfaithfulness
anyway?
("RereadingThe OdysseyinMiddleAge")
Linda Pastan's sense of historyis essentiallypsychological.Whatever
she discoversis examinedfor an underlyingmotivation,as though our link
41 6
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with the past were a matterof common psychology."Bird on Bough," for
example,uses its epigraphin order to explore "the bird-on-boughaspect of
eternity."Looking at a Chinese painting,Pastan recognizesthe universality
of an image: the bird is the "same bird" she remembersfromher past- not
literally,but because it unlocksthe "eternity/ thatis childhood."Art-painting or poem- preservesthe momentand connectsthe centuries,but the equation of childhood and eternityis the more surprising,and human,insight.
Similarly,in "At Xian" Pastan contemplatesthe discoveryof 6,000 life-size
terra-cottasoldiersburiedby a Chineseemperor:"Maybe iťs only the numbers / we can't comprehend. . ." Fact becomes the vehicle for psychologyand identification:"thoughwe too mightsend armies/ if we could."
fivecareThe ImperfectParadise sufferssome fromover-organizationfullyorderedsections,each withits own "theme."Unlike The Five Stages of
Grief, wherePastanwas able to discoverpatternsin sequences of her poems,
here she has imposed an organizingprinciplethat seems to take precedence
over the content.Both the "Odyssey" section and the final"Eden" section
containwhat I would call "fillers"-poems that are eithertoo clever or too
slight,or those that rely on the legend for theironly meaning.If some of
the sharper,more biting poems in these sections (such as "The Son" and
"Mother Eve") had been interspersedwith the "family"poems, theymight
have furtherhighlightedthe underlyingsimilaritiesbetween our lives and
the lives that populate ancient legends. As it is, however,they seem to be
tied too neatlyinto theirown littlepackages.
Pastan'smajor strengthlies not in the studiedrhythmicalflow of idea or
argument,but in her nervouslines and her startlinglyapt images.Take, for
example,her descriptionearlyin the book of a morningwalk on the beach:
"Along itsroughedges / shelísand smallbirdsgather,/ the rick-rackof life/
in all its stages.. . ." It is "rick-rack"thatfusesthe naturaland the domestic
the title
worlds and lets themspeak to, and for,each other.Unfortunately,
too
are
of
does
none
of
six
series
this;they
sonnets)
"perfect":
poem (a
ofall?
Whichseasonistheloveliest
Withouta pauseyousmileandanswerspring,
ThinkingofEden longbeforethefall
...
I seegreenshroudsenclosing
everything
This soundsalmostlike genericpoetry-an impersonalpostcard.It disappoints
because iťs comingfromLinda Pastan,who has alreadyproved thatshe can
rip throughthe surfaceof language,takingapart the familyalbum and rearrangingit into somethingterribleand true-much like Picasso breaking
down the human face, forcingus to recognize its complicated geometric
truths.
Althoughthe sonnetformseems to mute the emotionalpower of Pastan's insights,the finestpoem in the collectionis a formalpoem- a pantoum.
I'd go so far as to suggestthatform,in this case, allows Pastan entryinto a
In "SomethingAbout
thatis, forher,new, and perhapsfrightening.
territory
the processof aging
about
about
the Trees" she discoverssomething
herself,
JUDITH
KITCHEN
417
and the art of lettinggo. It's a brilliantpoem which builds with the form's
repetitions(and her own variations)to an almostagonizingquestion-"when
will I be mostmyself?"Any poet struggles,in a sense,toward identity,but
Pastan found a distinctivevoice quite early in her career. Who can blame
her for wantingto explore new spaces? I hope her experimentation
with
formwill unlock somethingessentialin her vision,enablingher to be "most
herself."
I don't expect to understandeverythinginstantly-I don't even want tobut I do expectto understandalmosteverythingeventually.T 0 the Place of
Trumpetsby BrigitPegeen Kelly, winner of the 1988 Yale Younger Poets
Series,is a challengethattantalizesme with the possibilityof understanding.
Here is a book that is rich in particulars-lush details of sight and sound,
magicaldetailsof thefreedimagination-but I can't quite make out the frame
on which theyare hung,the structurethatshapesthe work as a whole. The
why of these poems often hovers over them,then seems to veer off into
the clouds.
Maybe that,then,is the organizingprincipleof the book: a palpable
not-knowing.Certainlythisis a book of questionedfaith,and, in some ways,
forfaith.For instance,the Catholic Sundays of childhood are
a substitution
to
the
scrutinyof thechild'shonestgaze. Retrievingthatchild in its
subjected
innocenceis a difficult
task,and one that Kelly has masteredbeautifully.In
her
we
see
"Sundays"
watchingthebrokentv underthe dime-storecounter:
everythingis red to the point of blurring,she can't tell Bugs Bunny from
Weasel or Elmer Fudd, and even the gun "bangs red." Sam, owner of the
broken tv, never looks up, never steps beyond his own boundaries: "You
could standat his door and call / Roses have come! Roses have come! / but
he'd only send out the blind dog." In his rigidity,Sam standsfor the priest,
thechurch,thewhole shebang.
What thischild-and latertheadult-is able to see is thatearthis theright
place for love (and death), and that neitheris subject to the stricturesof
dogma. So it is thatthe rebelliontakes place: "No one / had to tell me the
graveyardwas less / than it seemed,the huge white Christ,/ placid as lard
above thewooden crosses. . ." ("Mount Angel"). Or "And theseangels that
thewomenturnto / are not good either.They are sick of Jesus,/ who never
stops dying,hangingtherewhite/ and large,his shadow blue as pitch . . ."
is thought,thepoems
("ImaginingTheir Own Hymns"). Once theunthinkable
bloom into wild imaginativeescape. The angelsin the stained-glasswindow
walk offthe job, past the rigid pews and fonts,imaginingtheirown hymns
as theyflyfree-like the worldlybirdstheyresemble.
. The sightof hotFlightis a centralimagein To thePlace of T rumpets
air balloons is equated to a "visitation"in which the colors become the
"sound" of a horn,thenmany hornsand clocks and bells and clappers "and
your heart/ risingto the silence/ in all of them."In "Those Who Wrestle
With the Angel For Us," her brother'sflight(as a pilot) is seen in nearreligiousterms;he comes close to death-it brushedhimbrieflyin childhood
4I8
THE
GEORGIA
REVIEW
untilhe "favoredthe dark"- and activelycourtsit, daringthe constellations
beforehe returnslike the "magician'sdove." During flightthe soul can swing
between doubt and belief,as on the rope danglingover the water in "Above
the Quarry"- a stunningpoem that seems to play hide-and-seekwith death.
The poem opens:
The cockscrydeathdeatheachmorning
But thedeaththeycryis orange-feathered
Andslathered
overwithsun-not
The foolish,
deathyoucreep
lame-legged
After,
lookingbehindcupboardandstove.
From there,the poem circles the quarry,almostwith a hawk's eye, until it
reachesa momentof cool ecstasy:
The wingsthatriseriseas darkflags
Towarda sunwhichis pewterandcoldas
The waterpoolinginthelowestdepths
Of thepit;thathillyoumuststareinto,
Knowingthatifa soulcanrecognizeitself
In one time,one season,one hourof one day,
Thenitcanwalkas through
a mirror
andbegin. . .
Pastitself,
That beginning,for Kelly, seems to be the constructionof a new "religion," one thatborrowsa vocabularyfromthe old one but has its own set
of symbols.The real world is populatedwith dogs, corn rows, orchards,and
vineyards-a rural landscape that is as real as the cellars the floodingriver
dreamsof. From thatworld she also pluckstheimagesthatgive riseto exaltation-hot air balloon, tulip, bell. One of these exultantmomentsoccurs in
"Queen Elizabethand the Blind Girl or Music forthe Dead Children,"when
the deaf bell ringerplays the baptismalbells insteadof tollingfor the dead.
He is able to hear (in hisimaginedsong) an exoticbirdshop where macaw or
cockatoo or soul will rise with the waxwings that "wake / like a hundred
greencandles in a field."
Color (most oftenred) denotes this power of imagination.There are
red-hattedhunters,clouds of rubysmoke,the crimsonslitof a fish'smouthall shadesfrompinkto rose to orange to purple,includingred cans,red lake,
red flame,red-and-whiteballoon. The poems make theirown fieryburstof
color. But what is underneaththe flash and fanfareand the impassioned
doubt? One mightsurmisethat the doubt is motivatedby a death-"To the
Lost Child" suggestsone. But just when detail would clarify,it is withheld.
Many of the poems seem to reflectmore "sensibility"than "sense." Her language has invitedme into her world, but I don't know what to make of it.
The individualpoems seem complete (though obscure), but they have not
been integratedinto a largervision.Insteadof feelingas thoughI have heard
JUDITH
KITCHEN
419
just exactlywhat I need to hear,I feel like an eavesdropper:I've overheard
morethanenough,but didn'tcatch the driftof why it was important.I keep
wantingmoreof thehiddennarrative.
I am able to pinpointthis frustration
because one poem- my personal
favorite-followsitsown convolutednarrativestyleintostrangeand wonderful territory."The House on Main Street"plays the game of "what if," following the "other"lifeshe mighthave lived if "we had boughtthe house on
Main Street."From her own house on the hill,she looks down with a telescopic view on thefuneralto which she has not been invited,wonderingwho
has died. Twistingback on itselfin the way of all good storiesunfolding,the
poem moves fromthe house on Main Streetto the neighborhoodwith its
church,thefatmenwho sun themselveson
shoe-repairshop and Presbyterian
the porch,the dentist'soffice,and the clotheslines.Woven throughthiscleareyed view is the memoryof an incidentof arson and an unsolvedmurderas therest,certainlyas much a part of the historyof
nearlyas matter-of-fact
the town. And thenthe poem buildsto a momentwhen the speakerand her
daughterwere playingin the cemetery,where memoryis caught up in the
freedomof childhoodand theyare suddenlyrunning(presenttense), certain
theycan be
connected
notwiththestoneangels
withflight,
the
frozen
shadowing
butwitha body
ground,
thathastrulyflown,
witha mind
thatmakesthesky
itshome.
This would be a wonderfulending-the momentwhen the poem takes offand it seemstoo bad thatit is weighed down with an unnecessaryepilogue.
What works,in the eighteensix-linestanzasthatprecede the epilogue,is the
fusionof the real and the hypothetical,braidedto make a larger"story" out
of itsseparatestrands.The balance of lyricand narrativeis justright.
This is a promisingfirstbook, filledwith a language thatis both private
and transcendent.
Like CharlesWright,Kelly createspoems thatrely on the
reader'sabilityto crossthe steppingstonesof association.They are exciting,
and I'm curiousas to where she will go next.If she wantsreadersto take on
the full range of her vision,she will probablyhave to findthe place where
internalimpulseand externaleventscoincide- a place she may already have
glimpsedin "The Leaving":
. . . insidemewasthestillness
a bellpossesses
justafterithasbeenrung,beforethemetal
beginstolongagainfortheclapper'sstroke.
«
When a poem raisesa lumpin the throattimeaftertime,it musteitherbe terriblybad or terriblygood. In the case of a young Chinese-Americanpoet,
Li-Young Lee, thereis very littlequestionas to how good these poems are.
420
THE
GEORGIA
REVIEW
It's how theyare good thatis hardto define-a questionGerald Sterntackles,
but does not answer,in hisintroductionto Rose. SterncomparesLee to Keats
and Rilke,but I feel he is mostlike Neruda- theNeruda in love with the sensory experiencesof the world, the Neruda of the wide associativeleaps that
make sense only throughfeeling.What we have here is a finelyric voice,
singingfromthe very firstlines:
Of wisdom,splendidcolumnsoflight
wakingsweetforeheads,
I knownothing
butwhatI've glimpsed
inmymosthopefulofdaydreams.
Of a worldwithout
end,
amen,
I knownothing,
butwhatI sangofoncewithothers,
inthevaultedroom.
allofus standing
(from"Epistle")
Rose chronicles(though not in any direct narrative)a familyexodus
from China to Indonesia to America. The figureof the fatherhauntsthe
book- a fatherboth severe and tender,a fatheridealized in death and yet
made humanin livingmemory.In Stern'swords,". . . the poet's job becomes
not to benignlyor tenderlyforgivehim,but to withstandhim and comprehend him. . . ." The quest for the fathermay be the underpinningfor these
poems, but what shapes them is a sensibilityunafraidof risk,exploringits
completerange of feeling-even the sentimental.
The visionin Rose is both personaland collective.It encompassesa sense
of familyand generationand connectednessthatis almostunknownto contemporaryAmericanpoets. The historyof Rose is the historyof a culture,
and it is Lee's sense of continuationthat allows for a poem like "Dreaming
of Hair," in which the speaker binds himselfimaginativelyto the earth,
stitchedin place by hisdead father'shairas it risesfromthe grave.His father's
hair, his brother's,his wife's, the ivy that "ties the cellar door"- all are
celebrated,and finallyfused,in the dream that can contain more than a
lifetime.
Water (and the crossingof water) becomes one of the book's dominant
strains(it would be wrong to call anythingin this book a "theme"). One
poem, "Water," has a visionaryquality,movingfromthe "oldest sound" of
the amnioticfluid,the firstsound we forget,to thewaterthatwill eventually
fill his father'slungs in congestiveheartfailure.As the speaker washes his
father'sfeet,he moves into his father'smemories-tortureand escape and the
rain
journey to America-and then outward to the world and the sound of
that"outlivesus." This poem,in turn,illuminates"Rain Diary" where water
has seeped into his father'sgrave and has roused boyhood memories,leading
him to say, "I remembermy fatherof rain." The imageryfollows its own
convolutedlogic withsuch linesas "I searchedthe hours,perforatedby rain,"
JUDITH
KITCHEN
42 1
and "I looked in the billowing curtains,/ they were hauntedby rain," and
"I wantto be broken,/ to be eatenby the anonymousmouths,/ to be eroded
like minutesand seconds,/ to be reduced to water/ and a littlelight." The
poem culminatesin a languagethatis nearlybiblical:
Rainfallsanddoesnot
break.Neitherdoesitstop,
butjustpullsup
thegangplank
andisgone.
It standsbeforeme,
besideme,liesdown
beneathme.How shallI praiseit?
Rainknocksat mydoorand
I open.No one
isthere,andtherainmarching
inplace.
The languageis the vehicle for the vision that,in the case of "Rain Diary,"
ends with "Perhapsit is my father,arriving/ on legs of rain,arriving/ this
dream,therain,my father."
The visionaryaspect of the book is seen best in the long centralpoem,
"Always a Rose," where Lee followsa path of association,allowing the rose
to surfacein memoryand to fillhismouthwith itsbitter,medicinaltaste.He
takesit in,transforms
it into symbol,thenmovesin a stateof ecstasyto where
he can makeit whollyhisby namingit: "Cup of Blood, Old Wrath,Heart O'
Mine,Ancientof Days, / Whorl, World, Word." And thenhe makes it real
again,a flowerin a glass of water,takingan impossiblylong time to die. "I
namedyou each day you remained:/ Scorn, Banish,Grieve,Forgive,Love."
AlthoughlineslikethesemightsuggestthatLee's poemsare preoccupiedwith
abstraction,thisis not the case. For all theirintensity,they have a sincerity
thatderives,in part,froma precisionof detail.He can move us with simple
moments,as when in "Eating Alone" he describes his meal: "White rice
steaming,almostdone. Sweet greenpeas / friedin onions.Shrimpbraisedin
sesame/ oil and garlic.And my own loneliness./ What morecould I, a young
man,want." (I thinkhereof Neruda's Odas Elementales.)
Rose, which was awarded the Delmore Schwartzprize in 1987,contains
only twenty-five
poems but many of them extendto three or four pages,
sustainingan intricacyof thoughtand rising,at times,to a joy so close to
despairthatthetwo are inextricable:
О weepers,stone
girlsweepingstonetears,
willyouneverrecover?
Were itnotfortherain,I'd linger
andmaybeI'd weep.
But I'll do neithertoday,whilesomeone
waitsforme,andtherain
touchesme,touchesus
overandover,changeseachofus,
shoulders
andlips,rosesandstones,
THE
422
GEORGIA
myloveandtheworld,
allthings
whichfitwell.
REVIEW
("The Weepers")
In an age when poetryis cautious,poems like Lee's move beyond the pale.
And itis in therealmwheretheyare mostincautious,even excessive,thatthey
reach forgreatness.Sensuousand alive,theycelebrateinnocenceand achieve
thewisdomthatthe firstpoem claimsto know nothingof. Of a "world without end"- who knows? But Lee discoversmeaningin the world, in the lived
experienceand in the imaginativeconnections.Certainlythe father'slife is
not in vain as the poet tenderlysoothes his own sons. And even more certainly,the world is not ending as he watches blossom become peach and
concludes:
Therearedayswe live
as ifdeathwerenowhere
inthebackground;
fromjoy
tojoy tojoy,fromwingto wing,
fromblossomtoblossomto
blossom.
impossibleblossom,to sweetimpossible
("FromBlossoms")
THE
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POETRY
DISCJ
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Videotape TheDistinguished
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atCounty
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bysomeofthefinest
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Speaking Passions - The Georgia Review

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