Continuum poet, Jim Allman, reads two poems: Wunderwaffen: Of Spit & Ash, as well as, Of Aquanauts (both to be published in the August 2010 issue of Writers’ Bloc).
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In talking about poetry with people, inevitably I hear, “I don’t get it.” For sure, poetry can be resistant to immediate interpretation, but isn’t this true of all art? T. S. Eliot once wrote, “If I understand a play the very first time, then I know that it isn’t a very good play.” Is this because art is elitist? No, but understanding cannot be bought with a credit card; it must be purchased with hard work. And haven’t we all performed activities with our bodies that demonstrated the presence (and ache) of heretofore unknown muscles? Such is the case with engaging art; it utilizes portions of one’s being that maybe were not known to exist: especially the often atrophied muscles of imagination. But I digress, for this article is about one specific artist, poet Kay Ryan—the current poet laureate—and her book Elephant Rocks, and the one simple reason why her poetry should entreat a first then closer look—it is fun.
Immanuel Kant speaks about the nature of play in art; how true it is, as long as we do not consider it the exclusive aim. What drew me to Milton was his playful combining of Greek and Christian mythologies; to T. S. Eliot his playful, modern often shocking metaphors of life, love and nature; to Gerard Manley Hopkins the playfulness of his near dancing rhythms. Kay Ryan plays, too; consider this verse:
Bestiary
A bestiary catalogs
bests. The mediocres
both higher and lower
are suppressed in favor
of the singularly savage
or clever, the spectacularly
pincered, the archest
of the arch deceivers
who press their advantage
without quarter even after
they’ve won as of course they would.
Best is not to be confused with good—
a different creature altogether,
and treated of in the goodiary—
a text alas lost now for centuries.[1]
It isn’t until the second to last line that one realizes they might have mispronounced the title. What else was missed? And it begs a second reading. Of course, as one reads it again, maybe the distinction between best and good becomes a bit more apparent. Plainly, Ryan suggests that the good are not frequently categorized or chosen as the best. I think of the naturalist with his species and genus; I consider the phrase, “only the strongest survive”, and I wonder as to its veracity. I ask do I want to be good or a beast (may be the title wasn’t mispronounced after all)? The playfulness of the poem belies a weighty set of questions.
Throughout the book, Ryan looks at the very ordinary and guides us through its enchanted landscapes to find both elations and revelations.
A Plain Ordinary Steel Needle Can Float on Pure Water
Who hasn’t seen
a plain ordinary
steel needle float serene
on water as if lying on a pillow?
The water cuddles up like Jell-O.
It’s a treat to see water
so rubbery, a needle
so peaceful, the point encased
in the tenderest dimple.
It seems so simple
when things or people
have modified each other’s qualities
somewhat
we almost forget the oddity
of that.[2]
The fun of her rhymes (Jell-O and pillow), off-beat word choices (cuddle sounds so much like puddle), and misplaced adjectives (rubbery water and peaceful, tenderest needles) all contribute to a sense of play and the pure charm found in this witnessed oddity. She sees like a child something of wonder that must be passed on, and even if that sense of surprise at seeing the unexpected is all that the reader derives, is it not a worthwhile poem? But everything in this poem is precise including the delivery of its fine point; the language changes here, becomes more terse—more plain—and resonates cleanly at the pricking end of the needle.
Not every poem in the book is a treasure, but they are all at least fun (read them aloud, the sounds are great). This is part of the work, though—sifting to find the genuine nuggets. Of the 60 or so poems, I marked 22 of them as “something special”. Honestly, this is a good number of poems in a single volume for me to enjoy; when I closed the end board of the book I found my self quite pleased and fully inspired. I encourage you all to pick it up and have fun, but don’t always expect to “get it” the very first time.
[2] Ibid, 73.
Cicada evening on the lake.
A stand of children throw rocks from a cliff
at a three-legged dog that is too dumb to flee.
The dog looks fished: fashioned of sludge or stolen rib.
Hopping as rocks clotting the water
staccato its would-be-wounds.
Shouting as rocks shatter its image.
A rock pats its skull.
The lake top wavers. Words.
Inconsequential details.
Night falls and who is to blame?
Cicada buzzsaw oscillating
every atom in space.
After Eden, it says,
nature was given to nature,
animal to man to cancer.
Cicada sunrise.
The flies are a function.
The dog is processed by the sun.
Snow globes have such a sad
reality; there’s never a moment
when a sun crests its heat
over plexi-glass ozone
to melt its delicate cold away.
It settles
snow-globe-slow
after a shake which scatters each particle
like the spectators at an opera house at intermission who float
back to their seats just
in time for the final act. It dusts
everything during that brief interlude
between the prolonged and deep silences
with ceaseless, long-lasting, abandoned
hope: a punctuation of each repeated fall.
When leaves drop in November there’s always a knock
at the door; someone who’ll sweep them neatly
into thirty gallon, black bags pulled
taut with bright red draw-strings to be carted away the very next day.
By December, already, we anticipate the Spring.
I’ve traveled often in the woods: noted that permanent
bed of leaves cast underfoot
(the ancient giants no longer nimble at the joint
don’t bend
to pick them up).
Come late summer they’ll still remain: deep
banks that shelter the decay.
In quiet the arbors
wait for the next season to stir the prolix of leaves
—the gossip of the trees.
I stood to watch the yard boy rake them into neat piles;
he was clearly of humble origin. He was strong and hard at work, reclaiming
each leaf from the threat of breezes. He sang gospel
at the wind.
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound.
He kept sweeping up decay
How precious did that grace appear
when the leaves were raked away.
The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,
but my decay was raked
away, bundled into bags and carted away.
First published April 30 on the IAM Global Blog (2010)
[We are] children of nothing making gods from the voids in ourselves. Creating heavens from the seeds we were not patient enough to grow…
Sad Poems: Suffocating in Cures
—the alcoholic poet
Warm, soil rich…nail staining, crevice penetrating
Hand cupped earth…it reeks of decadence. It will grow
Anything! Anything will grow here (wild, brambled-
Growth if there is no care). Long rows of furrows, great
Wrinkles like a consternated brow…or deep sulci
Framed by mounds of grey matter that cry for just
A little seed. It is not the seed or the earth
That matter (the mind yields up it’s strength to both
Thistles or thoughts, alike). It is the dirt-caking
Labor that produces. It is not the green growth; it
Is the knees and the hands loam-brown tinted that stain
The lips and teeth tannic-red; it is the yellow-
Brown tinged rag anointed with sweat and toiling oils
That savory sweet floods the nose like a burnt off’ring
To the Lord; it is the spilt blood that waters the
Cursed mind to move sapling thoughts through the surface toward
Harvest as first fruits to cast on a living altar.