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Barbara Jane Reyes

Tara Betts, ‘Arc & Hue’ (Willow Books, 2009)

[Hi all, I have invited the super prolific poet and reviewer Craig Santos Perez to guest post here. Below is his review of Tara Betts's just released first collection of poems, Arc & Hue.]

Arc & Hue (Willow Books, 2009)
by Tara Betts
90 pp. $15, paper. ISBN: 978-0-9819208-7-0.
review by Craig Santos Perez

The title poem of Tara Betts’s debut collection, Arc & Hue (Willow Books, 2009), describes the speaker, her brother, and their nephew sketching on the sidewalk with the dust from colored chalk. The speaker wonders “if joy comes in small plastic / buckets” as each palm of their hands glows with “deliberate lines rubbed / away with moist and breeze.” Amidst this wonderment about the fragile presence of joy, the poem ends with the speaker noting that her nephew “will not notice how quickly arc and hue / crafted, turns to dust” (24).

Arc_and_Hue_FC_061709-01 - Copy

Throughout this debut collection, Betts sketches poignant narrative moments that highlight themes of family, home, ethnicity, violence, love, and joy. In “The Birth, Then Roses,” the speaker imagines her father standing in a hospital doorway with a bouquet of red roses during her birth. The speaker muses:

How each red silky slip of slower body must have
brushed against my mother’s face. Heavy sugar
to claim the carriage and birth,
not enough to coat pricks to come.
How the fists and philandering were unexpected.
How much sweeter it felt to hear the name
of her first child, a daughter, pulling away,
out of her, pushing a path into chaos that begins
them both.

My mother needed more than petals. (19)

Anselm Berrigan

Internal Data

Several days ago my 22-month old daughter, who has taken to occasionally placing tiny imaginary animals in one’s hand by holding her thumb and index finger a quarter inch apart and identifying the animal being handed over (bunny, zebra, kitty), strolled up to me, held her fingers just apart in my palm, and said “daddy”.

John S. O'Connor

Pledging Allegiance to Poetry

school
take out the “sh”
and it’s cool

Starting is often hardest – the first gesture determines so much of what follows. This is true for poems, for personal introductions, even for blog posts! It’s also true when thinking about the school day.

At my school, like so many others, the day officially commences with a student reading of the Pledge of Allegiance. It’s a nice idea to have students read, but the readings – whether giggly or sober — are all delivered in the same sing-song manner, as I assume they are in every other school. I don’t mean to sounds critical of these students, but the point of the pledge is often not patriotic reflection but a means of bringing the school to order. The pledge functions like a judge’s gavel, a drawn out “sh,” a pre-hypnotic suggestion that promises we will eventually awaken and remember nothing.

Barbara Jane Reyes

Adrian Castro, ‘Handling Destiny’ (Coffee House Press, 2009)

Photo by Pedro Portal

Photo by Pedro Portal

Adrian Castro’s latest collection, Handling Destiny (Coffee House, 2009), includes the poem, “Itutu Sankófa 2003,” written for the memory of the Afro-Cuban jazz percussionist Ramon “Mongo” Santamaria. In this poem, Castro writes, “You keep flying forward / Sankófa-like / looking back into history at us / your people.” This Sankófa, the “bird who flies while looking at history,” is the heart of his poetics.

Eileen Myles

Pharmikon

Just read Maggie Nelson’s Bluets which will soon be in a bookstore near you. It’s an uncategorizable piece of writing composed of numbered philosophical statements which consider the color blue, and so much else but in the aftermath of reading Maggie’s “bluets” the fascinating word Pharmikon remains in my mind.

It means drug though “the word in Greek famously refused to designate whether poison or cure.” It’s also variously described as “a recipe, a charm, a substance, a spell, artificial color and paint.”  She knocks about trying to link it to love, to fucking. But it doesn’t stick. She brings up the possibility that instead like beauty, Pharmikon radiates. It does not stay still. And finally the written word is called Pharmikon.

Rebecca Wolff

This Is The End / FAME

I wanted to relate to you (and you, and you, and you and you and you) the embarrassing, pleasurable (embarrassingly pleasurable) final fragment of my dream the other night. I was at a coffee shop, a sweet hippie-hipster spot somewhere rural-ish, almost a converted barn, and there was one other person at another table, a man, and a young woman serving. She called out “Rebecca” to deliver a cappuccino to whoever had ordered it, and I hadn’t, so I said “I’m Rebecca, but I didn’t order that,” and she said “Rebecca Wolff?” and I said “yes,” and then she and the man began blushing and twittering, kind of communing with each other in relation to me, and saying things like “Wow, I can’t believe we have a famous writer in our coffee shop.” And I said, loudly and distinctly, with sincere modesty but also blushing appreciation, “You jest!” And then the alarm went off and I woke.

Barbara Jane Reyes

A few things about R. Zamora Linmark’s ‘The Evolution of a Sigh’

zamora linmark

[R. Zamora Linmark: Photographed by Roger Erickson in Los Angeles. From Out Magazine.]

I wanted to say a few things about R. Zamora Linmark’s energetic collection The Evolution of a Sigh (Hanging Loose Press, 2008) which I’ve read and reread, and which had me cracking up at some of what I enjoy best in Linmark’s work; he mines and dredges that space between languages and all of the weirdness of that space, which facilitates communication and miscommunication. As in his first book, one of my favorites, the novel Rolling the R’s, he writes unapologetically from a place of historically and culturally misused English. This misuse leads to the creation of new sets of definitions, as in the first stanza of “Surviving the Post-American Tropics”:

Travis Nichols

Poetry Reading

Molly Young and David Noriega read Michael Gizzi’s New Depths of Deadpan.

Poetry Foundation

Myself: The Exclusive Interview!

By Myself by D.A. Powell and David Trinidad

Each of us contains multitudes, but, as we all know, the multitudes can be pretty dull. Thank heavens, then, for Myself, who arrives on the scene via By Myself, a sort of Everybody’s autobiography by the poets D.A. Powell and David Trinidad.

It begins:

To put it in two words: disaster struck.  I was born on June 27, 1880 in Tuscumbia, a little town of northern Alabama.  I was never coddled, or liked, or understood by my family.  My mother’s child-bearing had been dangerously botched by a fashionable doctor in New Orleans, and forever after she stood in fear of going through it again, and so I was an only child . . .

Everybody’s autobiography, maybe, but clearly not just anybody’s.  The book is composed of lines lifted from assorted memoirs—astute readers of the above passage may recognize the voices of Tennessee Williams, Helen Keller, and Ethel Waters, among others—and the resultant life story is an uncanny core sample of the surreal life of the celebrity class.  It is also more than just a memoir.  It is prose poetry in the collagist tradition of Ashbery’s The Tennis Court Oath and Ted Berrigan’s The Sonnets, but with the bon vivant spirit of Diana Vreeland’s D.V.

Recently, poet and journalist Michael Brodeur found himself talking with Myself (or, Powell and Trinidad expertly channeling the book’s multitudinous character). Brodeur asked Myself about some of what the autobiography’s turbulent arc wasn’t able to cover—or conjure.  In By Myself’s spirit, these questions have been asked before (follow the links to find out where), but the answers are Myself all over.

***

There is such a strong, almost spoken voice to your stories.  It feels like you are sitting there telling me the story.  How did you discover this voice?

My grandmother was the storyteller of the family, a woman whose memory seemed to stretch far back into antiquity.  She would often perform the roles as she told our family saga, changing voices, postures, even donning wigs.  It was the perfect training for my later work as a radio go-go dancer, and I was often conscious of channeling her energetic spoken style through my interviews and later film work.  It made perfect sense for me to copy her.

Barbara Jane Reyes

Catalina Cariaga, ‘Cultural Evidence’ (Subpress Collective, 1999)

Of course
they didn’t eat dogs.
They didn’t have dogs.
If they had dogs
they would have eaten them.

–Catalina Cariaga

This poem, “Dogmeat,” is one of the opening poems to Catalina Cariaga’s Cultural Evidence (Subpress Collective). I really can’t think of a better way to start off a collection of poetry concerned with weighing the given anthropological, journalistic, statistical evidence of Filipinos in the world, versus evidence provided via experiential knowledge and memory. Right away, Cariaga is telling folks, don’t readily believe everything you’ve been told about us.

cultural

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IN THIS ISSUE: March 2010

Poetry Magazine

A selection of new work from Dorothea Grossman; new poems by Lavinia Greenlaw, David Yezzi, A.E. Stallings, Gerald Stern, and Dan Gerber; translations of Carlo Betocchi, and Mahmoud Darwish; an Editorial on Ruth Lilly; an exchange between Ilya Kaminsky and Adam Kirsch; an essay by Chen Li; and a review by Daisy Fried.

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