Category: Jose Angel Araguz

REVIEW: Buzzing Hemisphere / Rumor Hemisférico by Urayoán Noel

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by José Angel Araguz

…poetry was there for me as a refuge and as a way to channel and redirect neural energies. In terms of the book, it is a personal struggle, but also a family and a social one. I come from damaged hemispheres, both biographically as someone with epilepsy, and politically as the child of a colonized island.

The personal and social worlds of the poet as well as the implied agency of seeking “refuge,” “channeling,” and “redirecting” all come together in Urayoán Noel’s latest collection Buzzing Hemisphere/Rumor Hemisférico to present a vision of poetry as (inter)active narrative. Yet, these pieces are born not only of personal experiences and their social implications but also how both of these factors are translated from language to language, moment to moment, and even technology to technology. Many of the pieces in this book were written via various smartphone apps (including word and anagram generators, Google Translate, etc.). Also, as the poet notes: “Certain poems were composed in English and Spanish simultaneously, while others are performative, experimental, or nonequivalent self-translations. In some cases, the line between translation and original is deliberately blurry.” Along with such rigorous structural framework and play, the collection is pleasingly grounded at each turn in a sensibility able to alternate not only between languages but also between personal and social purpose.

An example of the alternating current (pun on a book title by Octavio Paz intended) running through the collection can be found in the sequence “Décimas del Otro Mundo/Otherworldly Décimas,” in which the poet presents a series of décimas, a traditional Spanish form, in both Spanish and English, along with an Afro-Taíno refrain:

[5.0]

Revolución de las alas,              Revolution of the wings,

revolución de las noches,          revolution of the nights,

revolución sin derroches,          revolution that unites

eufemismos, ni antesalas,         with the clarity it brings,

revolución de las balas              revolution of all things

en la cuna en que morí,                         in the death cradle that claimed me,

un abikú y su cemí                    an abikú and his cemí

en selvas neoliberales               in neoliberal pastures

de retoños irreales:                   governed by unreal masters:

aguoro tente omi ki’.               aguoro tente omi ki’. …

This combination of three languages within a traditional Spanish form by itself subverts tradition in order to evoke the kind of confluence of cultures that make up Latin America. Beyond this subversion, however, there is the poet’s use of bold type to bring forward a third poem from the English. In this particular décima, the world “revolution” is chanted in bold, insisted upon, only to open up to “the clarity it brings.” Noel’s use of language and type face here parallel the literal movement implied by the word “revolution”; the eye of the reader falls on the page and reads one poem, then returns and reads another. This kind of engagement with the text is of great value to this collection’s vision.

Another mode of drafting poems employed in this collection is that of the improvised oral poem. One such poem here is “Voz Quebrada/Voice Creaks” which the poet recorded “on a smartphone while walking along Cripple Creek Road in Tallahassee, Florida.” This mode of writing is compelling as it presents the poet embracing technology with the same kind of spontaneity and attention as anyone at their desks with a writing prompt. Instead of a word bank, there is the bank of a creek on a given date; yet, there is the poet in their solitude, working out such insights as:

This accident of voice

these surroundings unmarked

except for the trademarks I carry

remarks without recharging

this gadget defines my song

but no battery in the world

can power the promise

of this brown orange green

of this hazelnut pine

this water’s

haze

While one can see the influence of the performative mode of writing on the subject matter in a line like “this gadget defines my song,” there is also an indirect musical influence; the internal rhyming of “unmarked,” “trademark,” and “remarks” here show how thought and music alternate while at the same time following each other toward the purpose of song.

The narrative of struggle and understanding of what the poet terms above as his biographically “damaged hemispheres” also alternates throughout the collection. Early on, the piece “My Burning Hemisphere” presents the following scene:

The July fourth I spent at the hospital I woke up staring at the smudge of waterfront across the East River. That night the fireworks would crawl like serpents up my skin, matching the wires tangled in my head.

My epileptologist would later tell me, you’re lucky (to be a poet, he meant, and work with the language part of the brain, in school, at my own pace—or at least that’s how I heard it).

Trying to seem smart, I nodded, mumbling something about neurons and dominant hemispheres, but soon the fog had dominated me. It wasn’t river fog, it was the fog of self as it slogs through way stations, looking out smudged windows at cities for once festive.

He might have simply said “the sky, it clears for no one,” and I might have started to agree, had I had the strength, had the serpents not returned.

One notes right away that the narrative of this particular piece is carried less in the actual details of what occurs between the speaker and the epileptologist than in the sensations through which the speaker understands and remembers. The speaker tries a number of times to listen and hold onto the moment, only to mishear and drift into a “fog” of what “might have simply [been] said.” What is significant here is how the struggle against “fog” and “serpents” leads the speaker to a silence that they quickly turn into an imaginative space. While not able to clearly see what’s happening, the speaker is able to evoke in a poem what happens when they see that they are not seeing.

One of the more compelling pieces, “Scene Apps/Synapse,” a piece that Noel notes is half comprised of “free-form and selective translations of passages from father of modern neurology, Jean-Martin Charcot’s book Les démoniaques dans l’art (Demoniacs in Art, 1887)” picks up the “damaged hemispheres” narrative, albeit indirectly. The poet’s translations of Charcot alternate between word lists “generated with a random-word generator app for smartphone and then (mis)translated using Google Translate.” This mix of objective meditation and technological randomness evokes again the “fog” of the earlier poem as well as the project’s overall variations of the word “hemisphere” as having both a global and neurological meaning. The “fog” of the earlier poem is the poet’s own condition; to have an echo of that struggle derive indirectly from an alternation of texts such as in this piece is moving on both an aesthetic and human level.

Furthermore, the nature of the project, with its engagement with code-switching as well as embrace of mistranslation and self-translation, moved me as I read this particular piece to return to the title “Scene Apps/Synapse” and translate it into Spanish (“Sin Apps,” which in English would mean “Without Apps”) which also evokes an English variation (“Sin Apps,” meaning the apps of sin). Far from being immaterial, this train of thought is indicative of the kind of readings this project lends itself to. In reading the alternating text, moving from the coherent, articulate prose of Charcot to the technologically generated randomness of the word lists, the descriptions of the epilepsy-like episodes take on a more intimate verisimilitude; such involuntary episodes do leave a person split between coherence and intrusive chance, in a state “Without Apps” to help distinguish, navigate, or ground reality. The mistranslation into English “Sin Apps” also feels connected to the piece in the way that it mirrors how the father of modern neurology’s analogies and interpretations of these episodes are put in terms of demoniacs.

The fight against being pinned down, whether politically or biologically, is an American struggle (America here meaning not just the U.S. but all of the Americas). Noel responds to the forces, large and small, around him with movement: the movement of wordplay as well as the movement of his own voice on the wind. Through performance and chance, (mis)translation and mashup, this collection presents a poet willing to push and reach out in much the same way the speaker’s mother does in “Rumoreos/Her Hemisphere in Me”:

pensé en como siempre te lamentabas I thought about how you always regretted being de ser la única en tu familia que cantaba feo the only one in your family who couldn’t sing y en como siempre encontré tu voz linda and how I always found your voice pretty por el esfuerzo in its exertion por como te empujabas para llegarle a la nota in how you would strain to reach a note

Again and again, this book presents the kind of poetry that if you were to only hear it you would miss what there is to see; yet, if you were only to see this work, you know it would be worth it to hear it aloud. These poems, more than any I’ve read in a while, ask you to consider and read them in the languages you know, and to suss them out in the languages you can barely guess at, for these poems speak the languages we’re made of.

Noel ends the collection with “Signs of the Hemisphere/Letreros del Hemisferio,” a poem that evokes Whitman in its scope, and in which, like a 21st century Whitman, he strikes a note of communion and continuity:

who hears what I’m reciting?   here’s what I’m reciting                       the echo and the wave’s crest   I leave the rest to resigning politicians and the bankers who are gasping for heirs    and so I leave the word in hopeful ruin I transcribe our reunion                        with your help I begin to transcribe          I transscrub      I transscrawl     I transcry         while holding ground over the missing tongue   with your help I begin    I’m reciting the cyst    I’m resisting the sigh    I’m restoring the song              with your help              I’m resetting the sky

Buy it from The University of Arizona Press: $16.95

José Angel Araguz is a CantoMundo fellow. He is a PhD candidate in Creative Writing and Literature at the University of Cincinnati. Author of six chapbooks as well as the recent collection, Everything We Think We Hear, he runs the poetry blog The Friday Influence.

REVIEW: The Siren World by Juan J. Morales

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by José Angel Araguz

In an interview, the essayist Richard Rodriguez tells a story about Edward James Olmos visiting a high school in California. In the story, Olmos turns to the room full of young Latin@ faces and asks: “How many of you are proud to be Indian,” to which the young crowd applauds and hollers in approval. Olmos then asks: “How many of you are proud to be Spanish?” Here, the young crowd responds with an awkward silence.

Olmos’s questions and the youths’s two different responses play out the crucible in which many Latin@s must work out ideas of identity for themselves. In working out one’s sense of latinidad, a person must reconcile not just the history of the oppressed natives that fell under the conquistadores, but must also learn to reconcile the history of the oppressor, and how that too makes up part of the identity and history of Latin@s today. I share this story as a way into discussing the poems of Juan Morales’s The Siren World, a collection unafraid to reckon with both personal and cultural history.

There are places marked by no plaque.

No committee petitions for historical status,

but something happened here –

These lines, from the poem “New World Map,” point to the central engine of The Siren World. These poems engage with memory and identity in order to mark down what “happened here.” In the section The Mountain, the poems delve into the poet’s Ecuadoran background, embodied by stories of his mother as well as stories plucked from the history of the Spanish Conquest. The opening poem, “A Good Education,” layers the narrative of the mother’s childhood upbringing in Ecuador, where she “recited saints, prayers, and science formulas,” with his own childhood in the United States. In detailing the routines and curated knowledge shared in school, the speaker of this poem makes clear how “The world’s violence [can fall] from the minds like pencils dropped under ancient radiators.” By layering the history of not only the mother and the speaker, but also of countries, the poem evokes a sense of what is at stake in documenting and establishing what “happened here.” This layering also allows the speaker to end on an image familiar to anyone educated in the United States, an image charged further given the meditation of the poem:

And I put myself there too,

 

getting a good education, oblivious to our country’s failings, saying the

pledge of allegiance and gawking up at the flag with my small hand on

my heart, about which

 

I knew nothing.

This section ends with the poem “Downtown Ambato, 3:14 AM,” in which the speaker and the mother share a room during a visit to Ecuador. This meditation on insomnia highlights the poet’s ability to dwell on details; amidst counting exhalations and the intermittent barking of stray dogs, the speaker is possessed of a quiet urgency. The room for the insomniac becomes a kind of conscience, the speaker alert to each movement around him. This quiet urgency symbolizes the collection’s theme: as it does during the restless toss and turn of the speaker, the material of what “happened here” continues to move around us, fleeting, resisting to be marked down. Still, the poet tries:

I capture every town sound

and convince myself that I understand

my mother’s hunger for sleep after so many years

without. Then I multiply it. I wish I could wake her

and ask how to say insomnia

in Spanish except hope

she’s in the midst of peaceful sleep.

The second section of the collection, The Island, takes the poems to Puerto Rico to explore stories of the poet’s father. Where the poems in The Mountain lived in moments of meditation and reflection on what the past might mean, here the poems present the past in a tougher tone. In “Passport,” for example, a poem whose “passport” structure and conceptual framework reflect Adál’s “El Puerto Rican Passport, El Spirit Republic de Puerto Rico,” the reader is presented with the following:

Sexo (Male) When I turned 18, my father gave me a machete. When I

turned 21, my father gave me a shoe shine kit.

The clipped and straightforward execution of these lines underscore the emotional atmosphere of The Siren World. For a moment, what “happened here” is marked down in two pseudo-official statements whose juxtaposition of violence and pathos strike a direct and exact(ing) note.

The theme of violence as a background element is returned to in “Garter Snakes.” Here, the reader is presented with the memory of killing of snakes as a childhood game. The speaker’s sensibility is established as the poem moves forward, describing both the violence done to snakes as well as to the speaker’s unspoken disgust and disapproval. The reader then learns:

When I threw rocks, I missed

 

on purpose. In the arroyo with the shallow

creek and the broken bridge,

I watched free snakes

ripple atop shallow water

with their heads level –

a holy incident

we did not yet know

we envied.

What is powerful about this ending is the inaction of the speaker. In the awkward silence of childhood moments like this one, a certain kind of character begins to develop. A child’s reckoning before natural life is later followed by the revelatory understanding of the poet.

The father narrative is developed over the course of the second section. As with the first section’s stories about the mother, these poems find the poet able to use history as a way to feel out both personal and cultural present. In “Revising Scars,” the effort to work out what “happened here” is stretched in a way that tests its limits. The poem begins:

I bait my father with questions about his history

like the tattoos of two birds inked on in 1952

that I already assigned the meaning of young love

and longing and preservation of him as a man…

The self-awareness of these lines is meaningful. In this scene, the reader is presented with a symbol of what the poet’s task consists of; essentially, to push and question against a world of “assigned” meanings, even their own. This imposed narrative on the part of the speaker is followed down further, until the father responds:

[           ] and he challenges family myth

when he tells me he was too drunk to remember

how those damned tattoos got on him in the first place.

There is a sadness to the humor of this ending, and a lightness to that sadness; the speaker’s invented narrative is deflated, but what deflates it is a clear evocation of the father. The speaker is thrown back onto his imagination; in this instance, what “happened here” is made of the kind of sharpness and elation found in the best poetry.

Indeed, the need to work through the sharpness and elation of one’s life is at the heart of The Siren World. Poet as chronicler of what “happened here.” Poet at the heart of the awkward silence between two inseparable sides of history. These poems by Juan Morales again and again take us to the heart of reconciliation with the personal and political. The ending of the poem “Guaman Poma, Writing By Candlelight,” turns the speaker’s meditation on the Quechua noble into a statement on the poet’s task; it also serves as a call to readers and writers alike to open their eyes to what “happened here”:

Where will my words about Guaman Poma be lost?

Maybe an attic, a thick folder in a desk,

or a garage box, but still confident

in the risky release of poems

into the hands of a comrade

who will carry each sacred word,

chancing the indifferent someone

who will never bother to read.

Buy it from Lithic Press: $17.00

José Angel Araguz is a CantoMundo fellow. He is a PhD candidate in Creative Writing and Literature at the University of Cincinnati. Author of six chapbooks as well as the recent collection, Everything We Think We Hear, he runs the poetry blog The Friday Influence.

 

 

REVIEW: The Pink Box by Yesenia Montilla

 

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by José Angel Araguz

I…continued dreaming, of owning a space
where all my poems would live & recline when tired, a pink box…

I wonder, will I call it Jessie or Yesenia? I need it, else I’ll have to continue
carrying my poems around like a baby on a sling, in the absence of a pink box.

From The Pink Box’s opening poem, Yesenia Montilla establishes herself as a poet for whom language is not only how we communicate but how we live. Throughout this collection, the reader is presented with a voice consistently aware of the stakes of a given situation, aware that for every dream there is a struggle. Whether it is a painful memory as insistent as the sound of a subway train buckling along on its track, or a moment of celebration via ghazal, ode, or haiku, Montilla keeps the reader close to the action of life. When the speaker of a later poem states, “I want to live in service of one action today, poetry,” they are declaring the heart of Montilla’s vision.

An example of what this vision is generous enough to offer is evident in the poem “Dendrology.” Here, the speaker recalls being shamed for her hair:

…my aunt announced
I’d never be loved by a white man
con ese pelo malo.

This judgment, however, is immediately challenged:

I loved my hair,
the way it frizzed around the edges
of my face & stood there like a woman
waiting to be asked to dance a slow bolero…

In recalling this moment of shaming, Montilla guides the reader through the process not of defiance but of consideration. Through these lines, the reader experiences a specific moment, one of new knowledge, and the instinct to hold that knowledge up to what one already knows. It is a nuanced form of defiance and of living enacted here. At the level of sheer understanding, the speaker’s narrative is moved to an image that evokes the physical hair via metaphorical movement. In this moment of intuited action, both speaker and reader wait to see what unfolds.

A similar moment of action via language occurs in the poem “Ode to a Dominican Breakfast.” As the speaker moves through a challenge against other traditional breakfast fare, the speaker and poem take an unexpected turn:

The other day I wore a white dress
with a wide skirt & red sash

I danced a merengue barefoot on my stoop, I kissed the
Dominican flag, once for each time I remembered a Taino word

yucca, batata, tanama, ocama, yautia, cacique, juracan,
every bite on the plate, every morsel like a bachata tune

This scene moves the poem from a mere contrasting of one cuisine against all others into the realm of celebration within language. Through the combined actions of dancing, kissing, and remembering, the speaker makes clear that what is at stake in this ode is not just what feeds the body. The gratitude and presence of each Taino word – words, like all words, to be spoken, mouthed – gives the poem a heartbeat’s persistence.

In “My Father’s 50th Birthday,” another kind of ode-like action takes place:

We forgot two years of jail visits.
Polaroids with white walls.
We forgot crack & shame.
We carried you out of the club,
you threw up on us with abandon.

Carried you like a dead body into
the narrow building…

removed your
shoes & lifted you onto the bed
to not wake your tired mother.

As we left we heard you cry out
Mami & at that moment you
were five & we were fifty.

We felt our childhood scratch
the back of our necks to let us know

it was finally gone        for good.

In this poem, the celebration of the father’s birthday becomes a meeting and blurring of memories. The development of emotional tension leading to the images of the father being carried out are powerful and transformational; in a way, the father becomes a symbol himself of all the familial memories, struggles, and disappointments that the children carry between them. When the speaker feels “childhood scratch,” the physical nature of memory is emphasized.

Moments of such emphasis abound throughout The Pink Box. Montilla again and again makes available her stories and insights in poems that live up to the struggles experienced and overcome to get them to us. Her determination “to live in service of one action…poetry” is inspiring. That one should not surrender to despair, to hardship, to celebration, to anything but the language to evoke the journey, the surviving, is an admirable mission. It is a mission that Montilla, as evident in the poem “Iktsuarpok,” seems committed to:

the shaman said                        be ready

& I bought a new dress    black             a million ravens huddled

 

he said                                      love affair

& I opened wide a calendar                   lunar phase & all

 

he said                                      fire

& it was a million hummingbirds with their human faces dancing

 

he said                                      madness

& here I sit waiting for the honey taste of it to drown me good

Buy it from Aquarius Press/Willow Books: $17.95

José Angel Araguz is a CantoMundo fellow and winner of RHINO Poetry’s 2015 Editor’s Prize. He is pursuing a PhD in Creative Writing and Literature at the University of Cincinnati. Author of the recent collection, Everything We Think We Hear, he runs the poetry blog The Friday Influence.

 

REVIEW: A Third Instance – three chapbooks by Rosa Alcalá, Craig Watson and Elisabeth Whitehead

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by José Angel Araguz

By two we enter
the story, and leave the ark built
to survive
the telling
of catastrophes –
one by
one

Via Biblical allusion, these lines from Rosa Alcalá’s poem “The Story to be Written” stress how reader and writer necessitate and need each other, meeting in the “ark” of the written work. Throughout the “telling/of catastrophes” found throughout the works of Rosa Alcalá, Craig Watson, and Elisabeth Whitehead, this collection of chapbooks shows itself to be engaging with the way literature manifests itself past the page.

Rosa Alcalá’s To the Archives begins the collection with its poem “Projection,” which finds the poet using varying fonts to quote from Ben Rubin’s media installation, “And That’s Just the Way It Is” (University of Texas-Austin, Cronkite Plaza) and Walter Cronkite’s news report of President Kennedy’s assassination.

This maneuvering and blurring of the world between text and story is continued in “Notes on Pasiphae.” Through a longer line, we move from myth to the computer screen, to the infamous act of coerced bestiality Pasiphae is famous for (which led to the birth of the minotaur), to a meditation on the way these acts are rendered through various paintings, ending on a final moment in which ideas of motherhood are juxtaposed against that fateful moment where parent and child meet:

…Here, they stared
at each other – mother, monster. A maze long before any built.

Mixing her own voice with that of Jacques Derrida, Alice Notley, Barbara Guest, Julia Kristeva, and Michel de Certeau, Alcalá then works out a meditation on ideas of voice in terms of language (spoken, unspoken, written) in the poem “Voice: An Essay.” Family stories and ghosts are mixed in with intellectual reckoning. Throughout these poems, one feels a reaching after that space between reading and understanding, where the self lives unknowingly, almost as a ghost.

Craig Watson’s Almost Invisible: Depositions from Neverland focuses on the way that “J. M. Barrie’s life and fantasies were so integrated, so seamless, that one continually became the substance of the other.” This blurring between what is written and what read, what made up and what made real through reading abounds through Watson’s poems.

The muddied relationship of the story of Peter Pan and the story of J.M. Barrie begins to be explored right off in the opening poem, in which the character of Mrs. Darling begins by asking:

All children, except one, never change. Does this make me the
narrator?

only to end with:

All children, except one, kill their birth with a new story. So who is
the narrator now?

The narrative implications in these two statements is powerful. In the first, it is an adult voice that presents the logic of what defines a child, namely that they “never change;” that is, “except [for] one.” The change implied is that of adulthood, which would point to the speaker, Mrs. Darling. What is also implied is a relationship between narrative and change. This relationship is further complicated in the closing formulation of the opening statement and question. If a “new story” can “kill [the] birth” of a child, then one must wonder what possibilities are opened via the new narratives being created by Mrs. Darling’s meditation here via Watson’s project.

These ideas explored in the voice of a fictional character are counterpointed with the voice of a person in the poem “David Barrie,” which a note informs us is:

…J.M.’s brother, drowned while both boys were young. Their mother…grieved so deeply that there were times J.M. pretended to be David to garner attention.

This narrative charges the meaning of these lines presented in David’s voice:

In the paradise of self-interest
You can learn to be someone else.

Time’s up, lights out.
Anyway, sorry about that promise
It was dead when I found it.
Are they looking for you too?

The interplay of voices – J.M. via David, both via Watson – is revelatory in its implications. This poem, with its layers of narratives, seems to be asking: How much life is lived in the voices of others, via reading, or, in J.M.’s case, in the gestures of others?

Whereas Alcalá and Watson frame their projects with outside texts to take familiar narratives to unfamiliar places, Elisabeth Whitehead’s To the Solar North project starts with the unfamiliar and takes the reader further into unfamiliarity. Here is the first section of the opening sequence, “Pilgrim”:

she was collected toward the borderlines / with hanging pelts / a mover’s supply of the finest quality / fibers brand / cigarettes paper / post cards from the old city and internal / detail / how to construct a model- / animal or wood spine with field books occasioning / the frequency of prison- / ships sustenance / on vials of sugared water

What is unfamiliar here is the broken narrative presented through a line capable of phrasal and visual jolts. As the project goes on, this approach opens up to some startling lyrical moments, like the following from “At the Lodging House”:

3 silk purses 3 garnet rings / pulled aside for barter
and the soft grains make the stomach churn / elder and spiral a water- /
cup this
our first view of a city:

an appeal or merciful /

what will you bear of it /

in waiting of course /

gilded of this /

Elsewhere, the use of the slash mark produces a kind of break in narrative cohesion as well as setting up a kind of binary within the details and what’s said. Here, however, the slash marks are used as a kind of imaginative space, playing against the setup of “our first view of a city” and offering only half of the conceptual “view,” the other half necessarily left up to the reader’s imagination. As the project returns to its theme of travel again and again, the reader is presented with varying ways in which the “ark” of a poem can tread water.

Buy it from Instance Press (2014): $15

José Angel Araguz is a CantoMundo fellow and winner of RHINO Poetry’s 2015 Editor’s Prize. He is pursuing a PhD in Creative Writing and Literature at the University of Cincinnati. His collection, Everything We Think We Hear, is forthcoming from Floricanto Press. He runs the poetry blog The Friday Influence.

REVIEW: The Verging Cities by Natalie Scenters-Zapico

by José Angel Araguz

…Come, memory, let me trace your eyes carefully. Let me learn you how.

 These lines, which occur early on in Natalie Scenters-Zapico’s The Verging Cities, are from the poem “Dear Angel,” a prose poem in which the speaker recounts something whispered by the “Angel” of the title. This “Angel” is José Angel Maldonado, the poet’s husband whose middle name serves as a fulcrum into and out of metaphor and reality throughout the manuscript. In this particular poem, the speaker addresses to Angel a meditation on math and language, and the inability of both to tangibly rein in personal meaning. The ending quoted above, in being in Angel’s voice, brings into confluence the speaker’s own internal conflicts and the possibility of seeing clearly/seeing through conflicts that is symbolized by love. The impetus of Let me learn you how – which is a reaching towards a lover as much as towards meaning – serves both as a key into the poems of The Verging Cities and a kind of edict for the collection overall.

In the poem, “Photos Found on a Dead Man’s Phone,” for example, the book learns us how to enter the circumstances of the title. Image by image, the poem builds a narrative of human impression, giving an idea not of the story but of fragments of the life lived. This kind of narrative is necessarily executed not through mere description but more poetic means:

Image ten: exposed tongue – the buds missing.

Image eleven: flash, then the phrase –
our darkest corner damp with memory.

In these lines, the shock of the first “image” (ten) juxtaposed against the logic of the second “image” (eleven) creates a visceral connection; the “missing” buds of “ten” travel, in a way, into the meaning of “eleven.” In this kind of scrambling after life through image, it is memory that is most alive.

Memory is not only alive but life-giving throughout this collection. The poem “Woman Found Near Sunland Park Mall” invokes the story of the woman in the title as well as the border agent who found her “open-mouthed,//and [whispering] agua.” The poem finishes:

…He puts his foot on her neck
and watches how slowly her face turns red with blood.

When the other border agents ask what state he found
this woman in, he has a story that involves water,

how some can buy it at Target and how others
don’t know how to call it by its proper name.

In pitting the plight of the woman against the story told at the end by the border agent, this poem is able to bear witness to both. Against the border agent’s insistence on the use of violence and “proper name[s],” this poem stands as an example of how stories do not cancel each other but rather coexist by acts of verging. Sometimes this verging involves damnable acts; still, this collection time and again shows the importance of not looking away, of always being able to name and seek out ways to learn us how to go on living. Only by meeting damnable acts with acts of witness can the poet make their way and live up to what is later said in the poem “Placement”:

Some say you have no right to talk about the dead. So I talk of them as living, their
bodies standing in the street’s bend.

While the verging cities of the title are El Paso and Ciudad Juárez, the heart is also seen as a kind of city. The most moving moments in the collection come when Scenters-Zapico is able to elevate the love relationship at the core of this book to the heights of a different way of understanding the world, as in the poem “Angel and I are Both Great Pretenders,”:

the vergin cities

Buy it from The Center for Literary Publishing at Colorado State University: $16.95.
José Angel Araguz is a CantoMundo fellow and winner of Rhino Poetry’s 2015 Editor’s Prize. He has had poems recently in Prairie Schooner, Borderlands, and The Laurel Review. He is pursuing a PhD in Creative Writing and Literature at the University of Cincinnati. Author of Reasons (not) to Dance, a chapbook of microcuento style short prose, he runs the poetry blog The Friday Influence.

REVIEW: Canto Hondo by Francisco X. Alarcón

cantohhondo
by José Angel Araguz

In his essay “Arquitectura del cante jondo,” the great Spanish poet Federico García Lorca defines the cante jondo against the flamenco of his time by saying:

“El cante jondo es un canto teñido por el color misterioso de las primeras edades de cultura; el cante flamenco es un canto relativamente moderno donde se nota la seguridad rítmica de la música construida. Color spiritual y color local: he aquí la honda diferencia…El cante jondo se acerca al trino del pájaro, al canto del gallo y a las músicas naturales del chopo y la ola…Es, pues, un rarísmo ejemplar de canto primitivo, de lo más viejo de Europa, donde la ruina histórica y el fragment lírico comido por la arena aparecen vivos como en la primera mañana de su vida” (García Lorca, 214)*.

(The deep song is a song tinged with the mysterious color of the culture’s first ages; the song in flamenco is a relatively modern song where one can note the rhythmic security of structured music. Spiritual color and local color: here lies a great difference…The deep song approaches the bird’s trill, or the rooster’s crow as well as the natural music of the poplar and the ocean wave…It is, then, a rare example of primitive song, of the oldest in Europe, where the historical ruin and lyrical fragment eaten away at by sand appear alive as on the first morning of its life) (translation: José Angel Araguz)

By naming his new collection Canto Hondo/Deep Song, Francisco X. Alarcón sets up the book’s spirit to be in the same vein as that of Lorca’s own “Poema del cante jondo.” Where Lorca celebrated the energy and mystery of his Andalusian influences, Alarcón’s new book evokes and celebrates the deep song of the Chicana/o literature, from its Pre-Cortesian roots to its politically fraught present.

Alarcón uses a minimalist style throughout the book to conduct his own fight against the “rhythmic security of structured music.” As the following examples show, he is able to keep close to images as well as concept within this style:

LOS OJOS                                             EYES

heridas con                                            wounds

las puntadas                                          with open

abiertas                                                  stitches

NARANJA DEL DESEO                    ORANGE OF DESIRE

 

no hay nada                                           there’s nothing

como comer                                           like nibbling

a mordiscos                                            an orange

en Granada                                             in Granada

una naranja                                             in the forbidden

en el jardín                                              orchard

prohibido                                                 of the Sultan’s

de la Sultana                                           main wife

While the image and brevity of the first poem are similar in spirit to haiku, the clipped nature of the second evokes William Carlos Williams’ own staggered lyric. The enjambed logic of both these poems gives an idea of the particular flavor of Alarcón’s poetics. In his hands, the deep song is ever personal, as alive and intimate as a nerve or a gasp.

These moves between image, insight, and form are to be found throughout the collection, including in the longer title piece “Canto Hondo/Deep Song.” This particular poem’s epigraph states that it is “after the passage of so many legal measures against undocumented workers – mostly Mexican and Central Americans – throughout the United States.” This declaration is followed by questions:

¿por qué                                                   why do

me escupes                                              you spit

la cara?                                                     in my face?

and later:

¿qué papeles                                           does the Sun

tiene                                                         need any

el sol?                                                       papers?

¿qué crimen                                           does having

cometen hoy                                          dreams now

los sueños?                                            become a crime?

These questions, which move from insult to a rhetoric composed of image and implication, make clear not only the stakes of Alarcón’s deep song but also the powers available to the poet to fight for and keep alive what he names at the poem’s end as “this struggle//for life/burning/in my heart.” By naming the struggles of others, Alarcón is able to document the undocumented and give voice to grievances similar to the way Pablo Neruda does in his Canto General. Neruda comes to mind not only in the political nature of the poem but also in the rawness and surrealistic reach of the images.

As evidenced through both the content of these examples as well as the textual set up of the collection with poems set in both Spanish and English, Alarcón’s deep song is grounded within a Chicana/o sensibility, with an ear for its music and an eye for its issues. Poems about family are mixed in with those on braceros and César Chávez. By positing itself in Chicana/o histories, these lyrics fight against being “eaten away” by time and help to keep Chicana/o poetry, ideals, and culture “alive as on the first morning of its life.”

(*García Lorca, Federico. Poesia Completa. Ed. Miguel García-Posada. New York: Vintage Español, 2012. Print.)

Buy it from The University of Arizona Press: $17.95.

José Angel Araguz is a CantoMundo fellow and winner of Rhino Poetry’s 2015 Editor’s Prize. He has had poems recently in Prairie Schooner, Borderlands, and The Laurel Review. He is pursuing a PhD in Creative Writing and Literature at the University of Cincinnati. Author of Reasons (not) to Dance, a chapbook of microcuento style short prose, he runs the poetry blog The Friday Influence.

REVIEW: Angels of the Americlypse: an Anthology of New Latin@ Writing ed. Carmen Giménez Smith & John Chávez

angels

by José Angel Araguz

While Angels of the Americlypse: An Anthology of Latin@ Writing provides no shortage of interest, I decided to limit
myself to three “stops,” highlighting how each in their own respective way points to the inclusive/expansive spirit of the anthology, all the while detailing the unique reading experience it offers. In their introduction, the editors describe their intent as wanting “to invite, to welcome, to unerase and reinscribe, to expand the landscape by making it visible” (xvi). One of the ways in which this work is done is in the anthology’s structure: Angels presents each writer with an introduction, a sample of their work, and space for their own aesthetic statement. This thorough approach to each section allows for not only a glimpse into each writer’s literary voice as well as craft/personal voice, but, along with the introductions, points in many ways to the overall conversation each writer’s work is engaged in. This structure has the accumulative effect of evoking how alive the field of Latin@ writing is today.

Stop 1: Rosa Alcalá

In his introduction to Alcalá’s work, Peter Ramos asks: “Where is the line, the border, between one’s cultural identities and one’s supposedly true self?” (5). The selected poems that follow seem to take turns engaging with this question. Compare the first line of “Voice Activation” with that of “Paramour”:

This poem, on the other hand, is activated by the sound of my voice, and, luckily, I am a native speaker (“Voice Activation”)

English is dirty. Polyamorous…(“Paramour”)

Writing against an epigraph by Wittgenstein on how a poem “is not used in the language-game of giving information,” the first line of “Voice Activation” plays the idea of “native speaker” against that of a poem “activated by the sound of my own voice” and, doing so, complicates the act of writing. There is a powerful assertion in this line – that the writer is capable of both accessing the ineffable (with its connotations of the unknowable and unutterable) as well as being fluent in the ineffable – that is later counterpointed in the poem by lines like:

Have no doubt, my poem is innocent and transparent. So when I say, I think I’ll make myself a sandwich, the poem does not say, I drink an isle of bad trips (6).

In using the language of reassurance, Alcalá is able to both allay the ineffable as well as invite it in. This ability to navigate between the several ways language(s) can mean (and unmean) is a key facet of much of in this anthology, one that highlights the sentiment behind the line “English is dirty. Polyamorous.” In the two short sentences that open the poem “Paramour,” an act of “unerasing” and “reinscribing” occurs, which is repeated and developed, becoming a rhetorical engine driving the rest of the poem.

 Stop 2: Norma E. Cantú

In her aesthetic statement, Norma E. Cantú describes herself as being “[t]rained in semiotics” as well as “an undocumented folklorist – that is, I do not have any formal training in folkloristics” (54). If these statements are unpacked a bit more, Cantú can first be seen as a reader of signs. The latter statement’s juxtaposition of the word “undocumented” with the vocation of “folklorist” – the former a charged word for Latin@s, at times meaning illegal, and often implied in describing someone as being sin papeles (without papers) – complicates both terms, expressing an interest in both signs and folklore beyond the page (beyond papers). As the title of her aesthetic statement makes clear, Cantú focuses her reading of sign and folklore in order to “[See/Look] through a Chicana Third Space Feminist Lens.”

This seeing/looking takes us through the lives of three women – Aminda, Mercedes Zamora, & Elisa – from the novel Champú, or Hair Matters excerpted in this anthology. In Cantú’s particular mode of storytelling, which John-Michael Rivera in his introduction to her work describes as a “[conceptual] meld [of] autoethnographic technique with poststructuralist theories,” brings South Texas to life. Within each character’s story, many lives collide, celebrate, and pass each other through narrative as alive and charged as gossip and an unexpected phone call. Laredo becomes as rich as one’s own palm; lifelines cross each in their individual streaks but hold together as a resonant whole. An example of this kind of engaging narrative comes in this short passage from Aminda’s story in which she recounts her reaction to running into a medical intuitive:

Pues to make a long story short, I was intrigued and scheduled a session with the medical intuitive. It was intense. After six hours in session, I was exhausted. I cried and laughed and felt elated and full of life. She says we can heal ourselves (48).

This passage shows how Cantú mixes formal choices and an openness of voice to create a narrative that is engaging, direct, and real. This passage is also a favorite moment of mine because of how close this kind of narrative takes the reader into the thinking of the character. I found myself able to read the words She says we can heal ourselves both for what they say within the story’s context but also what they say about the spirit of this anthology. Angels provides example after example of how we as writers can heal ourselves by taking on the cultural and literary landscapes within and without.

Stop 3: Edwin Torres

Travel on the back of a poet in flight – the conjured modalities among a century’s search is where answers shapeshift among the alphabets. (294)

These words, taken from Edwin Torres’ own aesthetic statement, are a good place to round out this short ride through this anthology. With its focus on new Latin@ writing, Angels of the Americlypse offers the opportunity to do just what Torres suggests in this sentence: that we “travel” with this group of writers, experience some of the “century’s search” and be witness to “answers” as they “shapeshift among the alphabets.” The following three stanzas, drawn from Torres’ poem “ME NO HABLA SPIC,” tie together and evoke this anthology’s fascination with temporal and cultural reality, how both shape each other, “unerasing” and “reinscribing” who we are along the way:

i remember one afternoon in soho
sitting on the sidewalk
with my long-haired cat harry
single and care-free
showing my beautiful pet to the world
people passing by, saying
what a cute spic

i remember reading every email i sent
to feel as if i were the person
receiving my own words, basking in their clever reach
to feel the warmth of many messages
from many people, all of them me
a conglomerate of sinewy desperation
wrapped up in the viral opportunity of a cute spic

i remember sitting in soho
with my two-year old son
surrounded by expensive buildings
where there used to be none, the world passing
me, just thankful to get some rest
in the sun’s imperfections, the people
ooh’ing and ahh’ing, what a cute spic                     (273-279)

By bringing together some of the most exciting work being written today along with the thoughts and conversations behind them, Angels of the Americlypse stands as an essential and illuminating anthology.

Available from Counterpath Press for $35.

José Angel Araguz is a CantoMundo fellow and winner of Rhino Poetry’s 2015 Editor’s Prize. He has had poems recently in Poet Lore, Borderlands, and The Laurel Review. He is pursuing a PhD in Creative Writing at the University of Cincinnati. Reasons (not) to Dance, a chapbook of flash fiction/prose poems, is forthcoming this summer from FutureCycle Press. He runs the poetry blog The Friday Influence.

REVIEW: Undocumentaries by Rosa Alcalá

undocumentaries

by Jose Angel Araguz

…what I write isn’t memoir or autobiography; it’s sometimes messy and discursive and collaged—call it lyric, experimental, what have you—but I’m not ashamed to say that I “draw” (I’m thinking of both a graphic mark and a blood-draw) quite a bit from autobiography, that identity is central to my work

(Alcala, PSA)*

…a graphic mark and a blood-draw –

Within the idea of the artist’s mark, there is the implication of creation, of continuing to work at something fresh. The graphic mark also carries ideas of control and exploration. The blood-draw, on the other hand, brings in a world of double meaning. Because it is blood, it is intimate, it is physical and fluid and life. Blood is also family, where one comes from. Yet, the blood-draw also brings to mind the hospital. The blood-draw within this context is also life: blood is drawn for the sake of others, in this case not family in the strict sense, but the family of blood types, the tribes of positive and negative and neutral. Between these two ideas of drawing, the world of Undocumentaries can be said to unfold.

In the poem “In the Waiting Room,for example, the reader follows the meditation of the speaker as she, “sit[s] for hours looking at open-mouthed babies” (Alcala 75). The meditation moves from the immediate scene to the political implications, both of being a young woman having to “submit/to the whole silly production” as well as the knowledge that:

…within
the cluster of beings the technician
examines for future antagonisms
against the state, it will never find one
worthy of being knighted, no perfect
English gentleman.

The poem takes on another layer at this point, moves from ideas of womanhood to ideas of race. The tension in these ideas lies in both the lightheartedly cynical phrasing of “silly production” on one end, and the calling of the doctor as “technician” and children as “future antagonisms.” These choices in diction set up a speaker able to make the distance of language allow for an intimacy in feeling. The poem continues:

English gentleman. This my mother knew
despite all the fanfare about Charles and Diana’s
wedding: princes and kings marry their own:
keep washing the dishes (except she said it
in Spanish).

The rumination on race becomes one on motherhood, specifically the speaker’s mother. Race remains prominent, however, in the content of what exactly her mother “knew.” Her mother knew of segregation as much as daydreaming: knew about class as much as glamor. Family here is presented as where one draws their knowledge of the world from.

Furthermore, family becomes what is learned as well as relearned:

…As early as possible,
we learn to flirt with the guy who sells or makes
bed springs, those things beneath us
that cushion our sleep. Someone who never
discusses what he does, and works overtime
to bring the rest of his family
over.

The unspoken comes into play here in the potential “Someone who never/discusses what he does,” and echoes much of what the book is about: the “undocumentary” as what is left unsaid or unshown.

This exploration of the tension between said/unsaid and shown/unshown is continued in “Confessional Poem,where the image of a clothesline is taken on for its narrative potential. Alcala jumps right into the clothesline as metaphor for the poetic line with the first lines:

The girl next door had something to teach me
about what to air: On the line
somebody’s business gets told
then recounted; it’s best to thread a tale
for the neighbors, an orchestration
of sorts…
(21)

What is immediately striking about these lines is their confidence, their almost swagger, which
challenges the conventional notions of gossip the clothesline carries. These lines, in their tone and knowing, bring to mind the work of Sylvia Plath – a connection furthered by the choice of title “Confessional Poem.” At other points in the book, Alcala shows an awareness of writing within a poetic tradition (“A girl like me falls in love/with Yeats/and never recovers” from the poem “Undocumentary” is but one example), but nowhere else does the writing both indicate and challenge a specific tradition as it does here. The comparison to Plath is in terms of tone as well as the awareness each poet shows at working at a craft that is as much manipulation as a magic born of honesty.

…You wouldn’t know it
from the delicates I roll
into the yard. It’s all the same peek-a-boo lace
and stunted imagination. Of course,
all of this is scanty truth

Within the context of a poem called “Confessional Poem,” words like “delicates,” “peek-a-boo lace” and “scanty” are charged with multiple layers of meaning. One marvels at the wordplay at first for the skill on the poet’s part, and later for what it says of the speaker of these words, the self-deprecating air the words hang in. In drawing out the metaphor of the clothesline, Alcala presents a speaker aware of the insidious nature of narrative, how it has both the potential for showing as well as concealing. No story is the whole story. For a poem with the word “Confessional” in the title, very little is confessed. In fact, the idea that something personal can come through in a poem is challenged. Yet, in developing ideas of ways that narratives can be created and manipulated, the speaker of this poem gives an almost truer confession: the confession of a magician drawing back the curtain, the confession of a poet who knows how much control they have over language and how little control they have over life.

The poems final note drives this point home:

…Who hangs anything out to dry
when invention has halved the work?

This “halving” implies what is left unsaid in the act of documenting. The poems of Undocumentaries, at their most powerful, draw out – graphically, viscerally – the unsaid.

*(opening quote taken from “Latino/a Poetry Now: 3 Poets discuss their art (Rosa Alcala, Eduardo C. Corral, Aracelis Girmay).” Melendez, Maria. Poetry Society of America, n.d. Web. 22 Nov. 2013).

Undocumentaries is available from Shearsman Books.

José Angel Araguz, author of the chapbook Corpus Christi Octaves, is a CantoMundo fellow. Winner of RHINO Poetry’s 2015 Editor’s Prize, he has had poems recently in Blue Mesa Review, Pilgrimage, and NANO Fiction as well as in the anthology Goodbye Mexico: Poems of Remembrance. He is pursuing a PhD in Creative Writing and Literature at the University of Cincinnati. He runs the poetry blog, The Friday Influence.

REVIEW: Soft Pages by Kathleen Fraser

belladonna

by José Angel Araguz

pelagic, if that’s how a particular moment keeps continuing
without one being able to stop it…(6).

I enjoy a text that has me walking away having learnt a new word. In the case of Kathleen Fraser’s Soft Pages – a lyrical prose sequence part of the Belladonna chaplet series – that word is pelagic, whose definition – living or growing at or near the surface of the ocean, far from land – is a key into the overall text.

Throughout Soft Pages, Fraser’s speaker presents a hybrid mix of travel journal/personal diary/writer’s meditation. The ambition of such a mix is reflected in the way the speaker boldly reconsiders and repurposes the aim of the narrative at several turns:

I must remember to enter the narrator’s life in as many ways as possible—
[by “must”, I mean that I crave intimacy and little corners but take
even more pleasure in distancing devices, while sniffing the smell of leftover
shampoo on a person’s damp terrycloth robe ](10)

This craving for “intimacy and little corners” as well as “distancing devices” implies a specific kind of tension behind the narrative. The structure of Soft Pages itself is less fragmented (nothing feels exactly missing or broken) and more loosely tethered, a kind of conceptual mobile capable of holding various meanings, which returns us to the image evoked by the word pelagic.

Fraser’s lyrical musings explore various aspects of the “soft pages” in her life – from notebook paper to photographs and a fan, the latter two conflated as the speaker of the text describes her direct physical experience as:

Not as definite as departure. Already it was following the camera’s path,
its ability to bunch up time, capture it incrementally or smoothly, into successive
unfoldings, compression fanning out through heat-laminated brick, golden
fade-out into transliteration of…pale fan sent from Tokyo, held in place by a
thin loop of silver paper, just at its breaking point, until the restraint had been
lifted away to release the motion of unfolding. Someone wanting the prop in
cultural time. May I demonstrate my lineage?”(6-7)

Through this kind of leap from similarity to similarity, Fraser constructs a reading experience about reading experiences. Instead of a distrust of being able to pin down human experience in words, one reads a speaker engaged with how things change as soon as you start to pin them down by naming them. In a scene, for example, of going through the motions of a public yoga session, Fraser’s speaker recounts looking for her particularly marked yoga mat, only:

to find, among the various colored blankets [the instructor] provided in a
wall cupboard at one end of the studio, a soft blue plaid that would draw me
into a state of calmness, as if the water in the river were also blue, instead of
muddy, and the sky an intense wintry cloudless blue , instead of burdening
the urban landscape with its heaviness of pale and dark grey storm clouds
waiting to break loose (8-9)

This kind of nuanced moment of insight, where realities are superimposed upon each other through the blur of memory and sensory perception, makes up a large of the pleasurable reading experience of reading Soft Pages. Throughout the sequence, one is given the workings of a mind who values the various “ultimate” meanings and profound epiphanies to be found, “Even as you walk towards the most simple morning task” (6).

Soft Pages is available as a free pdf at Belladonna*.

José Angel Araguz is a CantoMundo fellow and has had work most recently in Borderlands, Blue Earth Review, and NANO Fiction. He is presently pursuing a Creative Writing and Literature PhD at the University of Cincinnati. He runs the poetry blog, The Friday Influence.

The Dustbowl by Jim Goar

t_223_4430

Ghost town. Tumbleweed. Ain’t
got not home. Ain’t got no home.
But an echo. A stutter. The land
like magic shit. Behold the
dustbowl. That Damn-ward sun.
Big as your fist. Sit on Plymouth
Rock. I’ll sit below. Con-
templating West. Forget-me-not.

This lyric starts off Jim Goar’s The Dustbowl, a book comprised mainly of the title poem, a long lyric sequence that, as the book cover explains, “intertwine[s] Arthurian legend and Dust Bowl Americana with fragmented memories of Arizona and California.” The description intrigued me right away, imagining a whirlwind of narratives. As evidenced in the above lyric, what guides and shapes the emotional tone of the sequence is the poet’s use of short, elliptic phrasing as well as his choice in what fragments to bring together. In a lyric that begins with “Ghost town” and ends with “Forget-me-not” the stakes are made clear from the beginning.

This kind of evocative lyrical selection is exhibited throughout. The following lyric, for example, derives its charm from not only what it brings in but what it does with it:

Shook The Tree. No knowledge came
tumbling down. A great gift of snakes.
Here today. Gone tomorrow. Naked
as the day I was born. And then
there was night. A dustbowl blown in.
Drank from that cold bitter cup. The quest-
ion remained. Un-answered. Voices
in the other room. Mirror Mirror th-
rough the wall. Green apples fall like rain.

While the biblical connotations of “Tree” are followed through with “snakes” in the first two lines, the surprise in reading is the echo at the end of the lyric, the phrase “Green apples fall like rain” shocking the reader’s senses both in a narrative and sensorial way. The break in the preceding line (Mirror Mirror th-/rough the wall) also works to not only turn a fairy tale phrase towards a new meaning but also to evoke the storm. By breaking up the word (th-/rough) the speaker brings in the verb “rough” and thus the sound of hard wind against the wall, which then leads to “Green apples.”

Goar does a great job throughout the sequence of inhabiting the multiple narratives through idiosyncratic turns of phrase and typography. Goar also brings in various allusions – from Woody Guthrie to The Wasteland and Cylons – all of which add their respective colors to the expansive work. Despite these added meanings, not everything needs to be caught to be caught up in the work. What the short phrases of the lyrics do is give a sense of wind gusting by. Add this effect to the shifting narrative, and you get a reading experience of tumbleweed caught up in various stories. The pleasure in reading this sequence comes as much from keeping up with what the poem’s narratives are doing as following Goar’s poetic efforts, at turns intellectually as well as physically evocative:

Found the table set with bitter eggs. Rode
until they were no more. The Holy Grail
fades away. This is my body. Her tongue has
turned to dust. Once upon a time. Called
everything stone. It was not so. Camelot was
something else. A city in my lady’s hand.
Lick me, she said. Liquor, I did. Removed her
glass slipper. A voice I’d heard before. This
woman without end. Wrapped inside my armor.

The book also contains an “other poems” section, a series of lyrics that give keys into Goar’s style and sensibility. The highlight for me, “Chasing Thomas Hardy,” stands out not only for its craftsmanship (Goar takes on Hardy’s penchant for self-made forms as well as the maestro’s diction) but as well for its relation with the rest of the work in this book, solidifying the impression of a poet whose sensibilities of form allow for praise, wit, and dirge.

The Dustbowl is available from Shearsman Books

Jose Angel Araguz, author of the chapbook The Wall (Tiger’s Eye Press), is a CantoMundo fellow. Hailing from Corpus Christi, Texas, he has had poems recently in Barrow Street, RHINO, Hanging Loose and Poet Lore. He is presently pursuing a PhD in Creative Writing at the University of Cincinnati. He runs the poetry blog, The Friday Influence.

Ten More Poems by James Hoff

Screen shot 2014-06-26 at 6.58.09 PM

Awkward smile
dandelion beauty
is short lived drinks.

(from “Berlin Untitled No. 4”)

The juxtaposition of worlds in these three lines, from the human face to what is seen in nature, shows an eye possessed with a passion for the passing. In Ten More Poems, a small collection of poems written by James Hoff while living in Berlin in 2003, there are several such moments of celebrating the passing.

In “Grid Theory for Squares,” for example, the reader is presented with the question: “Why do street lamps not line the sea?” In this image, one can see the essence of Hoff’s lyric meditations: a mix of the brief and jolting, played out with a reach that combines the city with the world around the city, whether that world be nature or human experience. What we imbue to the things of our world, natural and man-made, seems a focus of these poems, as can be further seen in “Intermission No. 1:”

new cars are red because they are embarrassed
to be parked in front of one-storie houses

Metaphor becomes not just a means of experiencing the correspondences between things but a reflex, a language all its own. The title of the poem, “Still, We Pick Petals and Paddle to the Nearest Sea,” is an example of what I mean: the music of “petals” and “paddle” combines with the meaning of each word, the associations of each become associated themselves and lead to “the nearest sea,” meaning. This sense of finding meaning through surprising associations is followed through in this poem later:

It has occurred to me
that the older you get,
the more you make love
to tie the shoestrings of lost days.

When Hoff states “Here I am/Kenneth Patchen,” in the poem “Anticipation of Morning,” the sudden presence of the disciple of Whitman and Blake as well as his own private muse makes sense, like seeing someone familiar in a crowd. Including Patchen, Hoff states the line he is drawing from as well as drawing towards. The Beats were bards of the city as much of themselves. Berlin, ultimately, isn’t at the center of these poems as much as the city of the self and the city the self sees. This point is driven home later in this poem in the lines:

Dear Tennessee,

I’m over the open
roar of the ready world…

Here, Hoff demonstrates the kind of bravado needed to celebrate the passing world in the face of the new. Each metaphor is an act of taking something old, given, and ending up somewhere new with it. The physical layout of the chapbook, its words set on a 1933 Underwood typewriter, lives up to this spirit as much as the poems. This world is one of transiency, of fleeting moments. When Hoff pleads at the end of “Anticipation of Morning:”

Panel the walls of heaven please
with the kindness of a stranger.

the impetus behind not just these poems but poetry altogether can be seen: a desire, always a desire, to see something new in the world despite ourselves.

Ten More Poems is available for free from Ugly Duckling Presse

Jose Angel Araguz is a Canto Mundo fellow. He has had poems recently in Barrow Street, Slipstream, Hanging Loose and Right Hand Pointing. He is presently pursuing a PhD in Creative Writing at the University of Cincinnati. He runs the poetry blog, The Friday Influence.

Tonal Saw by Amaranth Borsuk

tumblr_mj65ec2sKD1qit5mao1_1280

I.
tremble | fire | A | kind of | fire
like | running | cloud
It sprang up like a plant from the ground

Taken alone, this short lyric presented me with two levels of engagement: first, there’s the impetus in the choice of language, starting with the direct command of tremble which flows smoothly to the later fire, cloud, and plant, each evoked from that initial word; next was the formal note of the vertical slashes, each a sign I took to mean to slow down, to consider each word and sets of words both for their meaning and singularity. By starting off on this double-note of ideas, choice and consideration, this short lyric, the first of thirty that comprise the chapbook-length poem Tonal Saw, creates a sense of conceptual intrigue that is carried on through the entire piece.

This idea of conceptual intrigue carried me through my initial reading of Tonal Saw. As a champion of the short lyric, I was fascinated by each turn in the sequence, not only by the form but also the things the form lent itself to do. It ranges from wordplay, as in the following:

XV.
change | a period | for a shock.
substitute | Sun | for | day | incredible!
change | the day | to | a | bath
in | solemnity
actually | do | it | and | sea

to moments of rare aural consideration:

XVII.
men changed | on | command
to | old | ship | s
how the change | instead
can be | a single passage
from | glimpse | to | response

The play of | do | it | and | sea gives its respective part of the sequence a surprising end, while the isolated s in XVII. awakens the ear to the later ‘s’ sounds of glimpse and response. I read through the entire poem engaged in this kind of textual back and forth.

But what had I just read, I asked myself, not out of any feeling of critique for the poem, but rather, out of the general feeling of having read a poem. I look back to the feeling I had after my initial reading of TS and recognize much of what I love about poetry is running into those moments of reflection, of asking myself questions like the above and answering them through rereading.

In response to this question, which is charged with the conceptual intrigue of the poem, I looked up the poet, and found the following insight in regards to TS on her website:

This chapbook-length poem […] uses language from a religious tract that was left on my doorstep ten years ago. Vertical slashes score the source text, sawing through the language of religious fervor to write a religion of poetry that worships language itself.

This information on the project, however direct, only answered part of the question. Yes, the words came from a religious tract, but what about this later goal of writing a religion of poetry?

My subsequent readings of the TS, informed by the above explanation, were richer. More and more, I saw that the two ideas I noted in my initial reading, choice and consideration, held strong, but with the added level of knowing that what was before me was informed in a strict sense by the poet’s own choices and consideration of language.

I realize writing that last sentence that what I describe holds true for most poetry: even poems composed by methods of supposed chance, cutting up words from a magazine, for example, throwing them up in the air, and jotting them down in the order they land, have, despite the efforts to take choice out of the hand of the poet, the sense of a hand/mind at work. Why those words? Why that day? In the case of TS, why this sequence of words ten years later? Why not fifteen years? Five?

In poetry, it is almost always more fruitful to leave a question unanswered. By doing so, a question can be appreciated for the spectrum of possibility it represents rather than by any direct answer. It is in the light of this idea of a spectrum of possibility that TS is best read. I can’t convey properly the kind of language geek joy I felt upon my third reading of the poem and catching what was going on in the following lyric:

XVIII.
mandm | a | sweet | break
two lovers | or | tittle | s | filled
We | receive | heaven and earth | by | it
and | happy | die | one | more | joy | forever
mmandm | Append
keep fresh | some little | sin
for us | to | set | the world | on

Knowing of the direct drawing from religious language, suddenly mandm and the later mmandm became connected in my mind with variations on the word commandment. By themselves, mandm and mmandm play with the sounds of rumination: “hmmm” and “uhm” arise when these two phrases are spoken aloud. The realization of the tie-in with commandment take that word, a word so charged with power and meaning both in and out of a religious context, and reduce it to (or perhaps accentuate it with) an air of indecision and small talk.

Mind you, this is only one reader’s idiosyncratic response to the poem. But what else is there, I ask myself. It is this kind of metacognitive reflection that produces some of the more illuminating poems as well as reading of poems. When talking of poetry, the word engagement gets thrown around as if a given, as if meaning only one thing. Then there are the phrases which imply engagement or lack of: It spoke to me. I couldn’t get into it. And so on.

Amaranth Borsuk’s Tonal Saw unpacks not only as a meditation and handling of religious language, but as a meditation and handling of the meditation and handling on the part of the reader. In doing so, it accomplishes what it sets out to do: to write a religion of poetry that worships language itself. The end product puts the reader in touch with not a religion of the word, but rather, a religion after the word, after language and its splintering way with meaning.

I am reminded of Rimbaud’s famous phrase I is another, a metacognitive smart bomb in and of itself, as well as a sentiment about language with which the poem’s final lyric resonates:

XXX.
your own | little | immediately
And | these | dear, precious | things, you
Now may | continue
you | intriguing | page
to know | your | word

Download Tonal Saw for free at The Song Cave

Jose Angel Araguz has had poems recently in Barrow Street, Slipstream, Gulf Coast, and Right Hand Pointing. He is presently pursuing a PhD in Creative Writing at the University of Cincinnati. He runs the poetry blog, The Friday Influence.