Thursday, March 29, 2018

Reckon by Steve McOrmond

Steve McOrmond’s new poetry collection Reckon with Brick Books attempts to shake readers out of a modern malaise filled with Big Gulps and 911 calls, storm warnings and sitcoms, packages of lozenges and the “fake” cheeriness of others. Like the snowflakes magnified on the book’s cover, a reference to McOrmond's poem “The Photographer of Snowflakes”, these poems hold seemingly mundane moments up to the light to show how they are anything but familiar.

The first poem “Pastoral” sets the stage for the whole collection as it finds poetry in “the lavender notes of a Glade plug-in” and “a refrigerator on defrost, chirping like crickets in a field.” It depicts nature, a “raccoon lurking in the alcove outside my front door”, interacting with an indifferent city whose “parkway is congested, as always” and whose buildings downtown are “decapitated by fog”.

Notable poems in the volume are many. I am partial to the poem “I Want To Love More” which really encapsulates how the poet McOrmond pushes back against run-amok corporate capitalism and its anaesthetizing effects on people. Here is an excerpt:

To admit that at dawn the city is nearly adorable,
Rubbing sleep from its eyes. The shoe repair guy
Flips the sign in the window, lugs a five-foot-tall
Red fiberglass cowboy boot to the curb.
The barista stifles a yawn. Above it all,
The crane operator has the best seat in the house.
To grasp before I go what any kindergarten
Teacher knows: you can make anything
With glitter, hearts, and glue…..
……My mixture
Isn’t right; I can never quite shake
The loneliness of living in this serene republic,
The longing that nests in the names
Of racehorses: Waiting on a Woman, Dusty Lane
Galaxy, Escape The News, Nurse Thy Bitterness.
Oh I do. Black coffee, dry toast on a chipped plate.

(from “I Want To Love More”)

This is simply first-rate writing. Other stand-outs from the collection are “For the Beauty of Winona Ryder” and “Pure Outrage”. In the wake of Facebook’s data-breach, a poem like “We Like You For This” feels especially pertinent speaking to a surveillance state who wishes to know the very minutiae of everyone's life in the way the poem catechizes rapid-fire questions:

The evidence is circumstantial. We can neither confirm
nor deny. Do you know your fanily history? Are you prone
to mental infirmity? Have you ever been confined
in a prison or similar institution? Does God communicate
with you through visions? How’s that
working out for you? Have you suffered? Would you say
you have a tendency to aestheticize suffering?

(From “We Like You For This”)

Steve McOrmond is not so much staring into the abyss as he is a modern witness searching for the source code that underlies sad songs, all-inclusive vacations, office cubicles, Rorschach tests and over-worked waitresses. His brand new collection Reckon is out from Brick Books and can be purchased at your local book-store.

Friday, March 16, 2018

Even Better Than The Real Thing: Authenticity in Poetry

Well, Poetry month is only two weeks away so thought I would break out of my comfort zone and write an essay on authenticity in poetry. It is an exciting time in Canadian poetry, lots of new poets, lots of new voices, but try to get someone to say what makes for a good poem and many just stare at their shoes. 

I asked, “What is authentic in poetry?” on social media and got replies running the gamut of gentle mocking to language mumbling. 

Why is it so hard to nail down, to use an over-worked metaphor, what makes a good poem? I suppose, for one, what is considered particularly good or vital or inspired changes over time. Some poetry like wallpaper doesn’t age well. Theodore Roethke once said the task of an artist is “to enter the mind of his contemporaries” but I would add to that the artist needs to avoid the sheen of contemporariness. Can this be done?

The contemporary poem right now is unconcerned with syllabics or meter or enjambment. It cares little for poetic influence, whether something is Audenesque, or smacks of an older Canadian poet, for it seems bent on convention-slippage, emotion as the source of lyric power, its own subjective experience as default home, but perhaps most of all, unpredictability to escape the familiar and to court the fantastical.

This is a generalization, for sure, but suspicions have grown up among younger poets around traditions and practices, and I think Dean Young is correct when he advocates for a “poetry of recklessness…moving through the calculations of the rational toward irrational detonation.” (12) Perhaps this is indeed the spirit of the age. Where previous generations of poets stood against the absurd, this new one embraces it as a source of power or conflict. 

And why not? When my own generation could not make up our minds about the worth of prose poetry, say, or fought ridiculous narrative versus formal style wars, new poets are moving beyond such navel-gazing. Gone are the days when you could write eloquently about picking black-berries. In a world of rapid-fire newsfeeds, perhaps we need a poetry of hair-trigger associations, less concerned with the rightness of a metaphor, and more messily embodying the way we think in an age of smart phones.

Yet the question persists: “What is authentic in poetry?” I kind of miss the angle-boy gun-slinger poetry critics because at least they argued furiously about such things. 

I wonder if it is a fear of criticism that makes younger poets gravitate towards not obfuscation, a poor word choice, but to the point where there is a loss of control and the poem spins out into strange territories. Larry Levis once said, “a lot of young poets don’t want to be understood because they feel when they’re understood they’re dead. That only comes from the fear of criticism – the vast inhibition they get from reading critics who, because the can understand something, simply decide not to deal with it”(Antioch Review; Summer 90, Vol. 48 Issue 3, p. 284, 16 p).

I hope Levis is wrong as this seems a rather cynical view, but it is something to consider when reviewers talk in platitudes instead of engaging with what a book of poems is attempting to do.

So far, I haven’t answered my own question about authenticity in poetry so I will attempt to put down some thoughts and ideas on the subject here:

1)    First of all, I agree with James Geary “that biological experience forms the basis of metaphorical thinking” (88) and “metaphor grounds even the most abstract ideas in the physiological facts of our bodies”(96).  As much as we sometimes wish, we cannot escape our bodies and minds. Try to escape the first person singular. Good luck to you. Donald Hall has reasoned, “a poem is human inside talking to human inside. It may also be reasonable person talking to reasonable person, but if it is not inside talking to inside, it is not a poem”(142). Hello, hello, anybody home?
2)    Whether you call it intensity of experience or anxiety of being or a conflict of disparate things, subjectivity versus objectivity, past versus present, the inside locked into battle with the outside, no poem is going to exist without it. You cannot wallpaper a room if there is no room.
3)    Hayden Carruth has suggested “The metaphor must arise naturally from the things of the poem”(225).  You cannot shoe-horn surprise into a poem, nor meaning. They come on their own or not.
4)    A poem must enhance our lives in some way – spiritually, intellectually or emotionally - if it is indeed poetry. Call me romantic, or old-fashioned, but I cannot get past this sentiment and I hope I never will.

These are the ideas I keep on the top shelf when I am attempting to write meaningful poems. I think they are immune to the whims of poetic fashion. When I asked people what is authentic in poetry, I guess I wanted people to get passionate. To yell, “The best poems are like magic! Spell-casting! They change us. Or haunt us. If only we are so lucky!” Dave Smith has said, “the poem of “the real thing” will have to embrace the moving targets any man or woman is in time”(251). Perhaps we are all too busy or too distracted to consider such things, but then someone shares a poem on twitter, or you read the first poem from a debut collection, and you find yourself transported. That, above all, is authentic.