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A dramatic life isn't easy, but it makes good poetry. I remember walking the streets of San Francisco with Anselm Berrigan. We were learning to be poets, comparing survival notes and sharing the insights of neophytes who are unified in a struggle to comprehend the mysteries of their chosen paths. I was working through the theoretical tangles of Language Poetry, flexing my intellectual stamina on turgid translations of French prose. Anselm balanced my cerebral conditioning with pages of James Schuyler and Frank O'Hara. We traded poems, sat up late listening to Guided by Voices, Nirvana or Pavement, pints of beer tucked in our palms. | |
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. . . Measure the distance between deadCities and the people in them provide Anselm with diverse thematic possibilities. The surreal composition of his line puts a tense distance between people and places. These poems go in and out of focus, move in close to something, then back away, retreating from the unconscious anxiety of contact into repressed elegies of truly beautiful, and funny, notes to a swollen world. In "A short history of autumn," he writes: I want to hear people read poems. I went to have a drink somewhereThese lines waver between passive hesitancy and an active doing of things. And the tongue, in its "little tomb" reveals not only Anselm's own unsettling position (a poet with a cadaverous tongue) but a greater sense of social impotence. There are these people, these poems, but it's not enough. Where has the life gone, he asks. The pressures of family and friends dominate many of these poems. And Anselm's poetic gift complicates relationships, which at turns are close, frightening, hateful or humorous. There's a struggle in this book to find a way out of the dilemma of one's choices. Anselm steps in and out of himself to test his decisions. "That calm big blue is a tinted lens /," he writes, "between inside and outside methods of heat / . . . every day / the abyss shakes its pom-poms / & smiles stupidly." Besides the surreal flotation of image and line, these poems prove their strength in irony and satire. "Tingling feelings are the best we have / though I'm obliterated at all moments / and reformed. Morning in the country. / Huh? You who love me are the best / we have, & havoc in the evening, stars / in New Jersey." Rarely cute, the sarcasm and cynicism are balanced by the sincere engagement of someone attentive to the psychic reverberations of social entanglement. Certainly, O'Hara and Philip Whalen are two poets who have explored similar themes, but with different tensions and rules of engagement because the scene -- the fucking newly ordered world -- has transformed into a reified mockery of itself. The predatory '90s lust for interminable social communion dominates the spiritual vibration of individual desire. "The world makes sense / if you piss on its / beauty / or / in poems read to me by someone I love." The poet's task, given current conditions of vapid social exegesis, is to turn the world inside out. After all, "durability is not / an asset sucking / in a complicated manner / the tomato soup . . . all I ask / is that you sit there / looking horrified." Sometimes it's difficult to sort irony from conviction, especially when Anselm pens works to fellow poets. Some people should take a break. Have you eveThe parataxis and enjambment provide these poems with speed. Ironic, satiric voices bleed into lines of more pure emotional address. The balances are acrobatic as they dazzle and confound, but also let you drop -- maybe into a net, but hopefully not. I first saw the long poem, "Ghost Town," several years ago. Anselm has transformed it since then into the final section of this book. Trading NoCal light for New York grit, I get the sense that Anselm's poetic gift deepened, revealing to him the initial guiding impulse of these poems. The lines connect now with an angularity and contradiction of imagistic schism. In "Ghost Town" as it's printed in this book, the lines move between accusation and resolution, ironic self-evaluation and personal testament. Understand labor one must washThe calculated instability of statement and image, formally correlated with these broken lines, show the contradictory truth of a wilful personality. It's by strong will this stanza expands without losing control. When Anselm trusts his appetite, the poems show strength and vulnerability. His hunger is exposed even as he hunts for words that confuse or disguise the emotional experience of his perceptions. In "Poem minus thing," he writes: To be serious at an expenseThe rhyming closure of "blow" and "know," "bears" and "hairs" or "mind" and "lines" is disturbed by the verbal violence. A tight circulation of emotion and self-awareness holds the poem in a balance of subtle energy and surprise. Desire and desire denied take turns leading heart through the hard confidence of the head. But line strength and poetic confidence, (the result of broken hearts or stirred desire), deliver passage for memory's arousal of feeling and intention. Usually, the shifting angles of the work create a mosaic rich in contradiction. But "In the paintings of Will," an invocation rises from the poem with soft deliverance of memory resurrected in color and sound: What colors February inhalesThe compression of language anchors the floating sensation created by the painterly descriptions. But the direct narrative presentation here reveals an ear and mind sensitive to the technical problems of presenting poetic constellations. By conveying information with speed, compression and surprise, Anselm can release the ironic social gestures to confront himself suddenly, as in a mirror, blending lyric fragments with a leonine sense of delivery. Integrity & Dramatic Life introduces a poetic and personal novelty to the often chaste circumstances of contemporary writing. An individual chases his ego through the shadows of numbing social excess, and returns to give an account that jangles with lyric charms and wry insight. I've discovered, as years fade, we learn to define more clearly our intentions, or shed the lives we lived, or wished to live, trying instead to shut up and listen to ourselves. Anselm listens and in that perception provides substance for intense appetite and strange desire native to those who struggle with the connective tissues of poetry.
Dale Smith is the editor of Skanky Possum | |
J A C K E T # 8
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