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Geoff Ward reviews
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BORN IN 1920 in North Carolina, Barbara Guest spent her childhood in Florida and California, graduating from Berkeley before moving to New York. It was in the 1960s in New York City that she made a name as a poet, connecting not only with the New York School writers Frank O'Hara, John Ashbery and James Schuyler, but also the painters of the Abstract Expressionist movement, whose replacement of representation by gesture would (along with other painterly attributes) influence her poetry. | |
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THE BALANCE of forces that characterise her work are well displayed in this poem from Fair Realism, 'Heavy Violets': Heavy violets there is no wayThe delayed echo and half-rhyme are typical of Guest's poetry, and can be heard working here not just at the level of the syllable or word, but in rhyming kinds of linguistic usage, as in the equally doubled-edged-by-desire 'no way' and 'you wish'. Allied to this is the mysterious composure, working simultaneously to cement connection while insisting at times alarmingly on the separateness of things. Does the form of the woman turning on the sofa resemble a white tooth glimpsed in the 'velvet' of a mouth; or is the 'tooth slipping' literally that, and if so, in what sense, and are we or she to be alarmed or aroused or amused? 'Half in half out' of hovering possibilities, the poem restates the aesthetic as the only medium in which these competing possibilities can hold. The grace, the composure, the sureness of touch are Guest's particular skills - but of course, by their very unmuddied qualities (and 'Heavy Violets' is about as heavy as it gets) they make a very different poem from those of O'Hara or Schuyler. There is nothing as teasing as 'Heavy Violets' in If So, Tell Me and therefore in a sense, nothing so substantial. But then with Barbara Guest lightness of touch can be peculiarly central. This seems to be acknowledged in the elegant production with its (no small point, this) super-white page. Words are flicked and feathered calligraphically, prompting the eye and ear to negotiate with care the white silences, which do perhaps tease, around the words: A starry adultnessElsewhere white space bears down on but ultimately heightens the effect of rhyme and delayed alliteration: A battalionIt has to be asked whether 'real life' is made or marred to Guest by 'emotion' and 'noise', and whether all that is what is 'Outside of This', to be alluded to but withdrawn from with relief, into the chiming of rhyme against blest silence. And if so, is that an evasion, as it's held to be when any aestheticism comes under attack, or could it be a defence - even the beginnings of a politics - as can be proposed for a tradition stretching from Swinburne to Veronica Forrest-Thomson? While Guest's poem make sense only rarely, they cohere quite insistently. Words are made to behave in each other's company as if melodic or other sound-relations were the basis of their function, a basis from which narrative or allusion to a conjectural elsewhere outside the poem can be mounted, if you insist, but only by going against those words' happiest condition and best use. The posture is not so much evasive as deliberately perverse, and I'm reminded of a remark by Leo Bersani to the effect that whereas the musical qualities of Symbolist poetry resemble the songs and rhymes of childhood, hence a natural use of language, it takes a prolonged and questionable feat of linguistic deformation to produce something like Middlemarch. And of course there is more than one tradition of aestheticism, mediated inter alia by cultural geography and the passing of time. The bloodshot lyricism of the broken dandy was a part of Byron's repertoire, buffed up to a peak of professional tiredness by the Rhymers' Club take on Baudelaire and Verlaine, passed on to American poets from George Sterling to TS Eliot (and hence to Ashbery, when he feels like it) but always as a male, and not intrinsically as an American disposition. Guest's aesthetic lyricism is more profoundly American in its aspiration, contested by an equally rooted skepticism but never lost, to view and offer the world as if seen for the first time. This puts the spring in the step of new poems such as 'The Luminous', with its repeated 'yes' affirming 'the surprise of white stars', and the 'bright rewards for preparing to strut forth', in boots that 'move amazingly on the dried rich clay': He swings his racket after it the luminousThis emphasis on an Edenic 'first grasping', available could they but see it (and this is the poem's use and function) to ancients condemned to, or is it blessed once more with a need to learn the world, knows that it is questionable, knows that it is 'perched' but prone to 'falling', and precisely in part because of all that still risks an aspiration to innocence. There are analogies not only in American painting but in music from Ives to Crumb, and in Ornette Coleman's music of primary colours, the plastic alto preferred, like Don Cherry's pocket trumpet, for its ability to blow light bubbles of sound. That said, while nothing in If So, Tell Me opts for a dark opposite to this reaching for the luminous, part of the dialectic of knowledge for a poetry of aestheticism has to be self-awareness, and this latest poetry of Barbara Guest's works best when a consciousness of these issues and the ratios of perversity is built into, rather than tacitly assumed by, the arrangement of words in their sense-making as well as musical capacity. The first piece in the book, 'Valorous Vine', offers as its first section a lyric poem on which the second section then reflects in prose. This second section runs as follows: It can be seen she encouraged separation of flower from the page, that she wished an absence to be encouraged. She drew from herself a technique that offered life to the flower, but demanded the flower remain absent. The flower, as a subject, is not permitted to shadow the page. Its perfume is strong and that perfume may overwhelm the sensibility that strengthens the page and desires to initiate the absence of the flower. It may be that absence is the plot of the poem. A scent remains of the poem. It is the flower's apparition that desires to remain on the page, even to haunt the room in which the poem was created.The emphasis on flowers, the representation of perfume as a threat that might 'overwhelm the sensibility' and the meditation on the phenomenology of presence and absence all invoke, unashamedly, a tradition of aestheticism and the critiques it generates. Yet the poem and its enactment of reflection are true to, and do not evade, what the real life of perception feels like. As I was typing out the prose quotation above, the phone rang on another floor of the house. Running downstairs in order to get there in time, I had a sudden sense of the phone missing one ring before carrying on, as an internal ratio in my own mind/ body accelerated and briefly overtook the electronic pulse. A space opened up which could be termed unreal, unheard, not-there, but which now exists with all the reality of a flower or a chair in my memory, and which I can retrieve in prose, though recall selects, shifts and re-writes the experience. Is this, or a dream I had last night, somehow less real or less likely to shape my decisions than eating or looking out of the window? Guest's poetry does something less modest and less purely musical than it would seem at first to be doing by depicting and drawing the mind to reflect on these orders of experience. It isn't all abstract, by any means. A 'fair realism' is still at work. | |
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