Jacket 19 — October 2002 | # 19 Contents | Homepage | Catalog | |
Travis Nichols reviews
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The guiding aesthetic of Joyelle McSweeney’s The Red Bird follows in the tradition of movies like ‘The Blair Witch Project’ and ‘Alien’ in which the impetus for everything is made more terrifying by implication and innuendo rather than by forthright exposure. The Red Bird relies on a principle of perception rather than terror that leaves thought and its representations, instead of the monster and its markings, just around the corner, fragmented, lurking in the shadows, never seen but always there. ‘The Blair Witch Project,’ of course, would not have been nearly as scary if it had only been a static shot of the woods, just as The Red Bird is not nearly as satisfying as, say, Gillian Connolly’s Lovers in the Used World or anything in the Ashbery catalogue, because the fragmented perceptions don’t imply anything whole behind them, out of reach or otherwise. Floating lines like ‘What is this color vision for?’ seem more like stunted thoughts than full thoughts clipped for aesthetic purposes, and the moments of lyrical beauty stumble from what seem to be needlessly bound feet. The book has no monsters, not because McSweeney seems incapable of providing them, but because she seems to have followed all general workshop dictums, most notably ‘show don’t tell,’ to their logical conclusion, which is a book of showy poetry that doesn’t tell us anything. the hymn-dog whispering
But for every moment of beauty there are at least two gratuitous variations on an imagistic theme (‘the black wool beret is sodden and itches / and pushes my wet bangs down into my eyes / in little points’) or a glib, self-conscious outburst (‘Space Ghost, recitative! / Now, Space Ghost, pas de deux!’), all of which adds to a sensibility that accrues as the book progresses and that, according to Allen Grossman’s introduction, is dedicated to recording contemporary reality as it appears. It follows then that the lapses into flat language and stylistic obfuscation merely reflect our often flat and alienating world. Somehow, this defense never makes up for a book’s lack of lyricism or personality, but it is a noble effort. And because we live in a world of undercutting and contradictory presentation where bright surfaces butt each other over decayed substance, the mayor of New York says he wants Sharon Stone to sit on his face, and Bono dictates foreign policy, the type of high/low culture oscillation thrust forth in ‘Revelations/Celebrity Cribs’ midway through The Red Bird would seem an appropriate engagement with our fucked phenomenal world. And yes, ‘Cribs’ is in the context and tradition of engaged ‘realist’ poetry such as Lisa Jarnot’s Some Other Kind of Mission or even Ashbery’s ‘Europe,’ but McSweeney’s blending of the good book and MTV’s tour of pop music star houses seems weirdly joyless in comparison. It’s unfortunate then that The Red Bird relies so much on the supposed fertility of such turns of voice, because even when they do what they can — as in ‘Roman’ when the speaker says, ‘on the prayers of the commerce secretary, / on the freight train hit the freight train / que feraie-je sans Eurydice no idea’ — they’re not quite sturdy enough to prop up a poetic voice. |
Jacket 19 — October 2002
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