Jacket 19 — October 2002 | # 19 Contents | Homepage | Catalog | |
Ethan Paquin reviews
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There is an oeuvre, these books included, in which poems are something like vapor — the ghostly substance that is both of here and elsewhere, limboed between corporeality and ephemerality, its lingering we surmise either a product of its sadness or resolution to haunt us, eventually burned away by sun but leaving behind a strange nostalgia on our skin and in our minds. Indeed, the experience of reading Ralph Angel’s Twice Removed is somewhat strange and similarly fleeting; at 49 pages’ worth of poems, it has to be one of the sparsest poetry books published in some time. Angel’s third collection may provide only a brief encounter, however, but he just might tell us more about frailty and displacement and the utter magicality of existence — leaving us contemplative and perhaps even entranced — than some of his peers’ tomes — heaping volumes whose lengths bury any worthwhile discoveries — ever could. Angel is economical and goes for the marrow; we know we’re off and running, set to dowse the terrain of human restlessness and transience (‘No place to get to. No place to leave from’) when his first poem, the book’s namesake, greets us: Not even sleep (though I’m ashamed of that too).
What question does the first line answer? ‘What will stop your search?’ or ‘What will slow down your passion?’ Whatever the question, we can believe Angel and in him sense an urgency. Thus, we embark with him — but ‘Where?’ as the first word of the book’s second poem asks. Here is the sheer motion of Twice Removed already epitomized, and the sense that we will likely encounter some harrowing landscapes in the coming pages given the disorientation and fascinated irritation of the poet: Intense and
Those who have previously remarked on this book have made copious note of Angel’s sense of place (Los Angeles, imbued with a feel sometimes classical, sometimes noir, sometimes Eastern European) and history (the personal and collective past redefined for a here-and-now as in his ‘Decalogue,’ a 10-section poem which owes nothing to Moses or ‘Thou shalt not. . .’, but rather to a contemporary catalogue — suicide, abortion, murder, virginity, and child abuse), and rightly so. In Angel’s diction, prosody, calmness of demeanor, and original imagery, there is Reverdy, Rilke, Popa, even Salamun. Interweaving throughout Twice Removed is existential seriousness (‘Incredible, the silence, / this flurry of notes that reflects it’), irresolution (‘We wished // for the impossible. / We did not know we were impossible’) and wonderment (‘along the balustrades of all the gardens, // one breath is pure desire’), moments that alternately cast the speaker in the light of a rootless flaneur, wandering philosopher, or saddened painter. A Fantasy, with the red horse red
Burkard’s universe here is earthy and airy, full of a language as everyday and common as stones, ‘a respectful overdose of fire and silence’ (‘He Forged’). But, as in Angel’s work, ordinariness — the momentary sense we have our bearings — is misleading. There is most always a general abstractness that informs Burkard’s visions, rather than a simplicity: — I don’t know how else
‘[This] is as autobiographical as I make it,’ the poet tells us in the previous stanza, and he’s correct — the self dissolves in most of Agency’s poems, leaving a spirit to float about the clouds of unknowing, via negativa: I take wild stabs at guessing and someone might
Elsewhere: This is true: I have never been home.
Little wonder, reading passages like these, that Burkard counts Tomas Tranströmer as a major influence; the Swedish poet is also simultaneously haunted, inspired, and even prodded by place/displacement, time/frozen time. As Tranströmer said in a 1990 interview in Painted Bride Quarterly, ‘That probably is the way inspiration works for me — the feeling of being in two places at the same time. . .or of being aware that you are in a place that seems very close but that actually everything is open.’ |
Jacket 19 — October 2002
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