Author: admin

I’m bouncing across the Scottish heath in a rented Morris Minor
                    and listening to an interview with Rat Scabies, drummer
of the first punk band, The Damned, and Mr. Scabies,
          who’s probably 50 or so and living comfortably on royalties,
is as recalcitrant as ever, as full of despair and self-loathing,

but the interviewer won’t have it, and he keeps calling him “Rattie,”
                    saying, “Ah, Rattie, it’s all a bit of a put-on, isn’t it?”
and “Ah, you’re just pulling the old leg now, aren’t you, Rattie?”
          to which Mr. Scabies keeps saying things like
“We’re fooked, ya daft prat. Oh, yeah, absolutely – fooked!”

Funny old Rattie – he believed in nothing, which is something.
                    If it weren’t for summat, there’d be naught, as they say
in that part of the world. I wonder if his dad wasn’t a bit of a bastard,
          didn’t drink himself to death, say, as opposed to a dad like mine,
who, though also dead now, was as nice as he could be when he was alive.

A month before, I’d been in Florence and walked by the casa di cura where
                    my son Will was born 27 years ago, though it’s not a hospital
now but a home for the old nuns of Le Suore Minime del Sacra Cuore
          who helped to deliver and bathe and care for him when he was just
a few minutes old, and when I look over the gate, I see three

of these holy sisters sitting in the garden there, and I wave at them,
                    and they wave back, and I wonder if they were on duty
when Will was born, these women who have had no sex at all,
          probably not even very much candy, yet who believe in something
that may be nothing, after all, though I love them for giving me my boy.

They’re dozing and talking, these mystical brides of Christ,
                    and thinking about their Husband, and it looks to me
as though they’re having their version of the sacra conversazione,
          a favorite subject of Renaissance artists in which people who care
for one another are painted chatting together about noble things,

and I’m wondering if, as I walk by later when the shadows are long,
                    their white faces will be like stars against their black habits,
the three of them a constellation about to rise into the vault
          that arches over Tuscany, the fires there now twinkling,
now steadfast in the chambered heart of the sky.

Notes on the Poem
David Kirby's poetry - not to mention the way in which he presents it in readings - is noted for its accessible and even conversational tone. If you heard him read this poem before seeing it on the page, would you be surprised by the seemingly contradictory form of the poem?

The consistent, rather formal structure of "The Little Sisters of the Sacred Heart" on the page (or screen here - although screen layouts of poetry are a story unto themselves) seems to contradict Kirby's charming, rambling storytelling. Or is it the other way around? That is, the seemingly unstructured but not unpleasant unfolding of the narrative, or of two seemingly unrelated stories, seems to tweak the formality of how it's all laid out on the page.

Then again, the ordered spaciousness and conscientious spacing of the poem's layout makes clearer any number of parallel structures and commonalities between the two ostensibly diametrically opposed stories, and ends up making them startlingly resonant as they're set side by side. Rat Scabies (who "believed in nothing, which is something") was probably in his raucous punk rock heyday at the same time that David Kirby's infant son was being carefully and lovingly attended to by the holy sisters ("who believe in something / that may be nothing"). Years later, possibly those same holy sisters are peacefully engaging in holy and sacred conversation, while Mr. Scabies is ranting with despair that "we're fooked". What else does David Kirby say about the bitter punk rocker and the gentle, steadfast nuns by observing them both in this fashion? What does David Kirby suggest about himself, as the narrator and captivated listener and observer of both Mr. Scabies and the Little Sisters of Sacred Heart?

Joy unmixed with sorrow
Is like a fountain turned off at night.

Notes on the Poem
Suzanne Buffam is careful to title a goodly portion of her collection The Irrationalist as "Little Commentaries" instead of, say, "Wee Aphorisms" or "Tiny Truisms". As befits the delightfully rueful tone of the entire collection, Buffam is self-effacing about her brief, sometimes pointed, sometimes whimsical blank verse observations. They're not aphorisms, concise statements capturing agreed-upon principles. Nor are they necessarily truisms, statements of self-evident truths so obvious they almost don't merit comment. Calling these charming snippets "commentaries", though, does suggest a level of assessment, versus straight, ostensibly unbiased observation. What exactly is Buffam contemplating in "On Joy" then?

Because On Joy is so succinct, it allows you to concentrate on and weigh every single word. Because you know Buffam has classified it as a commentary, you find yourself going over and over these two lines, searching for and trying to understand what is possibly being judged or opened for debate. Is joy unmixed with sorrow then pure joy, or just joy mixed with ... other elements? Let's assume it's pure joy. Pure joy - a good thing - is like a fountain - another good thing, especially when it's operating and splashing and sparkling ... but when the fountain is not operating at night, is that no longer a good thing? So, pure joy is ... something not so good? Or does that mean that joy mixed with sorrow, or mixed with other things, is like a fountain turned on during the day, in the clear light, splashing and sparkling? Or does it mean that true, pure joy is what we enjoy after the light has faded and the fountain - however lively and musical and refreshing, but maybe also kind of noisy and messy - has been shut off and we can revel in the silence that follows?

For a little commentary, "On Joy" offers much to ponder.

A cold and stormy morning
   I sit in Ursula’s place
and fancy something spicy
   served with the usual grace

by one of her bright workforce
   who know us from before,
a nice girl from Tbilisi,
   Penang or Baltimore.

Some red basil linguine
   would surely hit the spot,
something light and shiny,
   mint-yoghurty and hot;

a frosty but delightful
   pistachio ice-cream
and some strong herbal
   infusion wreathed in steam.

Once a tomato sandwich
   and a pint of stout would do
but them days are over.
   I want to have a go

at some amusing fusion
   Thai and Italian both,
a dish of squid and pine-nuts
   simmered in lemon broth,

and catch the atmospherics,
   the happy lunchtime crowd,
as the cold hand gets warmer
   and conversation loud.

Boats strain at sea, alas,
   gales rattle the slates
while inside at Ursula’s
   we bow to our warm plates.

Notes on the Poem
Derek Mahon's At Ursula draws you in swiftly from "a cold and stormy morning" to a haven of warmth and sensory delights. Part of Homage to Gaia, a nine-poem sequence at the heart of his collection Life On Earth, the poem is clearly reveling in creature comforts.

Those delicious sensations spill out in the tumble of succinct, rhythmic lines that comprise the poem. You can feel the radiated literal warmth of the room and the figurative glow of the gracious, friendly greeters and servers in Ursula's place. And oh, isn't the menu rolled out with a riot of mouthwatering tastes and colours and scents, from "red basil linguine" to "mint-yoghurty and hot" to "frosty but delightful pistachio" to "strong herbal infusion wreathed in steam"? Your tastebuds are devouring this poem as much as your eyes are leaping over the lines. Combined with the joys of a jaunty rhyme scheme, the whole occasion of being at Ursula's fine establishment is lent an air of celebration of everything toothsome and companionable. Even the increasing hubbub in the room - something that might annoy at another time - adds to the cozy pleasures.

But in the midst of the lunchtime festivities, these lines strike a slightly dissonant tone:

Once a tomato sandwich
   and a pint of stout would do
but them days are over.

Has the narrator or has Ursula changed and become pretentious in their culinary choices since their more down to earth days of simpler, local fare? Is the narrator making light of one or both of them with his reference to "amusing fusion", suggesting they've become a tad ridiculous, maybe even wasteful with combinations of Thai and Italian influences, of squid and pine-nuts and lemon broth? But then that suggestion, and the larger world with its storms and troubles, is conveniently shut out in the clatter of dishes and conversation ...

In his blackest suit
the father carries the coffin

It is light as a box of Kleenex
He carries it in one hand

It is white and gold
A jewel box

Their baby is in it

In the unconscionable weather
the father sweats and weeps

The mother leans
on the arms of two women friends

By the sacred light of the church
they are pale as gristle

The priests talk Latin
change their elaborate clothes

their mitres, copes
their stoles embroidered by nuns

Impervious to grief
their sole intention

is the intricate ritual
of returning a soul to God

this sinless homunculus
this tiny seed

Notes on the Poem
"A line is a subdivision of a poem, specifically a group of words arranged into a row that ends for a reason other than the right-hand margin. This reason could be that the lines are arranged to have a certain number of syllables, a certain number of stresses, or of metrical feet; it could be that they are arranged so that they rhyme, whether they be of equal length or not. But it is important to remember that the poet has chosen to make the line a certain length, or to make the line-break at a certain point." The Poetry Archive (www.poetryarchive.org) thus explains the structural foundation of all poems. With this in mind, what effects does P.K. Page achieve with the choices she's clearly made regarding the lines in Funeral Mass?

The striking brevity of each line in this poem drives home that something very small is being considered. The one line that stands completely alone says it most nakedly, starkly, plaintively.

That Page uses few words emphasizes that more words are not possible in the face of such grief - the loss of a very young child - and more words are not necessary. The few words Page chooses carefully, concisely are that much stronger because they stand nearly alone in each short line. The father's suit, appropriate for the very sad occasion, is not just black, but "blackest". That stands in sharp contrast to the "white and gold" box that he bears.

Page takes simple, monosyllabic words served up in the poem's short lines to capture how the parents are feeling. Those few words verge on blunt - "sweats" and "weeps" and "leans" - but they illustrate plainly and poignantly the father and the mother's stunned, abject grief.

In contrast, the same short lines with which the poem continues seem freighted as Page turns her eyes to those conducting the funeral ceremony. It seems as if those same short lines will break under the ponderous weight of the adjectives and verbs associated with the priests: "elaborate", "embroidered", "impervious" and "intricate".

In the last couplet, Page brings together with succinct, telling power the cold, ornate formality of the funeral observance in contrast to the simple, unalloyed sorrow of the parents.

this sinless homunculus
this tiny seed

Stumped Sky (Questions of Missing Weather and Birds)

4

Everything fades to …

Whiteout. Hypnotic and nose-close to hypothermia.
Blizzard-blinding (snow like something out of Fargo).
Winter a mile-high silver screen

tarnished to monotone. Unrelenting;
an eight-months’ sustained
sub-zero note.

—

Look down,
look down,
look waaay down …

It’s as if you were never here (you start to believe this).
Walk the same footprints every day
and every day they disappear — drowning
in the whiteness of it all, hyper-invisibly visible;
white trudging white.

Notes on the Poem
Poetry can be evocative in many ways. Sometimes poetry's power is wielded in ways not entirely - or at all - pleasurable or satisfying. Have you ever been left feeling unsettled or uncomfortable at the end of a poem ... but still appreciative that the poet can orchestrate words in such a way that they've achieved that effect?

The judges commented in the citation to Sylvia Legris' 2006 Canadian Griffin Poetry Prize-winning Nerve Squall that her "high-octane poems are powered by 'atmospheric overload'." Overload, be it meteorological or sensory, can spawn arresting and rapturous states. If the overload continues to build, it can rapidly tip into any number of forms of physical or mental distress, for an environment or an individual. In this poem, Legris maintains a razor thin line between euphoria and senses of discomfort and dread, and the effect is enthralling.

Note the ominous hints of something not quite right: fading, tarnishing, monotone, trudging. Note the outright unnerving, unpleasant, painful sensations and states: whiteout, hypothermia, blinding, drowning. But wait a moment. There are also notes of whimsy, such as the reference to Fargo, a movie noteworthy for its dark humour played against a blazing white, snowy backdrop. The suggestion to "look waaay down" suggests - at least for Canadians of a certain age - a wacky reversal of the friendly exhortation of a childhood pal, the Friendly Giant. The whimsy is perhaps perversely juxtaposed with the vaguely threatening. 

But wait just another moment. When you look waaay down, is it possible you'll attempt that bungee jump into the unknown, rather than "walk[ing] the same footprints every day"? Conversely, is Legris just despairing that she is treading that same path every day and is disappearing into an irreversible invisibility? In just a few stark stanzas, she manages to unsettle in the most exhilarating fashion.

Notes on the Poem
Is contemplation of the four elements a classic poetic conceit, or does it verge on cliche as poetic inspiration and subject matter? With a light but not insubstantial touch, Elaine Equi takes a fresh approach to the mystique of fire, air, earth and water.

Is poetry too casual or not refined enough when it's couched in a conversational tone and contemporary idiom? Equi doesn't eschew the cerebral or dumb down the discussion just because her language is simple and plainspoken and her format is ubiquitous, the Q&A used in everything nowadays from corporate overviews to Hollywood interviews where you know the interviewer and the star never actually meet.

Does the concept of the poet interviewing herself draw the reader closer, hold the reader at arm's length, or is it just too cute by half? Although it perhaps smacks a bit of too smooth stand-up comedy, Equi uses the technique to disarming, even endearing effect.

Did you, the reader, notice that these notes are Q's in a Q&A about a poem in a Q&A format? Will you provide your answers in the comments below?

Sprawl is the quality
of the man who cut down his Rolls-Royce
into a farm utility truck, and sprawl
is what the company lacked when it made repeated efforts
to buy the vehicle back and repair its image.

Sprawl is doing your farming by aeroplane, roughly,
or driving a hitchhiker that extra hundred miles home.
It is the rococo of being your own still centre.
It is never lighting cigars with ten-dollar notes:
that’s idiot ostentation and murder of starving people.
Nor can it be bought with the ash of million-dollar deeds.

Sprawl lengthens the legs; it trains greyhounds on liver and beer.
Sprawl almost never says Why not? with palms comically raised
nor can it be dressed for, not even in running shoes worn
with mink and a nose ring. THat is Society. That’s Style.
Sprawl is more like the thirteenth banana in a dozen
or anyway the fourteenth.

Sprawl is Hank Stamper in Never Give an Inch
bisecting an obstructive official’s desk with a chainsaw.
Not harming the official. Sprawl is never brutal
though it’s often intransigent. Sprawl is never Simon de Montfort
at a town-storming: Kill them all! God will know his own.
Knowing the man’s name this was said to might be sprawl.

Sprawl occurs in art. THe fifteenth to twenty-first
lines in a sonnet, for example. And in certain paintings;
I have sprawl enough to have forgotten which paintings.
Turner’s glorious Burning of the Houses of Parliament
comes to mind, a doubling bannered triumph of sprawl –
except, he didn’t fire them.

Sprawl gets up the nose of many kinds of people
(every kind that comes in kinds) whose futures don’t include it.
Some decry it as criminal presumption, silken-robed Pope Alexander
dividing the new world between Spain and Portugal.
If he smiled in petto afterwards, perhaps the thing did have sprawl.

Sprawl is really classless, though. It’s John Christopher Frederick Murray
asleep in his neighbours’ best bed in spurs and oilskins
but not having thrown up;
sprawl is never Calum who, drunk, along the hallways of our house,
reinvented the Festoon. Rather
it’s Beatrice Miles going twelve hundred ditto in a taxi,
No Lewd Advances, No Hitting Animals, No Speeding,
on the proceeds of her two-bob-a-sonnet Shakespeare readings.
An image of my country. And would that it were more so.

No, sprawl is full-gloss murals on a council-house wall.
Sprawl leans on things. It is loose-limbed in its mind.
Reprimanded and dismissed
it listens with a grin and one boot up on the rail
of possibility. It may have to leave the Earth.
Being roughly Christian, it scratches the other cheek
and thinks it unlikely. Though people have been shot for sprawl.

Notes on the Poem
Those objects, landscapes and behaviours that Les Murray suggests exemplify the quality of sprawl might seem disarmingly expansive and deceptively languid at first, such as:

"... doing your farming by aeroplane, roughly,
or driving a hitchhiker that extra hundred miles home."

While sprawl seems synonymous with "easygoing" and "generous", Murray lets us know in good order that it can be inspired to act at the first hint of bureaucratic indifference or injustice, as the unharmed but likely nervous official with the desk halved by a chainsaw learned quickly enough. Murray reassures us (and we can hear it expressed with a sly drawl):

"Sprawl is never brutal
though it's often intransigent."

Murray vividly incorporates the figure of Beatrice Miles - described in the Australian Dictionary of Biography as a "Bohemian rebel ... notable for her outrageous, disruptive conduct in public places, and her outspoken criticism of political and social authorities" - to embody sprawl's colourful spirit.

Is there an air of menace to "The Quality of Sprawl"? The last line would suggest that the threat is more to those who insouciantly wield sprawl than to those who dismiss, disregard or actively oppose it. More likely, while sprawl "may have to leave the Earth", one suspects it will still be looking on with "one boot up on the rail of possibility", quietly but unflinchingly gazing at the arbitrary, the hypocritical and the cruel.

I don’t want to see the city through
myself anymore. I imagine an open body
stuck with pins and flags ready
for labelling. The city is a city of constant
sidewalk repairs and household renovations.
If I could lay my hands on the interior walls
I would know enough to miss myself.
The city is a city of streets named
after saints and explorers. On the dock
I am cold. I imagine myself
at an art gallery looking at installations
and not pretending there can be
any sort of understanding.
But somewhere the water
may meet the unseen shore
and someone like you believes
it happens. There
is a line where they touch.
I would like to speak
to that line and have it speak
to me in return.

Notes on the Poem
The poems of The Certainty Dream by Kate Hall all have that clear-eyed, precise and utterly wacky conviction about what is right according to the opaque, hilarious and sometimes terrifying logic of dreams. This conviction, which could be the certainty of the collection's title, permeates almost every poem in this collection, and "Dream in Which I Am Separated from Myself" is no exception.

"I don't want to see the city through
myself anymore."

You could interpret the opening line of this poem in a pretty straightforward fashion: the speaker doesn't want to experience the city through her own senses and perceptions, but maybe through someone else's. But wait. Maybe the speaker's body had become transparent, and the city was literally visible through it - and somehow, this is making perfect sense in the context of a dream, which often juxtaposes the mundane with the bizarre, but treats the bizarre as the mundane. Then this follows:

"I imagine an open body
stuck with pins and flags ready
for labelling."

That line between the water and the "unseen shore" can mean the separation, or the bringing together, of many things. Sometimes, it's only in a dream that the connection is made, and you get to speak to and understand that line. Kate Hall captures here and throughout The Certainty Dream the truths that are driven home to us through the whimsy and sudden clarity of the dream state.