Ethershop

Marie Howe’s collection, What the Living Do, uses narrative poetry to divulge the pain and growth and joys of childhood. Her poems are informed by the death of her brother and she navigates loss and grief to better understand how the living should use their time, their life, and learn to grow.

Howe’s language is stark and clear while remaining lyrical. In one of her less narrative poems, “The Copper Beech,” Howe writes of how nice it would be to be on the outside of something.

Immense, entirely itself,
it wore that yard like a dress,

with limbs low enough for me to enter it
and climb the crooked ladder to where

I could lean against the trunk and practice being alone.

One day, I heard the sound before I saw it, rain fell
darkening the sidewalk.

Sitting close to the center, not very high in the branches,
I heard it hitting the high leaves, and I was happy,

watching it happen without it happening to me.

This poem is informed by previous poems of rape by the narrator’s fathers and the harassment suffered at the hands of young boys. Howe’s language is consistently clear throughout the collection and this poem is no exception. This is the perfect collection for anyone who enjoys a narrative collection that reads through with the pace of a novel.

The penultimate poem in the collection is the title poem, “What the Living Do” and was written in response to the death of her brother and she says, “I am living, I am remembering you.” That is the blessing and the burden of the living.

-Michelle Mergner

Louise Gluck’s collection contains wonderful naturalistic imagery that portrays gardens, flowers (surprise), and biblical undertones. This is a very tight-knit volume. Each of the poems seems to be in intimate conversation with the others around it. Thematically, the poems are concerned with the cyclical pattern of love gained and lost, the movement of the seasons, and the idea of rebirth. To further strengthen her thematic message, Gluck repeats many of the titles throughout the book. For example the title “vespers” is used nine times, and “matins” is used six. I wasn’t sure what vespers were, but after looking it up, I found that they are evening prayers said at many Orthodox Christian churches. This fits not only with the temporal nature of the poems as moving through the seasons of love and life, but it also coincides with the Christian idea of “rebirth” (i.e. Christ being raised from the dead).

Another intriguing thing Gluck is playing with is voice. She consistently uses first person “I” and is almost always addressing an object, (either “you” or the biblical figures Noah and john, or a young couple). I think Gluck is suggesting that this voice is not necessarily a “personal” voice, in the traditional sense, but rather a sort of Whitmanic voice that’s larger than just the poet and his/her sense of “self,”; instead, it represents a kind of mystical and pantheistic feeling about life. But I could be misreading into it. It’s hard to tell. Despite this ambiguity though, Gluck’s beautiful imagery make this a collection worth checking out.

–Will Thompson

Philip Levine’s News of the World was one of the books Professor Emerson recommended to the class, and I’m incredibly glad that I raised my hand to get it. Each of his poems have a structured narrative with meaning, and it is evident that each has a reason for being written.

To my happy surprise, the third of the four sections of the collections focuses on prose poems. The beauty of a long lined prosed poem, though it may look like a paragraph (and seems to be typed as one), is that it allows for the poet to include a more traditional narrative the way a book would be read, but with the grace of the language of a poem. In my own writing the lines sometimes get too long because there are so many ideas that I want to explain, and seeing poetry-prose in Levine’s collection showed me how that particular style could be incorporated to work with other pieces I have done for class.

One of my favorite poems in the collection was the opening poem, Our Valley.

“We don’t see the ocean, not ever, but in July and August
when the worst heat seems to rise from the hard clay
of this valley, you could be walking through a fig orchard
when suddenly the wind cools and for a moment
you get a whiff of salt, and in that moment you can almost
believe something is waiting beyond the Pacheco Pass,
something massive, irrational, and so powerful even
the mountains that rise east of here have no word for it.

You probably think I’m nuts saying the mountains
have no word for ocean, but if you live here
you begin to believe they know everything.
They maintain that huge silence we think of as divine,
a silence that grows in autumn when snow falls
slowly between the pines and the wind dies
to less than a whisper and you can barely catch
your breath because you’re thrilled and terrified.

You have to remember this isn’t your land.
It belongs to no one, like the sea you once lived beside
and thought was yours. Remember the small boats
that bobbed out as the waves rode in, and the men
who carved a living from it only to find themselves
carved down to nothing. Now you say this is home,
so go ahead, worship the mountains as they dissolve in dust,
wait on the wind, catch a scent of salt, call it our life.”

This poem is not only beautiful but also reminiscent on the advice we were given at the beginning of the semester in one of our books for class- to write what we know. Levine shows, not tells us about his homeland, but he also distances himself, acknowledging that we don’t actually own the land we say is “ours”, that it instead belongs to no one. Out of all of the poems in the collection, I agree with the placement of this poem at the start of the collection.

In need for inspiration, Levine’s collection helped me break through my writer’s block and find comfort in my own writing style, which in regard to line length, is much like his own. I would recommend this book to anyone looking for inspiration in style.

- Rachel Berenbaum

In Paul Roche’s somewhat outdated translation of The Love Songs of Sappho, there is still something to be redeemed. Ignoring the introduction (rife with a muted anti-homosexual mindset and a possible sexism too)[1], one finds oneself in the midst of an interesting collection of Sappho’s poetry. As Roche says, “I have arranged my Sappho in six different ‘books’ roughly following the line of her moods” for the reason that “we have no idea what Sappho’s own arrangement was and that a division of books according to meter carries no guarantee of being less arbitrary” (xxii). He claims that his method “produces a certain unity and movement” out of the fragments, and, in that, he is not mistaken (xxii). I will be reviewing this work primarily in the light of Roche’s organization and judge it based on its flow as well, though, of course, the general appeal of the poetry is implicit in a review anyhow.

Roche’s method worked well for the most part, and effectively transformed the poems of the six books into six lyric sequences. From Book I, “Overtures of Loving,” we are to receive Sappho’s first encounters with Love and the beginnings of her acquaintance with such a thing. From her initial whimsical love to the quiet agony of her thoughts later, it is like watching the great tide carry a sleeping child out to its death. Sometimes it is her simple honesty, base and unrefined that hits hardest: “The ones I have helped,” she says, “hurt me most” (“12” 37)[2]. At other moments we see the complicated voice of one whose “desperate heart” begs mercy from that which pleases most, one who wants no more of “undying Aphrodite,” yet loves her as one condemned to it “… Oh, come again now: / Let me go loose form this merciless craving. / Do what I long to have done” (“Call to Aphrodite” 40).

Roche’s collections in the other books are just as appropriate, indicating Sappho’s maturation and development as a lover throughout. In Book III, “Converse,” we find such simple and poignant poems as “Images I Remember”: “Once I saw a very gentle / very little / girl picking flowers,” spoken as though such things can only exist in memory untouched and safe (“Images I Remember” 71). Indeed, Roche’s ordering culminates in Book VI, “Memory and Valediction,” wherein we see what are meant to be Sappho’s final message to her readers.

Death is an evil:

The gods think so

Or would have died—

O long ago!

(“Believe Me” 135)

These thoughts range from contemplations of death, such as in “Believe Me,” to simple, one line poems, dripping with the tired pain of a lifetime of love: “So long as you wish it” (“161” 135).

It is through Roche’s often interesting mini-dramas that he plays out through his books that we can glean some side of Sappho original to this collection. I found it worth looking into, if for no other reason than to study how the translation and conglomeration of fragments of poetry can produce something meaningful to a modern reader.

- Everett Bartlett

Manning’s book of visions sat on my desk for a month or so while I waited for the deadline for the blog drew near.  Little did I know that I was only delaying reading a truly visionary poet who seems to be attempting to deconstruct poetic forms and content.  What made Manning’s poetry really influential to me was how it related to my realizations about “non-fiction” as a non creative literature.  In professor Rafferty’s class we read a memoir called “Another Bullshit Night In Suck City” and what made this book so revolutionary to me was how the author incorporated creative form into what is traditionally a genre of dull lists of facts and dates devoid of creative value.  In Manning’s poetry I feel like the same idea about how the constructs of what creates poetic form are challenged and Manning does an amazing job of showing me how poetry can integrate other forms of literature, especially texts that we often don’t think of as “literature”.  Two poems in particular represent exactly what I’m talking about, the first, is “Envoy”, where Manning breaks several stanzas into what sound like Personals from the newspaper.  The second is “Proof” where Manning uses the form of the Mathematical Proof to “prove the existence of hell”.  What I think is important about Manning’s style is the way he finds different and unique ways of representation.  Manning is finding new ways to find poetic truth.  If T S Eliot was right, and the talent is in knowledge of the tradition speaking through the new voice of a generation, than Manning is on the right track with this new kind of poetry(I’m assuming this is new because I’ve never seen anything like it).  I recommend this to anyone who wants to expand their understanding of what “poetic form” means so they can find different ways to represent themselves and their own poetic truths.

I was told I should read Corrinne Clegg Hales’ “To Make It Right” and I’m glad I did.  Her poetry is something you can’t really expect.  What I mean by this is, If I tell you that it is a raw piece of work, you will not truly understand what I mean until you pick up the book.  It a strong and raw book that is easy enough anyone can read and understand it.  She doesn’t hide anything or try to trick you, everything is right out in the open.  Her book is broken into four sections, What actually happens, some place to go, Massacre and Trajectory.  For myself, I really enjoyed some place to go but they are all fantastic.  If you want a great read and to get in touch with emotions you didn’t know you had, this is a great way to do it.  She writes about things you wouldn’t honestly think of or at least writing about.    I hope you take my review into thought and read her, you will not regret it!

Sarah Manguso’s book Siste Viator is filled with haunting, beautiful poetry. I was first introduced to a few of Sarah Manguso’s poems while at a writing camp a few years ago. We used Manguso’s poem “Things I have Learned” as a model to write our own poems. This poem combines personal aspects with technical and informational aspects. Much of the poetry in this collection seems like a self-reflection of Manguso herself. Her poems make the reader question life, and most notably love.

One interesting poem is “This Might Be Real.” Manguso constructs the whole poem out of questions. This style is different from the other poems in the collection. She asks simply phrased questions but they are complex in content. This poem leaves the reader with a feeling of emptiness. It’s as if Manguso has caused the reader to question everything he or she believes is real and concrete in this world. With this poem, all of that is turned upside down.

A few lines from the poem that show this juxtaposed style are “Is real a partial form?/Is it a nascent form?/What is it before it’s real?” Questions like “How long can you live?” and “How much do you love?” lead the reader to contemplate seemingly simple questions, only to realize the complexities within the words.

The questions are also haunting, and I find that the poem revolves a lot around love. Manguso questions what love is and how one loves, most notably in the lines “Do you love what’s real?” and “If I know I’m waiting for someone but I don’t know who, is he real?” These lines question the reality of love and what love means.

A second poem, “Asking For More” seems like a reflection of Manguso herself. The helplessness of the poem is inherent in the tone. Manguso’s diction also reveals religious imagery which adds to the feeling of hopelessness in not reaching Heaven. Words like “crucified,” “suffer,” “mercy,” “hope,” and “Hell” bring religious meaning to the poem. Again in this poem Manguso seems to be questioning herself and her place in the world. She also presents questions about suffering and forgiveness with the lines “I am not asking for mercy” and “I am not asking to suffer less.”

Overall, the book is an exploration of life, love, and even poetry itself. Manguso’s poems are lilting and soft and they allow the reader to deeper explore the complex questions that life poses.

–Christine LaPlaca

Ava Leavell Haymon’s Kitchen Heat is an extraordinary piece of work. I was initially compelled to read more of Haymon by her apt use of biological imagery, as in “Winter Migration Patterns,” where she observes a married couple disposing of a Christmas tree as if she were Jane Goodall observing chimpanzees. She refers to the couple as “male” and “female” and calls them “mates”. She also exposes the animalistic pieces of the mates. The male’s face becomes “bovine” at a certain point; the female reveals her “primate shame” at being physically weaker than the male. While most of her poems are pretty standard free verse, Haymon also has some interesting experiments with form. In “Conjugal Love Poem,” her line breaks beautifully simulate a conversation, while also minding the pauses in the dialogue, illustrating the awkwardness present in the couple’s interaction. Also, in “Endangered Habitat,” it’s worth mentioning that she pulls off a villanelle with great results. The collection overall is a truly great read that is reflective, emotionally complex, and paints an insightful portrait of the poet’s life in Louisiana, as well as her life outside of that context. Everything, from learning to love the taste of oysters, to watching a beloved cat die of old age, to realizing exactly why she fears the dark, is covered, with spectacular results

I picked up the poetry book ‘failure’ by Philip Schultz in the Creative Writing mansion. It contains a dismembered nail, which is bent. However, the nail resembles a flower, looking like it is trying to bloom. Its abundance of ‘failure’ poems don’t fail themselves, rather are about ‘fails’ in life. I thoroughly enjoyed this book and even though it had some depressing tones throughout. The poems were written fairly prose like, which is another key component of why I enjoyed it. The writing style was similar (but of course done much better) as the way I like to write my poetry.

The poem, “My Dog” was one I especially enjoyed reading. “His large black body lies on his bed across the room, under the French doors, where he used to sleep, watching me.” The description is plain and simple, but paints a vivid image in my mind that I’m able to connect with. This poem is depressing, yet presents a wonderful relationship between a man and his dog and it brought tears to my eyes. “He introduced me to my life in a dog run, stood proudly beside me at our wedding, handsome in a red bow tie.” This is truly touching because I understand the immense relationship that people have with their dogs, and feel that Schultz presented the message of love for ‘a mans best friend’ very effectively.

Natasha Trethewey’s Native Guard is tremendous. I picked this book up at the library at the recommendation of an old professor and I don’t regret it. When I first found out that it had themes revolving around southern history and the civil war (which one realizes shortly after glancing at the table of contents), I was less than excited. However, even walking into this text with a negative disposition, the power of Trethewey’s language and her craftsmanship could not help but overcome my bias. From the poems in which she confronts her mixed racial heritage, like “South,” to moments of intensity in negotiating the liminal space between life and death, particularly with regards to her mother, such as in “What the Body Can Say.” What is particularly striking is Trethewey’s experimentation with traditional forms of poetry coupled with her command of rhythm and meter to produce something new and surprising—poems that take one off guard.

Take a look at her poem “Photograph: Ice Storm, 1971”:

Why the rough edge of beauty? Why

the tired face of a woman, suffering,

made luminous by the camera’s eye?

Or the storm that drives us inside

for days, power lines down, food rotting,

in the refrigerator, while outside

the landscape glistens beneath a glaze

of ice? Why remember anything

but the wonder of those few days,

the iced trees, each leaf in its glassy case?

The picture we took that first morning,

The front yard a beautiful, strange place —

why on the back has someone made a list

of our names, the date, the event: nothing

of what’s inside — mother, stepfather’s fist?

Here she makes use of a traditional form of a b a rhyme in tercets, but disrupts what is perhaps the simplest convention, the sentence. The poem is full of questions only without a single period in all fifteen lines.

Trethewey’s word choice was also stunning and, at times, surprised me with its poignant brilliance, like in “What the Body Can Say” when, after studying a statue’s “body language” and recalling “those gestures we’ve come to know,” she meditates on her mother (7-8):

… But what was my mother saying

that day not long before her death — her face tilted up

at me, her mouth falling open, wordless …

(11-13)

The shift from a focus on the bodily signs that we interpret onto the spoken word and its interpretation, how it becomes tied to bodily gestures, how those gestures become more pronounced when the words become so important and, here, absent.

I would recommend this collection to anyone. Trethewey provides the historic context through the poems themselves and the collection ultimately becomes, not about race or war or her mother, but about her own struggle for identity, her own grappling with death.

- Everett Bartlett