WAY BACK THEN THE FAMILIAR NOW

I mean like when you find out the dude you've seen at local shows for the past few years was best friends with your girlfriend's brother when they were little dudes. Or like when you find a 2003 issue of Indiana Review in the free box of a bookstore and you discover that it's got poems by some of your now favorite poets.

I'm a booksale stokedbro. Like if its a buck, why not? Sara and I always came out of booksales and thrift stories with at least a sack. Now what? I've got these two big boxes of never-gonna-read famous novels, poetry that didn't strike my heartgut, and anthologies or journals that I've devoured but can't find an excuse to keep. (Side note: I plan to sell these two boxes of books online for CHEAP soon, so eyes open.) After moving home and getting the GOTTA GO pile and the STAY HERE BUDDY pile figured out, I discovered this old copy of Indiana Review: Celebrating 25 Years.

I flipped to the back cover and man oh man what a list: Robin Behn, Nick Carbo, Michael Dickman (Listed as Michael Conrad Dickman), Denise Duhamel, Martin Espada, Mark Halliday, Terrance Hayes, Tony Hoagland, David Kirby, Michael Martone, Gary Soto, David Wagoner, and a bunch of others. I was like WOAH LET'S READ. And I did.

Reading these poems in a journal, eight years after they came out, was a strange process. I recognized the developing voice of Dickman, the earlier voice of Hoagland, the markings of the great beginning of Hayes, and so much more. It was reading beyond the page, but for one of the first times, reading with a significant contemporary gap. I mean I read online magazines and see like Mike Young poems and think about how they compare to the We Are All Good Enough... poems or how the Matt Bell's first ever published story (republished in Volume I of Stoked Journal) developed into the How They Were Found pieces, but never had I'd engaged with a collection nearly a decade old with a bunch of writers whose current work I'm digging now.

Michael Dickman's is probably the most interesting poem to me. A sectioned long poem with left-alignment and long stanza'ed sections, "How To Make Love" shows the poet with the startling images, the fearlessness of well-placed abstractions, the calm unleashing. But along with the listing as "Michael Conrad Dickman" (not sure why that's so weird to me), this poem stretches itself so far that it's actually thin in parts. One thing I've already loved about this Dickman is his ability to deliver so much emotion with such fluidity. As someone still finding his voice, it was cool for me to see someone so noticeable in his current voice trying to find his own early on.

I loved Lighthead by Terrance Hayes, and having seen him read after that book came out, I can say he's a oddly charismatic manpoet. Sometimes he still pushes it too far, too wild outside his comfort zone, like that one list poem about t-shirt ideas. But his poem in this issue "The Blue Etheridge" seems almost an introduction to Hayes as a poet, a strong voice in an interesting poetic climate. Here are two sweet parts of the poem:

Let's just say the parable
of the Negro who uses his dick for a cane
and the parable of the Negro who uses his cane
for a dick convey the same message to me.

AND

But I won't be telling you the story
of the forlorn Negro or the Negro cutthroat
or the Negro Hero or the Negro Tom.
I won't be telling you the story of the night
I died. I believe everything comes back
to music or money.

My favorite poem in the issue is "Sometimes It Takes A Long Time To Get Burned" by Gary Soto, a big-time poet I'm unfortunately not all that familiar with. Perhaps because of that fact, I was able to most engage with the poem itself, singularly. The poem basically talks about a dead guy in a Lincoln and the world revolving without him, not knowing he's dead--a dog barking, construction workers coming nearby. Because of the subject matter and story-telling style--very plain-spoken word choice and syntax and the use of sequence markers (First, Second...)--I marked that it reminded me of Stephen Dobyns. I think I love this poem because like Dobyns, Soto doesn't try to cram too much in there (content or language-wise), but rather illustrates this odd, sad, and deep image and situation without worry about how and why he died or what's gonna happen to him long-term. It's as if Soto is saying DUDE DIED AND THE WORLD KEPT GOING. Which is a harsh reality and I think the third person helps me see that and think about that. The title, however, is heavy-handed. Nonetheless, a sweet sweet poem.

Third, a dog barked. Fourth, a car stopped
And the driver took pictures, then pulled away.
The fog returned with the acids of an industrial laundry
Two miles from the dead man who, when alive, drove past it,
His own shirt starched, his pants done right.

Definitely an old issue of a journal that's sticking around.

Paragraphs About 4 Books I Read Recently

Tasker Street by Mark Halliday

Not the Halliday book I bought at the reading, but contains my favorite poem from that evening: Ode: The Capris; Having read this book and Little Star, two of Halliday's earliest works, and having heard and read many of his newer poems, I'm realizing his older stuff connects with me more; hIs sincere approach to narrative, through a talkative tone and straightforward presentation of images and emotions, captivates me; at once, he seems to defy poetic conventions by recreating them in this tug-o-war of recognizability and freshness.


Skid by Dean Young

One of the final Dean Young books I haven't read; these poems fall somewhere in between the rawness of the things I love in First Course and Strike Anywhere and the established-voice-trying-new-things that sometimes puzzles sometimes excites me in his later books; of course not a poem in here I didn't find cool lines or an energetic approach that pushed me towards a migraine; rather, I sometimes feel as if Dean's attempt to balance his natural approach and attempts to push his aesthetic results in something a little too jumbled to take me to that level I love in poems like "Frottage"; favorites in this book include "Brighthead," "Whale Watch," "Action Figuring," and "Pulse."


Lighthead by Terrance Hayes

I totally see how this book could win the National Book Award; it has that meshing of political awareness, personal exploration, and balance of humor and deep material; though it wouldn't be my choice; Hayes connects with me most when sincerity seems like the driving principle exposing his situation; for instance, the opening poem, "Lighthead's Guide to the Galaxy," knocked me out; its association, its opening of "Ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and children of the state" as a point of entry, its beautiful balance of meditation and imagery; while at times he missed me with his approach, the times Hayes vividly describes his situation and compounds that with exposure of his mind and heart floored me; other poems that do this: "Shakur," "The Avocado," and "Arbor for Butch."


Starting From San Francisco by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

I've heard people say that Ferlinghetti published one excellent book, A Coney Island of the Mind, (YES IT IS GREAT), and other just-okay books; this book fell into the latter for me, for sure; at times, the beautiful charm and energy of Ferlinghetti, which make him such a respected literary person, drive the poems, like how they carry him to great heights in Coney Island; but other times, Ferlinghetti loses me in his experimentation, his run-away style of pushing the joke/metaphor/point, and seeming disregard for connectivity; a poem like "Euphoria," with its repetition of "As I approach the state of euphoria" and its striking sense of addition of pieces, stays with me, buries within me; however, a poem like "Tentative Description of a Dinner to Promote the Impeachment of President Eisenhower" chunks itself away from the title with obscurities and disengaging non-sequiturs; while Ferlinghetti holds a special place in my heart already as a poet and friend of literature, this book did nothing greater than make me remember how fantastic Coney Island is.

Also, I'm gonna try to read a book of poems a day over Spring Break and blog about each of those. Additionally, I'm gonna try to catch up on some blog topics I've been meaning to get to, including the greatness of Smalldoggies Magazine, Stoked Press news, the next Independent Study post (about Mark Neely's chapbook), and more.

WORDZ AT MY HEADWEEK

In addition to the sweet visit from Brian Oliu and the Alabama Undergradsthis week, I got to see Mark Halliday and Terrance Hayes read in Indy on Wednesday and Thursday respectively.

Here is a quick rundown of each, followed by one of my favorite poems by each poet:

Halliday: odd quirky personality, like mix of emotionally tender and cynical, style comes across so well during reading, went with Todd, Sara, Cody, and Tyler, Butler has a sweet reading series (HICOK STILL TO COME), got Jab, got Jab autographed, super fun.

Hayes: Really good reader, pace and tone, tried to be funny at times and came off as COME ON MAN, stopped in middle of a poem to explain something=lame, NATIONAL BOOK AWARD WINNER, poems seem deep like goodness, went with Ashley, Cody, Tyler, and DJ, ate at a 50's diner which was cool, U of Indy, Hayes wears two watches, bought Lighthead, got Lighthead signed, so did Tyler, our books look identical.

ODE: THE CAPRIS
by Mark Halliday
from Tasker Street

How do I feel about "There's a Moon Out Tonight"
by the Capris?
I thought you'd never ask

Marcia Koomen lived across Cherry Lane
getting tall, taller than me in fifth grade
and smiling behind her glasses, she knew something.
The summer nights in Raleigh were thick
with something bright in the dark; you could ride
bikes under the moon and in and out of
lampshine at the corner of Wade and Dogwood,
not caring about touching a girl, or, later,
not caring much still but happy to be a boy
who could some day "have" a girl, and be conscious of
a shivering beauty caught in the word girl

There's a girl at my side
that I adore
-the Capris knew something all together
and it called for this new verb, to adore;
something out there ahead of my bicycle in the dark;
I cared a loy about Paladin on "Have Gun - Will Travel"
but did I adore him? Scotty Koomen, years older,
got sort of pale and brittle when he went to visit
a certain girl in his class, he seemed to have trouble
breathing...
There's a glow in my heart
I never felt before
- not exactly in my heart yet but it was
what would be there if I rode just maybe deeper down
Dogwood Lane in the busy dark.

Across Dogwood lived Ann Dailey
who had freckles and an awesome kind of largeness,
not fat but big and this made my eyes feel hot and burny;
she moved slowly doing chores in her yard,
her long tanning thighs seemed sarcastic
as if she knew soon her freckled beauty must positively
carry her somehow out, out and away...And
Shelby Wilson one night kissed her on the lips.
I saw it happen - on the sofa in the basement -
her folks weren't home. Right on the lips!

Amazing lips are in your future, boy. That's
what the Capris were telling me; the North Carolinia moon
is natural and it can find you anywhere;
you have to let the moon paint you and your bike
and the picture of Elvis in your pocket
and it shines down on Marcia's hair
and on the thought of the green eyes of Ann Dailey.
Ride and wait, wait and watch;
you laugh, you shiver in the summer - cool - dark.
You speak of the Yankees and the Pirates but
cut a side glance at Marcia's tall shape
but when she says anything serious exasperate her
yelling Little Richard's wop bop alu bop

but this dodging, dodging will end -
somewhere -
the Capris being on Marcia's side.
Baby, I never felt this way before
I guess it's because there's a moon out tonight

and once that shining starts
no amount of irony will ever quite ride the Capris out of town.
I picture a deep pool with yellow flowers drifting
on the surface. The song pours up
out of that pool.

At Pegasus
by Terrance Hayes
from Muscular Music

They are like those crazy women
who tore Orpheus
when he refused to sing,

these men grinding
in the strobe & black lights
of Pegasus. All shadow & sound.

"I'm just here for the music,"
I tell the man who asks me
to the floor. But I have held

a boy on my back before.
Curtis & I used to leap
barefoot into the creek; dance

among maggots & piss,
beer bottles & tadpoles
slippery as sperm;

we used to pull off our shirts,
& slap music into our skin.
He wouldn't know me now

at the edge of these lovers' gyre,
glitter & steam, fire,
bodies blurred sexless

by the music's spinning light.
A young man slips his thumb
into the mouth of an old one,

& I am not that far away.
The whole scene raw & delicate
as Curtis's foot gashed

on a sunken bottle shard.
They press hip to hip,
each breathless as a boy

carrying a friend on his back.
The foot swelling green
as the sewage in that creek.

We never went back.
But I remember his weight
better than I remember

my first kiss.
These men know something
I used to know.

How could I not find them
beautiful, the way they dive & spill
into each other,

the way the dance floor
takes them,
wet & holy in its mouth.