Imaginary Planet Poems by Alan Elyshevitz

Imaginary Planet

Poems by Alan Elyshevitz

Cervena Barva Press

Somerville, Massachusetts

editor@cervenabarvapress.com


35 Pages

$7.00

Review by Dennis Daly

Some writers puzzle over words and phrases, positioning them, trimming them, easing them into place. Others, like Alan Elyshevitz, take their poetical wands in hand and, through a kind of grammatical gravity, spin their imaginary worlds into solid being from the dust and debris surrounding their commonplace lives.

Like the orbiting planets they mimic, these poems appear from afar to rotate seamlessly, peacefully, and, above all, with a uniform consistency. But upon closer examination the fragments of broken lives and the awful motes of death and change become quite evident.

In his poem entitled Debris Elyshevitz details the calamities inherent in the dissolution of a civilization,

The smoke won’t clear, nor the waters

recede: the sixteenth calamity

this month—a record.

Fences and turnstyles have toppled,

reverting to sour metal

in a reservoir of mud and glass.

Ashes quiver in the updraft;

soggy textiles plug the drains.

The poet, intent upon creation or perhaps restoration, explores this devastated urban landscape and transforms himself into a solicitous healer with practical applications. The poem ends thusly,

… proving himself

indispensable, as his alcoholic

mother always claimed when

he dabbed her elbows, steadied

her finances, and snapped her

memory back from the storm.

Elyshevitz serves up a bit of art theory in his poem This Fragile Planet. He seems to consider both the subjectivity of the reader as well as the essence of the poem itself. He laments his lack of control over his own creation. As artists create they dissipate into their work until they themselves disappear. The poet puts it this way,

it engenders dinosaurs and

burlesque

It cracks

with the slightest quake

of interrogation

Psychiatrists

pull artifacts of shame

from every breach

For years

it cultivates eccentric

rifts

In the end

it fears what we all fear

eclipse

Yes, mortality spares neither poet nor poem. Something to think about.

The poem Hurricane recounts the violence that hits our placid world periodically targeting the weak, the aged, and those who through pride resist. All but the "squat dense things" of life are at risk. Debris is everywhere. Here’s the heart of the poem,

The car horns, the embarrassed medical

team, the fluids bursting from every sewer

In public shelters the dispossessed cough

into their hands like guttering candles

How they yield to the deepening blackout,

jostle, compete, exchange ingratitudes

There is no refastening dislodged pride

Nor the limbs of any man or tree…

Lot’s Wife portrays the great Russian poet Anna Akhmatova in exile. In fact the poem is dedicated to her. Her cottage world that Elyshevitz has spun together comprises chickens, potatoes, eggs, bad memories of her ex-husband, and her dreams of foie gras. Outside she hears only the universe’s white noise, or perhaps something more. In spite of her entrapment and the isolation of her planet, there is some comfort here. Elyshevitz explains,

Outside, the cackle of falling leaves may be

White noise or the very message you desire.

Meanwhile, for dinner you dream of foie gras

And a smuggled morsel of hope from the city

Of your sentiments. By morning the coop may

Produce a few eggs which some say contain the

Biographies of martyrs, for they taste unbearably

Sublime when accompanied by a pillar of salt.

The poet points to the protective cocoon of suburbia and concomitant dangers in his piece entitled August. The denizens of this comfortable world enjoy music, central air and spicy dips. Outside of this zone lurks vagueness and dangers. Here’s how the poem ends,

… If you squint

hard,

you can make out the city.

vague as an un-hyped investment

Hard to imagine people out there

moaning

in slow-motion Spanish. If only they

w plutonium, petroleum, paper:

useful.

A slow

news day. Feel better. No one

you

know has been raped or tripped a land mine.

And the metal detectors are working

just fine.

In Let Us Not Speak Of Legacy Now the poet’s persona spoon feeds his dying father. The claustrophobic scene grows more and more uncomfortable as the poet describes the punctured veins, the thickened eyes, and the strangled muscles. The description is spot on and captures the reader within its sterilized dizzy confines. The semi-private hospital room becomes a spinning planet and only the human connection between father and son allows focus. Here are some neat and also telling lines,

Encrusted in doctors’ orders,

you wear the stigmata of punctured veins,

your muscles strangled by atrophy

in a gown without pockets.

All that remains of your fussy desires

is the dusty flavor of your gums

Last but not least, take a look at the spectacular picture on the front and back covers of this book, courtesy of NASA and Caltech: Out of the Dust, A Planet is Born.

Wondrous cover. Otherworldly book.