The Sunday Poet: Anthony Michael Majahad

Anthony Michael Majahad

Anthony Michael Majahad is an environmental chemist.  He and his wife, Dorry, move from Cambridge to Winthrop.  Mentors have been Jean Pedrick, Nina Nyhart, William Corbett, and Carol Dine; currently Susan Donnelly.  Poems have appeared in Marblehead Magazine, Suffolk University Venture, Bagel Bard Anthologies #6 and #7 and MSPS’s Waterfront CREW Chapter Anthologies.  He published online via North Shore Poetry Forum, Ocean Blue and Muddy River.

The Reception After

“Nope,” Nana says, in her

half West Concord and half Carver

Yankee accent, scythe sharp,

so sharp that it could cut through

the fog that would settle over

the family’s cranberry bogs,

on those frosty late September nights.

“Nope, I never go over to someone’s

house and eat after a funeral—

someone I know always dies.”

She picks up her fine bone china cup,

her hands shaking from the tremors

she has had since a young woman,

sips her hot tea cautiously and lights-up

a tightly tamped Camel cigarette

without missing a beat, or spilling a drop.

“I’ve seen it happen too many times before.”

I never went to Nana’s wake, or her funeral.

There must have been some sort of reception;

maybe at her house at 1620 High Street,

the last one at the end of the tarred road,

just before it became the dirt road that

meandered through the dark pines forest.

It is almost certain that if there was food there,

no one from our family took a bite.

heteroglossia: [poems] by Lindsay Illich

heteroglossia: [poems]

by Lindsay Illich

Baton Rouge: Anchor & Plume, 2016

ISBN 9780990685692

Reviewed by David P. Miller

The Merriam-Webster online dictionary defines heteroglossia as “a diversity of voices, styles of discourse, or points of view in a literary work and especially a novel.” This chapbook by Lindsay Illich makes it clear that, although a novel may be the expected setting, a collection of poems or even a single poem will do as well. Illich’s poetry is conversational, erudite, slangy, elegant: often accessible right on the level of music, sometimes asking a pause to look up definitions (or a note-to-self to look them up later). This review will hint at some of the voices and stories brought together, with a closer reading of the title poem. All titles are given in lower case in the book.

“apologia for mountaineering” begins simply enough, with a reference to Stevie Nicks’ song “Landslide,” then begins again, introducing a term strange to most of us, made clear in context and moving right into psychologically complex territory:

I climbed the mountain because Stevie Nicks

made it sound so nonchalant.

I climbed the mountain because I knew the word

krummholz referred to the trees

penultimate to treeline,

leafless and arithmetic, barely able to sustain

love at that height.

We might have to come back later to consider the arithmetic-ness of bare trees, because the climb down the page continues toward “you” and “our // topos was radiant.” Topos: “a traditional or conventional literary or rhetorical theme or topic” according to M-W online. And there’s a pun buried as well, as a “topo” is a diagram of a mountain including details of routes to the top. We might assume that the “you” in “I climbed the thing / to be interesting, to say I did you” is human and the “did” is sexual, but perhaps it’s the mountain? Or both: the topos (traditional theme) of human attraction, is as radiant as the map allowing the mountain to be “done.”

The couplets of “december 30” address a loved one, and the bafflement of relationship via a sequence of remarkable analogies. “I sometimes think of us as forgetful  / & only remembering each other // like claustrophobes wanting the dense / space of football fields”. This may very well resonate with anyone needing more personal space, but how much more interestingly said. And immediately countered with “Or deep / in the night’s sorrow, when you hear me // breathing, we are one / continent.” As a single instance of Illich’s attentive awareness of line and stanza breaks, see how the almost expected “breathing, we are one” is flipped to a massive image simply by saving “continent” for the next line.

By the time we’re well into “broken down west texas”, it’s easy to forget that almost all of it is an extended metaphor following from the second line of the opening:

To love someone in spite of yourself

is driving down the same road

every day without knowing

where you’re going.

The poem evokes the hazards of day-long desert driving in an unsound vehicle: “The truck chuckles at your / nervousness. The gas gauge / falls asleep” … “The sun / doesn’t go down / so much as the mesa / sucks it out of the sky.” So a reader like me, picturing the scene and glad that it’s someone else’s reality, might be temporarily puzzled by “the truck a skin / you can’t climb out of” near the end, before remembering that this is about loving wrongly as like a vehicle.  It really can be that risky.

Here are a couple of brief examples of the poet’s mutable diction. In “cleaning house” we read:

[…] Sister,

we’ve grown into each other

like the limbs of those

trees and from here I don’t

know whose branch this

or nest that.

The last phrase is without an expected “is” following “this” and “that”: “whose branch this is, whose nest that is.” But as “branch” and “nest” are also verbs, the grammatical turn after “whose” means a simile for the identification of sisters swoops into activities of branching and nesting.

The opening of “what he did with the moon tonight” couples casual diction with an atypical outcome: “What he did with the moon / tonight was he / pressed her through a sieve”. The conversational “was” is grammatically odd but serves almost as a conjunction, compressing the possible, much wordier “This is what he did with the moon / tonight. He / pressed her” etc. The flow of “what he did was he” sweeps us into the image. And in heteroglossic manner, not long after this we learn  of “the stars / coupling, their penurious / leaning into each other’s / gravity” – elegant and multisyllabic. Some readers may want poets to maintain a unified voice, at least within a given poem. This reader does not understand that to be a necessary virtue.

The title poem, two pages of couplets (mostly), is an elegy for someone with the initials T.H.M. Its multiple types of diction evoke heteroglossia itself, and again evoke the question: why must a poem speak in one voice only? Or rather, why speak using only diction that’ assumed to continue as it’s begun? Let’s begin with the first couplet:

The birds have woken me before dawn,

in the left margin of June without you:

In the first line we are set, not in a specific location, but at a time of day and in a place that we can understand – a place where there are sufficient birds to wake the speaker. But the second line begins immediately to shift the tone. We understand that there is a “you” that the speaker misses, and that we are in the month of June. But “the left margin” suggests the visual image of a calendar, so we participate in a leap from aural to visual image. Or it might be the left margin of a piece of paper in June, as the next couplet is

some loves are textual, coming paratactically,

Alexandrine, getting smoked like a Cuban.

We need to know the meaning of “paratactic.” One definition is “The juxtaposition of clauses or phrases without the use of coordinating or subordinating conjunctions, as It was cold; the snows came.” There’s now the suggestion that we readers are facing a sheet of paper with a paratactic juxtaposition of phrases and quasi-Alexandrine lines. Which we are. This digression into process is interrupted by stanza breaks before and after the almost-simple single line:

And you, caesuredly.

The framing caesuras make the poem actually do what it says it’s doing – evoking the absent addressee, who stands between two silences.

This heady wrenching-away from the initial place and time comes back, now in a tone with a hint of ironic distance:

So the morning is about to do her rise

thing, the lupines, the vireos, and I’m back

There’s a hesitation to fully give over to rosy-fingered dawn, emphasized by the line break, but after that sight and sound place us a little more surely among flora and fauna. The speaker has apparently returned, but where?

in the rivers we waded in, floated down,

discussed abstractly and mythologically

So, not back in an exact moment, but rather into memory and metaphor. The poem is beginning to seem like a river itself, creating its own bed and landscape as it flows, as compared with poems which are more like canals, constructed to end in anticipatable destinations.

A few lines later, we veer back to the loss, which now seems a death, though soon backed away from:

Nothing has kept you on the globe

where I learned the word gypsum

yesterday. How boring is the

heaven-is-a-mansion thing, esp. since

how much better would a river be

where you and me are alive

and always alive with moving.

The near-explicit statement of death is allowed to stand before the stanza break. But immediately following, “the globe” is pivoted, from the home of the missing person to the setting of a personal anecdote not otherwise explained. This is followed by a dismissive reference to conventional means of comfort, including the abrupt “esp.”, as if the speaker could hardly spare time for the linkage to a wish for “you and me” together again in an actual place.

We’ve followed through something less than half of the title poem. I’ll leave the rest for your contemplation, except to add a couple of examples of wordplay. The phrase “the bird derries, the beautiful derrières / on the ferry” is an instance where the sound creates the world, and vice-versa, simultaneously. (“Derry”: a meaningless phrase used in a song, as in “derry-down.”) And the curious final word, “ceasuredly.” Spell-check doesn’t know where to go with this, a pun on the already-invented “caesuredly,” stemming perhaps from “cease.”

Poems to take your time with, to read multiply, for their heart and carnality as well as their intelligence. It’s worth nothing that a full-length collection, rile & heave (everything reminds me of you), will be published by Texas Review Press this winter.

The Hastings Room Reading Series Welcomes Cambridge’s Poets Populist Payack, Joachim, Bee and Gallucio on Tuesday February 7th

Lo Galluccio

Jean Dany Joachim

Toni Bee

Peter Payack

At 7pm on Tuesday February 7th, at First Church Cambridge, 11 Garden Street, the Hastings Room Reading Series will be holding a special event to celebrate and remember the Cambridge Poet Populist program, which supported a “Poet Populist” designated to engage the community with the art of poetry. From 2007 to 2015 four Cambridge poets held the honored position: Peter Payack (2007-2009), Jean-Dany Joachim (2009-2011), Toni “Bee” Brooks (2011-2013) and Lo Galluccio (2013-2015).

The program, modeled in part on Seattle Washington’s Poet Populist project, was initiated by City Councilor Brian Murphy in 2007 and launched in the same year. The “Populist” idea differed from other cities’ Poet Laureate programs in that the poet was not appointed by the City but rather voted in by the community. The Poetry Populist program was streamlined by Cambridge Arts in 2015 into the Poetry Ambassador program, which promotes seasonal poetry events curated by different poets.

While the Ambassador program continues to engage the public with the art through public readings organized by talented area poets, the Poet Populist program will be remembered for bringing Cambridge residents in on the election and promotion of the four exceptional poets mentioned above. These poets have been invited to the Hastings Room Reading Series at First Church to read from their poetry and to remember highlights of their tenure as the city’s leading voices in poetry.

The Hastings Room Reading Series, established in 2014 by Steven Brown and Michael Steffen, has hosted many of the area’s leading poets, including Martha Collins, David Ferry, Fred Marchant, Joan Houlihan, Daniel Tobin, Marc Vincenz, David Blair, Doug Holder, Gloria Mindock and Pulitzer Prize poet Franz Wright. The readings are free and open to the public.

Please come join us. Here are our readers, with a little information about them.

Toni “Bee” Brooks is a writer, poet & photographer. Poet Populist of Cambridge from 2011-2013, and a Board Member at Cambridge Community Television, she is a public speaker, event host, and a Teaching Artist specializing in poetry workshops for teenagers and adults.

Lo Galluccio, Poet Populist from 2013 to 2015, is also a memoirist and vocalist. Her published work includes a chapbook, Hot Rain (2004) from Ibbetson Street Press, a prose-poem memoir, Sarasota VII (2010) published by Cervena Barva Press and available at the Grolier bookstore. A second chapbook, Terrible Baubles (2012) was released by Cervena Barva with a CD of the same title – a collaboration with pianist Eric Zinman and cellist Jane Wang. Galluccio is a graduate of Harvard, and has studied at the Goodman School of Drama and the Berklee School of Music.

Jean Dany Joachim, Cambridge Poet Populist from 2009 to 2011, and the current Poet in Residence at First Church in Cambridge, is also an author of short stories and plays. He created the Many Voices Project, a series of readings and follow-up poetry workshops, inspiring conversations about race and equality. He has three published collection of poetry, Crossroads / Chimenkwaze (2013), Avec des Mots (2014), and Quartier (2016). He is the director of City Night Readings, a series featuring diverse poetic talents, writers and artists. Jean Dany teaches at Bunker Hill Community College.

Peter Payack was the first Poet Populist of Cambridge from 2007 to 2009. He has been published widely, including in The Paris Review, Rolling Stone, The New York Times and The Boston Globe. Payack is also an inventor, notably of the world-renowned Stonehenge Watch™, an infinitesimal replica of the megaliths at Stonehenge inside of an old-fashioned pocket watch. He has taught at The Berklee College of Music, University of Massachusetts Lowell and UMass Online.

The Sunday Poet: Steven Scher

Steven Scher

 
A native of Brooklyn who now lives in Jerusalem, Steven Sher is the author of 15 books including the forthcoming (2016) Uncharted Waters (Feral Press). Two recent poetry titles are The House of Washing Hands (Pecan Grove Press, 2014) and Grazing on Stars: Selected Poems (Presa Press, 2012). Since the 1970s, his poetry and prose have appeared in hundreds of journals worldwide; he has worked as an editor, media consultant and journalist; and he has taught at many universities (first at Brooklyn College, where he worked with John Ashbery during his MFA) and writing workshops. He continues to lead workshops (for organizations such as Poets House in NYC) and lecture on writing.

                                   


                                       RETIREMENT                      
 

He had retired to Florida in part to savor

mornings, trading coat and tie

for a life of socializing, golf and cards.

Yet he needed to build stamina for such a life,

another of the northern newcomers

who flocked like migrating birds

to the paved mile lap around the lake

past pastel-painted condos and stately palms

that stretched and bent as if preparing to walk

along beside him. Each morning

when he stepped outside, an orange sun

like a weak heart hung above the horizon.

By the time he was done, the light would burst

across the sky. His silence matched his stride.

Sweat soon pinched his tee-shirt to his skin.

High gray clouds like gauze had come unwound.

My father’s face paled at the fast pace,

but he refused to slow, irrefutable proof

that he was fine. Now their building was in sight.

Hands resting on his hips like an emptied pitcher,

my father slowed to a stroll. Having drawn

from his reserve, he would need to replenish it.

On his return, my mother at once would hover

over him with questions and then food.

Later he would fall asleep in his chair

on the screened porch, a practice he had

only recently begun, and wake relieved

from his dark thoughts hearing his name repeated.

“Twentieth Century Women” – a film review by William Falcetano

“Twentieth Century Women” – a film review by William Falcetano

“Twentieth-Century Women” is a coming-of-age period piece set in Santa Barbara, California in 1979.  The story is not just about the central character Dorothea, played with uncanny appeal by the incomparable Annette Bening, but also about a small circle of women who are a part of Dorothea’s life at this confusing, transitional moment in American history.  The confusion is mainly over gender roles and love-expectations but it applies to the much larger question of life itself and how it should be, could be, or might be lived.  

We find Dorothea facing her beloved Ford Galaxy as it decides to combust spontaneously into flames – a searing metaphor for the decade that brought us disco and punk rock, Watergate and impeachment, oil shortages and shag haircuts.  Her son, Jamie, played with dark-eyed good looks by Lucas Jade Zumann, is a sensitive kid who, like his mother, is struggling to find his way in a confusing world.  He and his mother dance a pas de deux around each other with many missteps. It’s not a pretty picture; but it’s full of real moments and nuggets of wisdom.  When Jamie, an avid skate boarder, decides to play a stupid, dangerous game and almost dies, the audience is pulled into his mother’s world in a way that seals our interest in this little family.  They inhabit one of those large ramshackle houses that were laying around everywhere in 1979 just waiting to be scooped up and renovated in the next decade by armies of young urban professionals, the loathed “yuppies” of the 1980s.  This house, full of badly painted cabinets and chipping mill work, is the mise en scène for an ensemble of quirky yet believable characters – think Armisted Maupin or The Royal Tennenbaums.  Abbie, played by Greta Gerwig, lives in the house; she’s that art school punk rocker we all fell in love with in the 70s and 80s.  Another border in the big house is an ex-hippie named William, played with craggy sex appeal by Bill Crudup.  He’s always trying to fix things – “that’s what men do”, Dorothea says to her teenage son, “but they just need to be there, which seems so hard for them.”  Then there’s Julie, played by Elle Fanning – she’s Jamie’s childhood friend, who sneaks into his bedroom window at night to talk things out with him but she doesn’t allow him to have sex with her – “it would change things” she says ever so correctly.  But childhood is giving way to adulthood and hormones are raging – in fact everybody’s hormones are busy at work leading them to dates, to bed, and to more missteps as each character tries to sort out love and attachment in a world full of miscues, wrong choices, and “inappropriate men”.  

The central question – Can you raise a boy to be a man without a father? – is answered by Dorothea with an unequivocal “yes” as she enlists Julie and Abbie to help her connect with her wan, sulky son.  This leads to more comic situations which the director, Mike Mills, milks for all they’re worth, as the film quotes the feminist literature of the day in a flood of nostalgia for an era before computer screens stole our minds, when people made cassette tapes of their favorite bands for their best friends, earnestly read philosophical books, struggling to think about life in new ways by asking the ever disruptive question: Why?  The film is an homage to that era – before Reagan arrived and everything changed – when President Carter lectured the country about spiritual values, the loss of collective purpose, and warned against the dead-end of runaway materialism.  How times have changed!  Change is one of the key themes of this very interesting and deeply moving film, which reaches back in snippets to the 1920s when Dorothea was born into the Jazz Age, and keeps us listening to Louis Armstrong and the old song book of her era, while it mixes that soundtrack with the new wave sound of the “Art Fags” who dance in crazy movements and jerky steps to the fast tunes of the Ramones and the Talking Heads.  

It would have been clear to anyone who had attended the March for Women’s Rights in Boston recently that these fabulous 20^th century women raised a lot of terrific 20^th century boys who grew up to be 21^st century men, and who, somehow, know the difference between standing up to a bully and being one.  Funny how a generation of art fags learned how to become real men while the Mad Men generation of the 1950s, recycled in the brassy, tabloid, “Bonfire of the Vanities” 1980s, seemed to have come back from the dead and marched like zombies straight into the highest echelons of power!  What’s happening now in 21^st Century America has made this movie about 20^th Century women not only more interesting but also more relevant than ever. See it you’ll wonder how the life of our country should, could, and might still be, different – and better – than it is.