In Ibbetson Press #46 out of Somerville, MA, 2019. Doug Holder, editor.
Edited by Harris Gardner, and Julia Cirgnano
Design: Steve Glines
Front/Back Cover Photos: Bonnie Matthews Brock
Arts/Editor Jennifer Matthews
REVIEW BY MARCIA D. ROSS
If there were a contest
of best first lines in Ibbetson Street (#46)
the winner would have to be a toss up between several contenders. Mary
Buchinger’s brief “Song” begins with “The river didn’t say” – an effortless glide
into the exquisite (but never fancy) river of the language of imagery and sound
that comprises the entire poem. In a distinctly different way, Denise Provost’s
first line, “You might have crept up, grabbed us by surprise–“ is, like the
rest of the poem, in fetching Petrarchan sonnet-form, trying to fend off a
brutal hurricane’s dreaded arrival. These two have many rivals, but first lines
are important.
As for last best lines,
another tie. Michael Ansara’s closing for his tender poem, “As a Child I Felt
the Wind,” echoes and resolves the entire drama of learning how to listen in
the last lines “. . . that passed quickly / As a sigh, skimming the surface of
this, my one, life.” By contrast and
equally exceptional, Dennis Daly’s final line in “The Harrowing of Hell” produces
a gaze of sudden desire: “Eve, bedazzled, eyes transfigured Adam” (eyes is a
verb here). This line ends the packed and powerful poem that never lets up for
a second, and finally crashes into the lustful ruin and guilt of the world’s first
couple. And, as for pure and brilliant
finale, there is Harris Gardner’s “This masquerade unmasked in empyrean au bade”
at the end of four full dancing stanzas, in “Acolytes of Terpsichore.”
Not counting Doug Holder’s gold nugget interview with the
esteemed Ifeanyi Menkiti, there are 62 entries in the fall 2019 publication of Ibbetson Street. Of these, if I may say so, at least half are
worthy of the ink for printing the issue, and half again of those are worth
reading at least twice (or sometimes twelve times); a handful can make your
head spin and cause you to shift in your seat, and a final few that are right
up there with Milton’s “fittest though few.” My growing feeling is that to read
a poem once is to have looked at only the gift wrap on a package, which, as we
all know can be a poor representation of the quality of the gift itself, or
even a garish overstatement. Even with such limitations there are many more
poems here than can be given their due. The poets themselves range in age from
grownups to grandparents and write with everything from urgency and anger to
humorous winks or grateful or subtle praise for life itself. They also vary in world view, sexual
definition, and political positions, if any. All of the usual subjects are
here, with mothers perhaps outnumbering fathers, then, in no order, children,
friends, lovers, siblings, uncles, neighbors, ghosts or cats and dogs, crows,
bicycles, smells, desire, Zen, death, rivers, weather, clothing, food, crops,
ageing, grief, rage, revenge and Fine! I’ll not go on. (You’re welcome). By
virtue of basic arithmetic, each of these fewer-than-62 subjects has its very
own own poet. Some of these poets are
well known, some are unknown or ingénue or gifted, and some could benefit from
examining what makes a poem a poem or simply practicing their craft with more
diligence. (And of course the writer of this review has been known to be dead
wrong.)
Having
said that, I want to present several poets’ work, and have a go at saying
something meaningful about them. For
starters, there are poets included in Ibbetson
St. #46 who, although famous, are continuing to experiment with the genre,
in this case to great comic effect. Dewitt Henry’s “On Rank” is breathlessly
clever and essentially an essay in poetic form, a riff on Shakespeare, and a
rollicking tease. It also has the funniest line in the entire collection.
Rounding up plethora of nasty smells, the speaker spews out: “Pee-yew!” Then
again, that may be a Court Jester speaking, a very low “rank”ing Fool right out
of Lear or Hamlet, although Hamlet himself fooled around with the varieties of
rotting flesh; his noted mention of “thinks,” rhymes of course with “stinks.”
Henry’s poem fools with Shakespeare’s high-ranking Sonnet 94 which itself
smells to high heaven, and presents a presumably farcical but accurate footnote
to his own un-poem.
Speaking
of fun, Diana Cole’s “My Father’s Annual Stint in the National Guard” presents
the problem of whiskers in a marriage. Managing to induce even pathos, Cole’s
verse trips through the awkwardness and hilarity of a couple’s difference of
opinion about the value of a moustache. The effect upon the observant and
loving daughter (poet) is both priceless and cautionary.
Another impressive yet slightly off-kilter poem is the beautifully
written “Acolytes of Terpsichore,” by Harris Gardner. Not rude or ugly or vain or guilty or
clumsily losing control, it is an accomplished and attractive poem, with fine,
dazzling imagery and luscious sound. It may have been written as a specimen of
artifice or even sleight of hand, with glittering twirling ballerinas vacantly but
perfectly dancing around in circles– in which case it has achieved his
deliberation; it’s damned good, but its elegant and artificial beauties may be
marred by an overindulgence in uncommon words. For a perfect poem, its stanzas
split jarringly in new directions or purposes. To be fair, this poem is
unquestionably meant to be artificial and pristine, and to be read with a
dictionary handy. It reminds me of one of those perfect dresses that cannot
express the real woman wearing it. I’m not sure how a masquerade is unmasked,
either, though I admire the sound of it. Altogether impressive.
A very different kind of poem in this edition captures one’s
entire attention while never for a moment explaining itself. It’s so slender, it doesn’t even have the
time! Isabelle Kenyon’s “Breakfast Is an Important Part Of the Afternoon” puts
sensual pleasure and indulgence hand in hand with the discomfort and anxieties
of the body in a hot Italian town. Along with these are indefinable hints of
timelessness, desire, discomfort, bliss, unavailability, and physical pain. It even
has pretty polka dot spider bites and sweet hands that touch the sores.
However, the sores seem to be spreading. In contrast, a plain but exquisite
poem by Zvi Sesling, “Ghostly Memories,” produces an old sock from a drawer
that becomes a portal or arena for the return of long-held but heretofore
distant memories. In another drawer, an instruction manual for a short-wave
radio signals anguish for all the fine things that time has kicked aside, discarded
and useless. Towards the end of the poem, long-deceased parents are about
reappear, and the speaker casts an eye on bones sunk in a La Brea tar pit, embodying
the worst of all possible endings in a life: separation.
There are many more poems that should be
included in this discussion. The delightful and perfect “Full Service,” Ted
Kooser’s amused and poignant meditation on a windshield washing at an ordinary gas
station, observed from inside the car. There’s a sad but surprised smile in
this poem, with its hint of troubled vision. We also have Gary Metras’s very physical yet
mystical poem of line-casting for a fish at the ocean, in “As If a Dream.” In
the midst of repetitive casting motions and physical sensations, suddenly the speaker’s
dead mother’s voice cries out, “Let me go.” And the speaker complies: “I cut
the line.” Linda Fischer’s poem, “As a Season Ends,” is succinct, wise, and
witty. “How much is finite!” she writes:
Even the universe threatens
to self-destruct as everything
we know flies off into space—
defying gravity,
eroding
the pillars of faith.
Finally, in case (like me) you are forgetful, Steven Ostrowski’s
“Old Woman” presents a brief encounter between an old wizened woman in her “sunbox
garden“ and our speaker, perhaps a young poet who happens by, not for the first
time, not realizing he is learning to listen. In her mirthful voice she responds
to his question about how she knows about next year’s weather: “Remember.
Remember I told you.”
