Friday, February 14, 2020

XXX Poems By Raquel Balboni

XXX Poems
By Raquel Balboni
Arts & Letters
Cambridge, MA
47 Pages

Review by Dennis Daly

Raquel Balboni butters her readers with luscious phrases and salted cream stanzas in her first book entitled XXX Poems. She churns her verses with naked abandon in an avant-garde display of unabashed kisses ingrained with unabashed cravings.

In her poem Girl in the Picture Balboni meditates on the smallness or largeness of things. A blue landscape forwards into a sweetness of bright and sunny days. But, inside, weather refugees fog up windows and mark a certain heart sickness as the world’s evolution inexorably continues, offering ancient songs to those avoiding the snow. The movement through the piece turns upbeat and centers on the power of the pictured girl. With a spreadable touch Balboni leads her readers into the largeness of her tableau this way,

A guideline in the blue landscape
feels like a small room that feels giant because everything is
There is no distinguisher of the shapes or walls of the room. The
            blue dominates.
Leopards move outside in the dust hills
away from the means to be certain direction of translation when
the stars the moon and the sun are certain
             of other things.

Funny Place, Balboni’s poem of winking admonishments, leads its reader into a definable destination before assailing him or her with the sharp edges of extraneous, even alien images. Once set into the piece, the sharp edges become part of an overriding two-dimensional poetic cubism with its own logic. A stone altar, borrowed from nature, centers other religious implications in this strange, angularly sensual, funhouse. Consider these lines,

Over a table of stone from the edge of the forest where the
            vines made you bleed
A stone from there cast upon a four legged standing statue
So sturdy as the mirror made to look us 100 years older and
             suddenly with a lot of miracles to be held
Never try again to photograph the four unlit candles on the
             mantle in the funhouse mirror
Did I mention this strange bed in a room of blue almost furry

Beware the unsatisfied preying mantis. Or pity her in her sleeplessness and attempts to connect, not by preying, but by praying. Balboni’s poem Praying Angel Insomnia kisses and tells. Initial sexual innuendos take flight as mystical and transcendent flame, a white light of longing. Her persona flees the indifferent world. She craves connections from ritual magic, the angelic type (I think).  Here the poet’s persona contemplates abandonment,

Angel in a field oh my darlin
a black and white ghostly film grain
oh my darling, coffee cup
full of ice and dark like sleeplessness
on a bus for far too long
walking in the city with long hair
the sky is predicted to come out tomorrow
to sing a weeping lullaby
my skin feels like it is moving
as i crawl out from my own throat
i can see the otherside of trust
when i stand on the tip of my big tooth

Accept, a poem of self-recognition and indulgence, drizzles onto the page in distinct moments. In this geometric world that Balboni creates alertness is everything. The poet’s protagonist flourishes by mingling with timelessness and the tolerance of night. She ignores limits. In the end the intimate details coalesce,  

The night is pleasant and inside a blend of time limits
A grey braid and a purple coat, trying hard not to notice the
Because the pot of honey is translucent anyway, the sun shows
              behind the slow drip
Staying here with her much longer and coming home to long
staying here until everything matches

Obsession sneaks into the lover like an unwritten poem. It expands, takes odd turns and seeks to control a universe of desire. Balboni’s piece entitled She details such a compulsion. Mystery and secrecy conspire against the determined lover, creating delusions along the way. The narrator consumes bits of knowledge about the object of her affection hungrily: where she goes, what she wears, the books she reads. In the end sagacity prevails. The poet’s persona finds a certain serenity but bemoans the inescapable,

all I wanted was to see her up close
to see the way her arms blended with her neck
the sweet creamy skin, the smooth organ so there and soft
although it seemed my eyes played tricks on me when i looked
            at all

never will i be allowed to follow her into the secret woods
like a magic trick you ask how but never want to know
the mess in realizing nothing is as special as it may seem
in the blissful dank smell of moving soil
peace is left to be

How can you quibble with midnight coffee? Balboni clearly delights in coffee (in this as well as other poems), among other bedside pleasures. Her poem City and Awake mesmerizes with a slow delineation of image and passion beginning with her black coffee, through her meditations on cutlery and monkeys, and finally love. The poem opens thusly,

with midnight coffee by my bedside
i got invited to a poetry party that i did not go to
poetry in my fade parade
operating this body this tool this wave
on the morning bedside:
green juice, black coffee
in a monkey mug & in the constellations mug
prove it worthy a restless time to consider the cleanest cup

Don’t underestimate restlessness in a poet. And especially don’t underestimate Raquel Balboni and her “wakey wakey,” caffeine-powered, poetic kisses. They are top drawer.

Wednesday, February 12, 2020

Child Ward of the State By Eileen Cleary

Child Ward of the State
By Eileen Cleary
Main Street Rag Publishing
Charlotte, NC
ISBN: 978-1-59948-746-5
56 Pages

Review by Dennis Daly

Poignant to the point of defining poignancy, Eileen Cleary’s first book of poems, Child Ward of the Commonwealth, shakes the soul with her truth-telling narratives of childhood trauma and dysfunction. Cleary somehow melds a mature poetic sensibility with a child’s wide-eyed ability to see the world’s wreckage with wonder and awe. Her persona relates adventures of fairy-tale-like brutality, not unlike fables from the Brothers Grimm. However, Cleary’s anecdotes are not mythologized; they are direct and very personal.

One of the collection’s most compelling poems entitled On What to Forget stakes out the mnemonic territory utilized by Cleary and delivers illuminating slivers of juvenile reasoning and adult pathos to boot. The piece begins with a four-year old cowering under a table as the skin of her sister’s arm, aflame from a kitchen fire, literally melts. Through negative constructions the narrator tries, through time, to assuage the little girl’s guilt and place it where it belongs. The poet says,

Not your mother.
    She wasn’t cooking,

didn’t leave that pan to boil,
     didn’t leave her children

under the porch,
    hide-and-go seeking

through its lattice.
    Ready or not here I come!

into the kitchen,
    She wasn’t even there.

Grow older, grow smaller
    because you did nothing, you

did nothing but hide

Left to their own devices, human youngsters turn feral like other mammalian offspring in synonymous circumstances. In her poem When the Social Worker Took Me, Cleary’s persona explains with perfect juxtapositions and impressive, if hair-raising, choice of specifics. Consider these lines,

…I watch
over myself—teach myself
to speak. I say lipshick or pisgetti,
poke holes in my tights, pull snarls
from my hair, toss and catch
a puppy on the stairs—I hide
in an attic, clamor through the halls,
map my slap-dash kingdom
in crayon on the walls. The neighbors
dial phones, shut behind their doors.

Childcare in the best of circumstances can on a bad day lead to neglect or dubious disciplinary behaviors.  Without the presence of permanent kinship, the possibilities of cruelty multiply exponentially. In her piece Toaster the poet describes in straightforward language one such unseemly incident, an assault on her little brother,

The baby sitter shouts.

John, when will you get serious?

She jams Johnny’s hand
into the toaster while I freeze,

bury my own unbuttered fingers
into the pockets of my jumper.

He screeches like a barn owl,
hissing, and flapping his arms

against the brute walls
of the too-small room.

Children on the outside of family life hunger for inclusion. They dream dreams of especial treatment, stability, and comforting acceptance. A full belly and an unchangeable name are part of the deal. Denial of these perks breed resentment and pugnaciousness. Cleary’s poem Foster Care Definition ends via a fantasy culminating in a very real demand,

I learn the zebra knows its herd
because patterns dazzle
their family names across the green.
I want my name to dazzle too.

I begin to wish myself an elephant.
At St. Boniface’s, St. Mary’s, St. Joseph’s,
St. Francis’, back to my third grade
report on pachyderms, how I pray:
make me an elephant, God.

Let my skin wrinkle over my hide,
Not for the size, Not for the skin.
I want to be family. Let me in.

Throughout the bulk of these poems the narrator’s mother takes center stage, even when she is not there. Sometimes it’s not pretty. Family bonds, even in dire circumstances, resist tampering. Children love unconditionally. The poet’s piece How the Goldfish deals with strategies of remembrance and forgetting. Here is the heart of the poem,

My foster mother tells me forget,
but not to forget my birth mom
passed out across the front threshold,
how we kids only use the back.

So I forget:
How-dee-dow-dee-diddle o  
Through our days and how she
Hums herself into a blanket.

How after again the ambulance
takes her, we play Wizard of Oz,
follow bricks through Flaxen
Park to a blackbird tower.

How when she’s back home
we think we wished her there.
How even on bad days,
her scoring paragoric—

Acceptance and reconciliation with old ghosts can be part of a healing process after years of hard knocks and open wounds. Cleary’s poem I’m Thinking of Re-entering My Body delineates such a curative progression. A damaged soul needs to be well grounded in flesh and blood. The poet’s persona seeks out her earthly shell in these lines,

We’ll have this reunion before it
thinks I’ve died and follows.
While it’s open to my custody,
keeping its musts of eat and drink.
When I re-enter, I like to think
we’ll scribble its history,
its journey erasable
without the ink of me.        

Confessional poetry such as Cleary’s that dwells on brittle emotion and memory is difficult enough to write. But, when told through the eyes of a child or a maturing adult, that same poetry becomes both magical and medicinal.  An amazing debut of an astonishing poet.

Sunday, February 09, 2020

Stephanie Schorow Brings Her Naked Eye to Boston's Infamous Combat Zone.

Stephanie Schorow Brings Her Naked Eye to Boston's Infamous Combat Zone.

Interview by Doug Holder

Inside the Combat Zone: The Stripped Down Story of Boston’s Most Notorious Neighborhood

"Upscale restaurants, majestic theaters, and luxury condos line the streets of downtown Boston today. Students, office workers, doctors, and shoppers navigate the busy sidewalks along Washington and Boylston Streets, giving little thought to the historical significance of their surroundings. The bustle distracts passersby from what may be the city’s dirtiest little secret: these blocks were once home to Boston’s most notorious neighborhood. The Combat Zone, a five-plus-acre, city- sanctioned adult entertainment district, was as sordid and alluring as anything found in Amsterdam or Vegas. Indeed, Boston’s now tony neighborhood once resembled the set of HBO’s The Deuce, all with the blessing of city officials."   (From the authors website)

I had the pleasure of interviewing journalist Stephanie Schorow on my Somerville Media Center TV show  Poet to Poet Writer to Writer.

Doug Holder: When I was at Boston University in the 1970s, I visited the Combat Zone to get a taste of  “real life.” I remember I walked into a bar, and a lady of the night looked at me and told the bartender: “Get this kid a glass of milk.”

Stephanie S: (Laughs). Yes a lot of young men went there. Someone once told me that they went there so they would have a story to tell for a lifetime.

DH: Why did you decide to choose the Combat Zone as the subject of your book?

SS: Well I have written extensively about Boston. I have written books on Boston's drinking history, the Brinks Robbery, etc... My subjects are usually offbeat. An editor said to me ,when I was looking for a new subject, “ What about the Combat Zone?” I knew immediately that was it---a real Boston story!

DH: Ironically the Combat Zone was set up to stop the spread of pornography.

SS: Yes it is ironic. In the 1960s the sort of red light district was Scollay Square—around where Government Center is today. It was a warren of little streets. It was a seedy area, and had a lot of burlesque houses, sailor bars, and tattoo parlors. At the time it was considered very risque. But it was nothing like the Combat Zone. A lot of folks went to the old Howard—a popular burlesque hall—that was more popular than the Bunker Hill Monument and the Fanueil Hall landmark, for instance. The centerpieces of the Combat Zone were the old Pilgrim Theater, and the Naked i. There were many other clubs-- there were at least 34 adult entertainment businesses in the area from bookstores to strip clubs—a lot of “adult options.” City planners, city elders, like Barney Frank, wondered “ What are we going to do about this?” We are trying to create the new Boston. We can't just close establishments down—there are Supreme Court precedents to consider.” So they started a zone—with the hope that all the adult businesses would stay there—and not travel anywhere else. Basically they said, “”If you have it here—you can't have it there.”

DH: Where there isolated pockets that developed outside the Combat Zone?

SS: Some cropped up near Kenmore Square, and Allston, but there was no concentration like the Combat Zone.

DH: A lot of musicians cut their teeth in the Combat Zone, right?

SS: I interviewed a couple of musicians from Berkeley. They wanted to go nameless. They talked about getting gigs at the strip clubs.  Comedian Jay Leno got his start playing the strip clubs... this is true of many comedians. From the early 1960s to the early 1970s many clubs had live bands. Later taped music, etc... took the bands' place.

DH: There was a quote in your book that said the average guy who went to the Combat Zone was a middle-aged, accountant from Newton--a family-man sort of guy.

SS: Well the business conventioneers were big business for the Combat Zone. Often while these men's wives were shopping they would ask a bellboy or such, “ Where is the action?”

DH: Were there mixed uses in the area?

SS: Yes there were some—like the famed Hand the Hatter hat shop and the Essex Deli.
The deli was housed in the Liberty Tree building.

DH: You wrote about some of the strippers, like Chesty Morgan, and Julie Jordan.

SS: Julie Jordan is very memorable. She went to one of my book events. She is a very sweet and articulate woman. Back in the day Jordan was a hippy sort. On a lark, she danced at one of the clubs—and then got hooked on it. She became know for her native-American costume, and was dubbed Princess Cheyenne. She was a real attraction for men back then.

DH: So,  was the cliched answer from strippers when asked why they do what they do: “I am working my way through college” to some extent true?

SS: Yes. I have talked with a number who said that. And some of them are highly regarded professional people now. And surprisingly they said they didn't regret dancing, but they are glad they got out of it.

DH: How did the Combat Zone get it's name?

SS: It started in the 50s. There were a lot of sailors and soldiers who went to drink there, and eventually some got into brawls. The military police were in there all the time. In 1950 a judge opined, "This is really a Combat Zone." But it was really coined by a series of articles in the Boston Herald American in 1964, in which they used the word throughout. 

DH” What caused the demise of the area?

SS: In 1976, there was a killing of a Harvard student-a native of Boston's North End—outside a bar in the zone.   Its reputation started to really go downhill then. The Combat Zone went on for another decade—but after this it was clear its days were numbered. Eventually legislation and city ordinances killed it.