The Red Letter Poem Project #75

 NOW ONLINE!  I was asked to write an essay for Askold Melnyczuk’s Arrowsmith Journal about what I learned from the first year of the Red Letter Project.  It also became a meditation about the relationship between poet and reader.  If you’d like to take a look, here is a link –

https://www.arrowsmithpress.com/community-of-voices

-- and you’ll also be able to check out the variety of marvelous literary projects that appear under Askold’s Arrowsmith imprint.  Enjoy!

 

The Red Letter Poem Project

 

The Red Letters 3.0: A New Beginning (Perhaps)   

At the outset of the Covid pandemic, when fear was at its highest, the Red Letter Project was intended to remind us of community: that, even isolated in our separate homes, we could still face this challenge together.  As Arlington’s Poet Laureate, I began sending out a poem of comfort each Friday, featuring the fine talents from our town and its neighbors.  Because I enlisted the partnership of seven local arts and community organizations, distribution of the poems spread quickly – and, with subscribers sharing and re-posting the installments, soon we had readers, not only throughout the Commonwealth, but across the country.  And I delighted in the weekly e-mails I’d receive with praise for the poets; as one reader recently commented: “You give me the gift of a quiet, contemplative break—with something to take away and reflect on.”

 

Then our circumstance changed dramatically again: following the murder of George Floyd, the massive social and political unrest, and the national economic catastrophe, the distress of the pandemic was magnified.  Red Letter 2.0 announced that I would seek out as diverse a set of voices as I could find – from Massachusetts and beyond – so that their poems might inspire, challenge, deepen the conversation we were, by necessity, engaged in.

 

Now, with widespread vaccination, an economic rebound, and a shift in the political landscape, I intend to help this forum continue to evolve – Red Letter 3.0.  For the last 15 months, I’ve heard one question again and again: when will we get back our old lives?  It may pain us to admit it, but that is little more than a fantasy.  Our lives have been altered irrevocably – not only our understanding of how thoroughly interdependent we are, both locally and globally, but how fragile and utterly precious is all that we love.  Weren’t you bowled over recently by how good it felt just to hug a friend or family member?  Or to walk unmasked through a grocery, noticing all the faces?  So I think the question we must wrestle with is this: knowing what we know, how will we begin shaping our new life?  Will we quickly forget how grateful we felt that strangers put themselves at risk, every day, so that we might purchase milk and bread, ride the bus to work, or be cared for by a doctor or nurse?  Will we slip back into our old drowse and look away from the pain so many are forced to endure – in this, the wealthiest nation on the planet?  Will we stop noticing those simple beauties all around us?  The poet Mary Oliver said it plainly: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”  I will continue to offer RLP readers the work of poets who are engaged in these questions, hoping their voices will fortify all of ours.

 

Two of our partner sites will continue re-posting each Red Letter weekly: the YourArlington news blog (https://www.yourarlington.com/easyblog/entry/28-poetry/3035-redletter-072921), and the Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene (http://dougholder.blogspot.com).  If you would like to receive these poems every Friday in your own in-box – or would like to write in with comments or submissions – send correspondence to: steven.arlingtonlaureate@gmail.com.

 

In ancient Rome, feast days were indicated on the calendar by red letters.  To my mind, all poetry and art serves as a reminder that every day we wake together beneath the sun is a red-letter day.

 

                                                                                              – Steven Ratiner

 

 

Red Letter Poem #75

One could argue that central to Frank Bidart’s body of work is the notion of syntax – though I don’t mean the grammarian’s preoccupation with the rules of well-turned sentences.  Since it’s believed that language is innate in our species, then this poet’s work can be seen as a series of portraits revealing the intimate thought-structures that come to light in minds working their way into self-consciousness – in the author’s mind as well as a host of personas.  We find the bold assertions and sly deflections, the feints and false starts, eviscerating despair and the resurgent hope that holds our days together.  And each has its effect on how words interact.  Frank’s is the rich and complex music of our inner voices tangling and untangling what we believe is happening to us.  And within us.  And all around us.   

 

I’d just moved to California in 1973 and was working in a bookstore when I came across a debut poetry collection entitled Golden State.  How could a newcomer not pick it up?  But the poems within those covers were nothing like what I’d expected – nothing, in fact, like the work my college teachers had lectured about.  These voices were unusual but wholly mesmerizing; they possessed a musical charge that was akin to touching an uninsulated wire.  I’ve been following Frank’s poetry ever since.  Across a half-century of writing, he is perhaps most famous for a number of extended (and wildly inventive) dramatic monologues featuring such disparate voices as “Ellen West” (who suffered from anorexia and body dysmorphia); “Herbert White” (a psychopathic killer); and the great Russian dancer Vaslav Nijinsky.  But even in the shorter and more personal lyrics, his poems feel to me like the recitativo of a sprawling opera in which the singer is simultaneously hidden away in his inner sanctum and also spotlighted on the dark stage before a vast audience.  In other words: the predicament of human consciousness.

 

It would be impossible to overstate how highly regarded this poet’s work is, especially among other poets.  An exhaustive list of his awards and honors would require more space than I have, but some of the highlights include: the Pulitzer Prize, the Bollingen Prize, the National Book Award, and the Lifetime Recognition Award from the Griffin Trust for Excellence in Poetry.  Today’s poem comes from Frank’s eleventh collection, Against Silence (Farrar, Straus and Giroux), which will be published next month.  Here too, we are presented with a monologue, seemingly intended for one certain listener – the sort that occupies that singular place which love alone carves out inside us and which nothing else, across the long decades, can hope to fill.  He borrows the Persian phrase to marks that bittersweet absence.   And encroaching silence is pushed back yet again.      

 

 

 

On My Seventy-Eighth

 

 

There will be just two at

table tonight,

though to accommodate all those who have

so mattered

and still so matter in my life, the table will be

very long:

though empty. I say to you, Jaya

shoma khalee!

Your place is empty! Your place at my table

is saved

for you. I tried to construct in my soul

your necessary

grave (because you were dead/because you were

flawed/preoccupied,

concentrated on your soul, too often you were

cruel—) but

as I shoveled dirt onto your body, the dirt refused,

soon, to

cling.  Those who torment because you know you

loved them

refuse to remain buried. Is anything ever forgotten,

actually forgiven?

Shovel in hand, I saw how little I had

known you.

Tonight, I abjure the wisdom, the illusion of

forgetting. Come,

give up silence. Intolerable the fiction

the rest

is silence. To the dead, to the living:

your place

is empty.

 

 

                                    –– Frank Bidart

14 International Younger Poets Edited by Philip Nikolayev

 

14 International Younger Poets

Edited by Philip Nikolayev

Art And Letters

Cambridge, MA

www.artnletters.com

ISBN: 978-1-952335-23-5

138 Pages

Review by Off the Shelf Correspondent  Dennis Daly

Poets practice their profession as solitaries, with the time spans often lengthy, and the intensity profound. They hear voices and often respond with cursive arcs or, more commonly, by tapping computer keys. The disabling isolation demanded by this profession fosters envy, grandiose pretentions, and bitterness. Not exactly a healthy atmosphere for bardic lads and lasses coming into their own.

But when these young and, presumably, talented versifiers do break through, watch out: a tectonic shift in our cultural bearings may be in the offing. 14 International Younger poets, edited by Philip Nikolayev, may embed one of these singular and potentially seminal events. Nikolayev’s chosen poets do not project an ism or a thematic school like Ezra Pound’s Imagist Poets or Allen Tate’s The Fugitive Poets or Robert Creeley’s Black Mountain Poets. They seem more brash and more original like the Yale Younger Poets (chosen one per year). Consider, for instance, the eye-opening newness from that Yale group of Alan Dugan or Michael Casey.

Between the ages of 24 and 35, all fourteen of these poets reside in either the United States (albeit with different ethnic backgrounds) or India. The editor happily includes a large selection from each poet. Their techniques and their themes are diverse. Before the publication of this collection, they connected in virtual chat rooms and read together on Zoom. Here’s betting that those connections strengthened their poetic health.

Avinab Datta-Areng, from Kodaikanal, a scenic hill town in southern India, opens this artistic array with a series of fervent meditations. In his piece entitled Mongoose with Prey, Datta-Areng intervenes in a drama by just being there. As most physicists will attest, the existence of an observer changes everything. The poet delivers his details,

I hear the canal gushing louder than usual,

Muffled screams from the narrow lane.

A coconut falls on the grass,

Startling us both,

He looks up and sees me.

Our hunger now

Indistinguishable.

This has to end.

He knows this before me,

Lets go of his prey, disappears

Into the thicket, leaving me—

Notice, no decision is ever made here. Observation effectuates both climax and ending.

A poet on edge demands notice. Raquel Balboni, who recently published her first book of poems, XXX Poems, powers through life’s obstructions with a vengeance. In Twin Cars she says,

A strong current through the country drives me home

through skull blade and a 10 gallon headache

and what happened to living in sin together?

Two cars, a house and two devils.

Two cars standing on edge.

On their noses and their driving.

In my dopamine castle

All is well in my dopamine shell

All is fine in the nightmare hours

When the head, I think, shrinks

Some truths are more relevant to our lives than others. Marbleheader Justin Burnett, in his poem Flat-Earther, sees the limits of the human condition (and maybe poetics) clearly,

The world for all intents

And purposes is flat,

Speaking empirically,

Taking only my existence

As truth. Yes, I know how to see

The curve of the earth

At the beach—an inverse

Heat-off-the-pavement effect,

If you ask me (and it is

An optical illusion), suggestive

Only of equations

As relevant as metaphysics

To my life…

For those aficionados of formal poetry Blake Campbell is your guy. His poems are mature and well-wrought. His craft belies the moniker of “younger poets.” Within Campbell’s chosen forms he utilizes both impressive tonal and thematic ranges. In the poem After the Blizzard one can feel the remnants of the gale’s force as Campbell’s perceptions build and change directions,

The gusts that take the reins instead

Already court another storm.

You check the urge to count the blows

The wind delivers in its haste—

The dead leaves lifted from repose,

The footprints of a fox erased—

A translator of literary works from Rajasthani into English and a resident of New Delhi,, Sumit Chaudhary imbues his eye-popping sonnet entitled The Jealous Lover Shaming The Moon with memorable slant rhymes. The opening stanzas pin the moon on the interrogator’s sexual tapestry,

Tell me moon, without feeling ashamed

how many before me have had their gaze

returned with playful curvets in and out

of clouds, how many have doused

crude hungers with your silver fire

(how freely lent)? Was there arousal

as by my touch or did some higher

catch you in your hormonal carousel?

Paul Rowe, a Massachusetts North Shore denizen, stuns with his splendid, yet empathetic study, Cerebral Palsy. Regard this powerful denouement,

… We wait

for the voice from the sea to call forth, the light from the tower

To lead him back out—yet the waves push him back

To this shore, this body, this beach, this shell—The reef

Without language pulls us in—binds us together in blinding night

Some poetic images truly awe, but others literally usurp space in one’s mind and they won’t let go. Andreea Julia Scridon, a Romanian-American writer, delivers one of the latter types in her poem, The Old Lady in the Attic. Here is the heart of the poem and the image,

When she turned the light on,

her celestial head

with its white hair

lit up

like a light bulb.

Sometimes she would wave

toward my window,

and I, who looked like Peter Pan,

would wave back to her.

Kamayani Sharma’s poem Within Urdu celebrates and laments the history, sounds, and raw emotions held close within this Hindustani language. Sharma delivers her perceptions in an elegant ghazel. Pay attention to these closing lines and their current associations,

These days smuggled into names and addresses

Is a contraband of pain within Urdu.

Cities rechristened at night like girls “post marriage;”

Their past never to surface again within Urdu.

On the news we hear guttural cries of dying men.

Alas they dwelled—all those slain—within Urdu.

Space prohibits this reviewer from presenting more than this brief sampling of eight poems and should not suggest any diminishment of the remaining six poets and their impressive work. These pieces simply jumped out and grabbed me (as other pieces will grab you). The remaining poets—Zainab Ummer Farook, Emily Grochowski, Chandramohan S., Susmit Panda, Shruti Krishna Sareen, and Samuel Wronoski equally need to be read. The immediate purchase of this remarkable collection by you, dear reader, will solve this problem.

The Red Letter Poem Project: Featuring Doug Holder

 ***This is sponsored by the Arlington, Ma. Council of the Arts, and written by Steve Ratiner--Arlington Poet Laureate...... Ratiner founded this program, and many fine poets have appeared here..

                                        *****************************

  I was asked to write an essay for Askold Melnyczuk’s Arrowsmith Journal about what I learned from the first year of the Red Letter Project.  It also became a meditation about the relationship between poet and reader.  If you’d like to take a look, here is a link –

https://www.arrowsmithpress.com/community-of-voices

-- and you’ll also be able to check out the variety of marvelous literary projects that appear under Askold’s Arrowsmith imprint.  Enjoy!

 

The Red Letter Poem Project

 

The Red Letters 3.0: A New Beginning (Perhaps)   

At the outset of the Covid pandemic, when fear was at its highest, the Red Letter Project was intended to remind us of community: that, even isolated in our separate homes, we could still face this challenge together.  As Arlington’s Poet Laureate, I began sending out a poem of comfort each Friday, featuring the fine talents from our town and its neighbors.  Because I enlisted the partnership of seven local arts and community organizations, distribution of the poems spread quickly – and, with subscribers sharing and re-posting the installments, soon we had readers, not only throughout the Commonwealth, but across the country.  And I delighted in the weekly e-mails I’d receive with praise for the poets; as one reader recently commented: “You give me the gift of a quiet, contemplative break—with something to take away and reflect on.”

 

Then our circumstance changed dramatically again: following the murder of George Floyd, the massive social and political unrest, and the national economic catastrophe, the distress of the pandemic was magnified.  Red Letter 2.0 announced that I would seek out as diverse a set of voices as I could find – from Massachusetts and beyond – so that their poems might inspire, challenge, deepen the conversation we were, by necessity, engaged in.

 

Now, with widespread vaccination, an economic rebound, and a shift in the political landscape, I intend to help this forum continue to evolve – Red Letter 3.0.  For the last 15 months, I’ve heard one question again and again: when will we get back our old lives?  It may pain us to admit it, but that is little more than a fantasy.  Our lives have been altered irrevocably – not only our understanding of how thoroughly interdependent we are, both locally and globally, but how fragile and utterly precious is all that we love.  Weren’t you bowled over recently by how good it felt just to hug a friend or family member?  Or to walk unmasked through a grocery, noticing all the faces?  So I think the question we must wrestle with is this: knowing what we know, how will we begin shaping our new life?  Will we quickly forget how grateful we felt that strangers put themselves at risk, every day, so that we might purchase milk and bread, ride the bus to work, or be cared for by a doctor or nurse?  Will we slip back into our old drowse and look away from the pain so many are forced to endure – in this, the wealthiest nation on the planet?  Will we stop noticing those simple beauties all around us?  The poet Mary Oliver said it plainly: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”  I will continue to offer RLP readers the work of poets who are engaged in these questions, hoping their voices will fortify all of ours.

 

Two of our partner sites will continue re-posting each Red Letter weekly: the YourArlington news blog (https://www.yourarlington.com/easyblog/entry/28-poetry/3035-redletter-072921), and the Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene (http://dougholder.blogspot.com).  If you would like to receive these poems every Friday in your own in-box – or would like to write in with comments or submissions – send correspondence to: steven.arlingtonlaureate@gmail.com.

 

In ancient Rome, feast days were indicated on the calendar by red letters.  To my mind, all poetry and art serves as a reminder that every day we wake together beneath the sun is a red-letter day.

 

                                                                                              – Steven Ratiner

 

 

 

Red Letter Poem #74

There are no words.  It’s a phrase people resort to in moments of overwhelming emotion – sometimes in response to joy but, more commonly, grief.  Even at our best, we’re aware of how words cannot match the utter complexity of the lived moment nor fully represent the depth of our response.  And yet we feel the need for words nonetheless.  Perhaps that’s because language, when fully empowered, forms – not a mirror – but a second self within our experience, a companion that exists both independently but also in a sort of harmony with what we call (for lack of a better term) our real lives.  And this is not only true for the author but for we readers as well who may discover, entering this shadow-realm, a new sense of what actually matters in our sunlit days.   Such is the case for poet Doug Holder who, in today’s installment, is allowing us to be one of the “treasured guests” to visit with his wife Dianne before she was recently lost to cancer.  It was not the artfulness of this poem that drew me in but its astonishing intimacy.  There is no doubt about the actuality behind this scene – and yet, in its poetic incarnation, we feel we are receiving a privileged understanding of these three beings, there on the verge of an overwhelming grief.  Doug told me Dianne, the gentlest of souls, was a long-time nurse who also wrote poetry and published a chapbook.  But her personal paradise might be the couple’s "cocktail hour” where she’d be “reading, listening to Chet Baker and writing in her journal.”    It is not at all surprising to come across poets willing to dedicate vast amounts of time and vital energy toward exploring their own writing and career.  Far less common is an individual who will offer that sort of dedication to promoting the work of other poets, toward enhancing the vitality of the very artform.  But that is certainly true of Doug: founder of Ibbetson Street Press, creative writing teacher at Endicott College, and publisher of a host of popular blogs that feature poetry and interviews with diverse writers from Massachusetts and beyond.  His ‘Poet to Poet, Writer to Writer’ cable program (blog-spot.com) is a tremendous resource of literary insight and delight.  I feel honored to debut this beautiful elegy in the Red Letters.     And yes: there are no words.  Yet they are so utterly necessary, we reach for them anyway.  And our day is deepened because they were shared.       Dianne At Sleep                (for my wife Dianne Robitaille) As she lays in bed framed pictures, splashes of muted color arise from her tousled head. She mutters some B movie script from a nightly passionate play, while the cat consumes her, his green eyes, a hungry verdant blaze.   We both lay just below her breasts and sleep in a lap for transient, treasured guests.

 

 

            –– Doug Holder

A New Way to Listen by Gerry Grubbs

 

Gerry Grubbs is an attorney who practices law in Cincinnati OH. He has several books from Dos Madres Press, his most recent is Chrysanthemum Moon. This poem touched me, because it is about his communication with his late wife. We are sort of fellow travelers--doug holder

A New Way To Listen

When my beloved calls now

I cannot hear her voice

Her voice is the dew

On the morning flowers

So I must learn

A new way to listen




She calls and it is

The sound of the sea on the sand

Sinking and withdrawing

Now coming again

Now again




My beloved calls

And says my name

As a ray of sun

Illuminating all

Her voice falls on




How can she be so near

When I feel so far away




I hear the birds sing

And it is her voice calling

For my light to rise




Her voice is the sky

Full of that blue

That knows how to call me

And I am the cloud that her voice calls

And that she fills with rain

Which is falling

As my tears fall

Emptying me out

To be filled again

And again

As it pleases her




And it pleases her to find me

Even when I am not looking for her

She still comes

She still watches over me

The way a song watches

Over its notes by singing

Me into existence.

Double Trio by Nathaniel Mackey: Review by Donald Wellman

 

Double Trio by Nathaniel Mackey

  Review by Donald Wellman

I have been reading Nathaniel Mackey’s Double Trio (New Directions, 2020), three volumes, each containing multiple sections in which strands from his long serial poems, Song of the Andoumboulou and Mu are interwoven as was the case in Splay Anthem (New Directions, 2006). The development of these serial poems is a lifework stemming from 2002, a lifework of challenging dimensions that the reader may find daunting, as I do, especially with the recent release of Double Trio. Achieving a remarkable degree of stylistic consistency, each poem and each strophe expands through line and syllable using a prosody first found in School of Udhra where the rhythm of line and strophe is extended by means of monosyllabic hinge points that force enjambment or torquing, “sleepless, eyes like rocks, / night / like so many such nights I’ve known.” The poems of Double Trio adhere to a “bedouin impulse,” pursuing a mélange of threads that incorporate jazz, politics, anthropology and spiritual studies.

Double Trio is structured by the meetings and wanderings of a disparate group of individuals as they experience emotions that are often identified with a gnostic presence, the waft of a perfume, ineffable but vital, “melodic pout, Bedouin updraft” (Trio I, Tej Bet, 73). These comings and goings describe layers of ritual in superposition with the rational realms of quotidian reality, although that reality too appears to be a virtual construct. One of Mackey’s models is found in Victor Turner’s The Forest of Symbols: Aspects of Ndembu Ritual. In conversation with Paul Naylor, as early as 2002, Mackey recalls Baudelaire's poem "Correspondences," which he first read in his late teens. Turner uses the poem as an epigraph. Mackey explains, “The book is about

how the Ndembu intuit and enact correspondences between themselves and their environment and among themselves, about a sort of lived poetry, a sense of underlying rapport, about how they sustain or, when it's ruptured, restore such a sense.” In the opening pages of Tej Bet, Mackey again cites Turner, “Ritual, scholars are coming to see, is precisely a mechanism that periodically converts the obligatory into the desirable.” In other words, the obligatory can be said to be punctuated by desire. In the gatherings of spiritual scholars or adepts, including the migrating peoples that populate Double Trio, identity resolves itself and filters through an immanent “might have been.” Ritual enables a “we” and a “way.”

There was a we we were on

our

way towards regardless, no utopic elsewise

too utopic, a we we would eventually be. “Let

the parts congregate and grow,” we got up

insist-

ing a shout so loud it lifted us, our feet left the

floor, no matter it might’ve been mental at

most . . . It was an abstract inaudible ring shout,” (239).

The “ritual” in hand here is modelled on celebrations held by African American congregations. States of “might’ve been” opposed to states of actuality form identity. Virtual, eventual, obscured, abstract or immanent states “lift” the congregation, as an “a we” or an all of us, coinage found in the work of Kamau Brathwaite. Immanence and community are the pivots of Double Trio.

It’s a spell to’ve inhabited a space that splays or spread out. Didn’t Heidegger speak of how poetry dwells? Immanent to the body and released during sex is a perfume associated by Mackey with gnostic spirituality. The bodies of the Andoumboulou, primal Dogon creatures, imperfect or not quite human, as they cross virtual worlds, spread in multiple directions, a scattered flight, in which they seek union among themselves. Different bodies in different conversations create a multilayered discourse, social reality, as it were, ever on the edge of happening. The burr or buzz of song or choric soughing, mixed with pleading and clapping are “the one truth” known by participants.

“Well, well, well.” Said to have been said of Sough

Choir, said of what was, whatever it was, at two

removes, two the very least we knew, Said to’ve

been

said to’ve been caught up in burr, buzz the one

truth we knew . . . So spoke the we I awaited, a

collective wish made by a wished for collective,

his or that mystic bent, splay immanence, this or

that

ythmic event,

“Sough Choir,’ -- mu one hundred and thirty-eight part—Double Trio 1: Tej Bet, 326

In the Nationaal Book Award winning Splay Anthem (2002, 2006) dogon figures work to similar effect. There is a remarkable and deliberate sonance of signs that suggests “dotted bodies,” cattle among the thundering horses of Lascaux and a stick figure that might indicate a body, perhaps that of shaman or ghost among the cattle and bison figured on the walls, the animals too in ghostly guise. I remember Mackey in the years of the composition of Double Trio, bracing himself upon his walking stick, as if he too were a virtual part of the world figured in his poetry, a shaman himself. “Signs / all around, how to read them one of us / knew. It wasn’t we were lost, we lost / track absorbed as we were . . . dotted / bodies bespoke ‘immanent elsewhere’” (97). Twisted and dance-like lines bespeak immanences layered in time and on the page. Perception of this sort consists of layers in both Charles Olson, dear to Mackey, and Giles Deleuze, whose many plateaus are central to my Expressivity and to Mackey’s thought. In Expressivity I undertook an analysis of the forms of immanence so central to the disorienting swirl of Mackey’s poetry. I wrote:

In “Anuncio’s Last Love Song,” Mackey refers to “paper” as “wood’s pressed immanence.” A plane of immanence is always virtual, Deleuze writes, and then he continues, “Absolute immanence is in itself; it is not in something, or to something: it does not depend on an object or belong to a subject.” Immanence has a life, and its life is found not in moments that happen to collide or build upon one another. It exists between moments and “offers the immensity of an empty space where one sees the event yet to come and already happened, in the absolute of an immediate consciousness.” “Paper,” in Mackey’s poem, is subsequent to virtual rings that circle like halos and are likened to pearls, a gnostic image for the soul. His lines require context: Soul and Self’s lyric digest. Circling round our heads went rings of paper, wood’s pressed immanence, pearls we cut

our teeth on, strung, string broken, let’s go . . . Comments on the unwinding of Mackey’s baroque syntax, notes sustained for many bars on a singular horn, further implicate immanence as transcendent to the page, an extended modality of reading’s suggestibilities. “Occasions” or “meanwhiles” exist between “moments” of perception. Here are glimpses of virtualities that are not bound in time. An “occasion” is a plane of consistency populated by multiple moments of perception. (Expressivity 182)

In this poetry from its earlies conception, rings of smoke, haloes, and wells of gnostic light take the form of perfume or melodic pout, as in the case of the minister who in his spiritual transport, with its distinctive postures of crouching and leaping, is driven by or responds to the loud and rhapsodic noise of celebration. In this paper I have been tracking various instances of the immanence that offers glimpses of the wholeness underlying Double Trio.

Mackey’s method of composition seems to be best addressed in the section entitled “I-Insofar’s Last Love Song,” So’s Notice (Trio II). The title of this passage is reminiscent of several of thevpassages with a title that read “Anuncio’s Last Love Song.” “I-Insofar’s Last Love Song” recounts a lying back, a repose or restraint, “what / lay close not to be let in , , , Ooze of honey I’d / have said but held back, tongue tugged on by / tej.” (272). Tej is the Ethiopian honey-wine or mead often invoked for its intoxicating and trance-inducing qualities. The sexual imagery like the perfume cited earlier occupies a between space, as it were between two layers of virtuality. “In-betweenness” is the essence of liminality, “inter / polated, nonce, anomalous kiss.” The imagery of closeness but not quite closeness rhymes with the imagery of composition, an imagery of language use. This section begins with the lines “I listened and I wrote away / from what came at once. To write was to / be at odds or at an angle, bent ventricle I’d / have / said /

had it had to do with heart.” The language loop of listening and writings exists at an angle with the heart, “bent” as in the bent notes of the blues. The image is also quantum-mechanical, a science that posits worlds at right angle to related worlds. The reference here is both to recovery from heart surgery and reminiscences of love. The art is to resist any easy fusion of emotions or conditions and “to write away from” these towards a moment that is itself in itself. Mackey’s grammar contains so many sweet contortions “had it had to do.” Here I hear those “bent notes” clearly. The loveliness of this section of Mu is completely present in the strophe entitled. “I looked and I wrote and I wrote away from / what I saw. I called her crow’s feet filigree” (274), lines recognized as denial in virtuality. Double Trio evokes spaces of love on every page.

Double Trio, a consummate love poem is also a poem about war and dying. In So’s Notice (Double Trio II), the subject of death via decapitation, resonates with a horrify aspect of the world we inhabit, “Decapitism stuck to the end of my tongue” (“Song of the Andoumboulou 1661/2,” 49). Again: “We sought refuge, decapitism at us where- / ever er looked. They were starting the next / war, they were stealing the sky’s ozone,” The scene could well be Iraq with memories of decapitations executed by Isis. (Trio 3, Nerve Church, “Song of the Andouboulou: 216,” 34). “Decapitism is an aspect of capitalism, it’s cause.i Consider the history of oil in the Middle East. Under capitalism, life fades into invisibility, “Citizen vs denizen an inequation we came to / as well, the TV on lest we missed the latest out- / rage. . . . Toward / the end we were only so much breath” (Trio III, Nerve Church, 131). Dying embodies immanence, “a / deep singing sounding like shadows of a voice, gruff / murmur, immanence caught between limbs of a / tree outside” (226). Synesthesia of sound and image one of the destination in Double Trio that

disappears as approached, and yet such states are the object of Mackey’s poetry. Nerve Church presents us with a constant disappearing, a felt disappearing.

Whatever it was, I was feel-

ing it. It was all so inordinate I thought, whatever it was

the horns we couldn’t hear, the water we couldn’t see, a

se-

cret world, whose effects we moved at large in, an im-

manence unvalved, unstopped . . . (156). i "In this installment of the ongoing 'Song of the Andoumboulou,' the poem's transient 'we' stop at the Stick City Ashram. They rename capitalism 'decapitism,' rename prophecy 'profitry,' rename business 'bitness' and revisit poetic dicta, all in the service of 'thought's due ad- / vent.'" — Nathaniel M

*****  Poet, translator, and editor Donald Wellman was born in Nashua, New Hampshire, and attended the University of New Hampshire. Following military service, he earned a PhD from the University of Oregon. ... Wellman is the founding editor of O. ARS, an annual anthology of poetry and poetics.