Fence magazine, v 14 nos 1 & 2 (fall 2011)

TO ROBERT CREELEY

Creeley, I’m an
immigrant. I cannot
measure such

exactitude without falling
off a cliff. I partner
with dead socialists

and robbed fascists
every evening when
my teeth

ache and my knee
collapses. Creeley, I
wasn’t born in

some faddish manger
overseen by goatish
men in white

robes being muses
to my infant
screams. At times death

brings cartons of stolen
books in a cart
that runs over me in

my sleep. Creeley, I

have to pay my accounts,
I thrive on excess.

There is that lampless house.
The path unlit, and the pirate’s
sign swaying in the wind. (Anis Shivani)

Of all the pieces I might read in a month, or even in a year, there aren’t that many that cause me to pause, just short of breath, but somehow, Fence manages more than a few in every issue I’ve seen so far, including this short piece by Anis Shivani. There have probably been poems from and dedicated to/for Robert Creeley numbering into the hundreds, but somehow, Anis manages one with a delightfully charming freshness. There are a whole slew of pieces in this current issue that are worth mentioning, including pieces by Anthony Madrid, Adam Jordan and Jennifer C. Manion, and Ariana Reines’ “Baraka,” a long poem all in caps, reminiscent of angry, half-(or full-)mad paper scraps one usually finds on car windshields in urban centres. Covering five and a half pages, her poem begins:

I CAN’T WAIT FOR MEXICO TO CONQUER AMERICA

FOR THE FRENCH OF CANADA TO BUILD A RAFT ON LAKE CHAMPLAIN

I CAN’T WAIT FOR LASER SURGERY

I CAN’T WAIT TO VOMIT WHAT I JUST ATE AND SCALD THE PLACE WITH THE CUM ON IT

I CAN’T WAIT FOR THE SIGNING IN THE BLOOD, MY SIX WIVES AND SEVEN HUSBANDS, MY BROWN PIANO MY BLACK GUITAR MY ASHEN SKIRT AND HEAVY KNEES

I CAN’T WAIT TO QUIT THIS BROKEN HOME

I CAN’T WAIT TO QUIT THIS BROKEN HOME

I CAN’T WAIT TO QUIT THIS BROKEN HOME

An interesting counterpoint to this is a piece by Beth Murray, her “It Turned Out,” that exists as another list poem featuring repetition, writing:

It turned out that she was holding her son’s hand.

It turned out that her friends were surrounding her bed.

It turned out that her son called me after everyone left.

It turned out that I came in the middle of the night to meet her son.

The accumulations in both poems end up in staggering places, about as far apart as one could imagine, but using similar means in interesting ways. Are these pieces in the same issue, an accident, or something more deliberate by the editors? Without any kind of clue from the editors themselves, its impossible to know. Other highlights in the issue include a poem by Maxine Chernoff, and two wonderful short poems by Norma Cole that I would very much like to see more of. Are there any more?

APPROACH

by water in the glass bottom boat. As if seen through a cloud. Oil refinery across from flight path. Big white drums. Wall of mountains moving past not singing. Stringing shadows on the wall, floor, beyond even me as though it’s already been written. Red flowers on our left, his right, in the background, some apples and green grapes. “That’s not why you sent me here.” Compromising was called clearing one’s throat. Do they operate? Fish transforms itself in order to survive.

Fence magazine is consistently a delight, and one of but a handful of non-Canadian journals that appeal, but I wonder about the mix of “poems,” “fiction” and “other.” The list of “other” usually includes some particularly interesting non-fiction, something this issue hasn’t really included. Alex Carnevale’s “In The Aughts” is particularly compelling, an odd creative non-fiction memoir of a decade’s attention, but still, there was something I felt was missing. Some issues earlier, for example, there was a magnificent interview with Alice Notley I was quite taken with. Am I complaining for no reason, am I asking, perhaps, for too much?