Walter Ancarrow, ETYMOLOGIES

 

pumpernickel from German pumpern, “to pass gas,” and Nickel, “goblin,” for its unpalatable properties—fart goblin, ass kraken, Puck of petarade, ghost of dinners past, bumyip, Poot the Magic Dragon, Zephyrus unzipped, Eurus of your anus, Boreas of the ass-burp, Notus of the not-me, riddle of the stinks, will-o’-the-whiff, Sirens but deadly, nereid of the nether burble, Pan’s toot, the Vegetable Lamp of Fartery, flight of the Nachtkrapp, munchkin of the butt-scrunch, bansheesh, shiffrit, CHAOS WHO ENGULFED THE WORLD AND BROKE THE WINDS. Father, expel my inner demons.

I’m intrigued by New York City (and Alexandria, Egypt) poet Walter Ancarrow’s full-length debut, ETYMOLOGIES (Berkeley CA: Omnidawn, 2023), a lyric examination and play of etymologies, threading multiple languages and dense lyric, holding to small spaces and expansive perspectives. Ancarrow’s book-length suite threads through a sequence of self-contained and formally daring and fresh lyric sections that accumulate their way through the polyglot, akin to a field notes on language itself. “what we know of the body:,” he writes, mid-way through, “that it comes from Old English bodig; that it/ begins with lips parting and an exhalation of breath; that it ends in why; that / it is ‘otherwise of obscure origin’.” Referencing Greek origins, Dharawak aborigines, Mandarin, Old English and Saints, Ancarrow articulates the interconnectedness between a variety of world cultures and how words, and even thoughts, are connected and formed. Ancarrow’s playful and quick wit speaks to interrelated and polyphonic meaning, pulling apart origins and conventions, and how deeply we are all interconnected. This is a startling and thoughtful debut.

 

 

A fabulist told of null-country, a realm in the shadow of Tagalog bundok, mountain, which city-goers called the bookdocks. These mountains drew zigzags along the sky as if signed by an illiterate. In their folds sheep slid from one valley-side to another, beads of abaci adding nothing of value. The flowers were meaningless because unsensed.

In another version it was not the mountains that were a wasteland but the city. Its depths harbored barbarian ships and argots, while the subway map to get there was clear only to those fluent in color-speak. Neon signs flashed on and off unsure of their decrees. Each alleyway ended in longing because you did not go down it.

In both the moral was the same: people between city and mountain are most unhappy. For them, meaning is always everywhere else.