Lisa Jarnot, A Princess Magic Presto Spell

 

  Dust and spirit

       in the cavernous eyes

of our dead cat

   help to immanentize the eschaton

        toward a fruit-based strangeness

  with the head of a girl

with the snake of a body

        at the Erie County Fair

in the Synod of Dort

find a solitude,

near the chessman and the tax returns

    where the lammas dream

(“PART 9 : TRIM ROSES, MARY”)

I’ve only recently discovered that New York poet Lisa Jarnot had a book out last year, A Princess Magic Presto Spell (Chicago Il: Flood Editions, 2019), a larger version of a project she discussed during a 2015 interview at Touchthe Donkey (a section of the work-in-progress appeared in the fourth issue), as well as in the acknowledgments of the current collection:

I began composing this poem after the birth of my daughter Bea in May of 2009. Realizing that my vocation in life was now motherhood, I settled upon the modest goal of writing down three words a day, when possible. At the end of every yearly cycle, usually in late summer, I combined those phrases into the individual sections of this poem. It had long been my goal to write a book-length poem, and I had long struggled to find a form for such a project. I was surprised that during a new and exhausting and exhilarating stage of life as a caretaker for a young child, just such a project would come into fruition.

Jarnot is the author of multiple full-length poetry collections, including Some Other King of Mission (Providence RI: Burning Deck, 1996), Ring of Fire (Zoland Books, 2001; Salt Publishers, 2003), Black Dog Songs (Chicago Il: Flood Editions, 2003), Night Scenes (Chicago Il: Flood Editions, 2008) and Joie De Vivre: Selected Poems 1992-2012 (San Francisco CA: City Lights, 2013) [see my review of such here], as well as Robert Duncan, The Ambassador from Venus: ABiography (Berkeley CA: University of California Press, 2012). A Princess Magic Presto Spell is structured into nine sections (one annual section over nine years), the first three of which also appeared as a chapbook under the same name published by Solid Objects in 2014 [see my review of such here]. The collage-structure of her book-length poem is curious (she has worked previously via collage, such as through her first full-length collection, but not so deliberately or strategically, one might suggest), purposefully built as a kind of accumulation (and something I attempted similarly over those first three months of my second daughter, Rose—a poem equally prompted, structured and distracted—finally produced as The Rose Concordance, a poem that eventually landed in my full-length collection, A perimeter). There is something impressive about how the poem holds itself together through such an extended composition, moving from rough notes to an annual structuring to a decade’s-worth of full-length architecture. How does a poem develop over such a period without losing cohesion? Her canvas is wide, even as her subject matter moves both outward, and more intimate, into the small, daily spaces of domestic and parenting. As she responds as part of her Touch the Donkey interview:

I’ve never written a book-length poem before, and have always wanted to, so the opportunity arose through the circumstances of slowing down to be a parent. I expect the book will sprawl on until it comes to some organic finishing point. I’ve joked that it will be 18 years/18 sections, but I really don’t know how it will play out. My work has always been based on sprints of lyric/musical energy, so this is in fact very different that my other works. I think it’s important to include motherhood, domesticity, the household in poetry—the labor-value of these things is always underestimated. And the clarity of children’s insights are overlooked because they are smaller and lesser than us. I am very keen on the idea of democratizing the relationships between children and adults. This is one of my reasons for not sending my daughter to school—I don’t want her to be talked down to and "taught"—I want her to grow autonomously. All of that gets filtered into the poem.

I would be curious to know if this project continues, if this current collection is but half of the projected “18 years/18 sections” that will emerge in another decade, perhaps (and then, of course, comparing that work to this, seeing the progressions that might emerge over eighteen years of composition of a single, extended work). There is something interesting in how this poem does appear to be a kind of “catch-all,” including anything and everything through the pages of this wildly expansive work: writing of sleep, snow and coffee; of theory, breakfast and memory. “there was a Duncan making rugs,” she writes, in the first few lines of “PART 5 : THE SUBLIME PORTE,” “de Koonings of ghee, / congeries of events, / and I don’t like my hair […]” She writes a shorthand from an active, thoughtful mind in the midst of household chaos, domestic patters and patterns and, as the back cover attests, a “chronicle of family life that is intimate and yet open to all the world.”

Miss Rose Goes To Washington

We spent the bulk of last week in Washington D.C., there for the sake of a conference Christine was attending for work. Miss Rose and I wandered the city as best we could, in-between naps and such. Neither of us had been to the city before, but apparently Christine had, at least once or twice.

Our airplane was small, which meant the washroom, where I changed the young lady, was also small.

The rainbow ring around the airplane as we neared the city. That means good luck, yes?

Tuesday, March 31, 2015: We flew in, later afternoon. At least the flight was only an hour-plus, but the wee lass was a bit tricky to wrangle. We made hotel, showed Rose some episodes of some of her toddler-shows, and almost immediately crashed.

Wednesday, April 1, 2015: Woke early in Washington, apparently a day that Rose considered was best for eating blueberries while lying down (for some reason). After Christine left for her conference, Rose and I headed out to meet up with poet Reb Livingston and her son Gideon at Kramerbooks and Afterwords Café for lunch, and bookstore wandering. Before we met them, we wandered a bit around Dupont Circle, and Rose ran around where the empty fountain (seasonal, I presume) sits. 

Reb and I have been occasional correspondents for some time now, so good to finally be able to meet in person (especially since I haven’t yet attended an AWP, where, apparently, everyone meets everybody). Livingston was also the publisher of Lea Graham’s trade poetry collection, the last title for her series of titles under No Tell Books. Now she's part of Queen Mob’s Teahouse, and was also kind enough to pass along a copy of her novel, Bombyonder (2014), published by Bitter Cherry Books, an extension of Coconut. Much thanks!

Although I’m disappointed: after days of planning, I never did get to open with my “Doctor Livingston, I presume.” I mean, I bet she’s never heard anyone offer her that before. Ever.

We returned to the hotel for her nap, just in time. Post-nap, we headed off to the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum, which was absolutely incredible. Disappointing, a bit, that the museum had a small display for Yuri Gagarin, the first man in space (including his space suit and a couple of other things), but nothing for Valentina Tereshkova, the first woman in space (from whom Rose was given one of her middle names). Still: we stood by Apollo 11 and marvelled, not just at how small the capsule really is, but how completely cool to be able to be standing by such a thing.

The rockets were completely, entirely cool. I really can't say that enough.

Given how often Christine attended space-camp as a teen, I suspected we had no option but to visit here. I picked up some postcards to send folk back home, and a small space shuttle toy for Rose.

Just behind the museum, the stretch of parks and other spaces between the Washington Monument and the Capital Building.

After spending most of the day in the ring sling (I didn't dare let her run around the bookstore or the museum, etcetera), we were both starting to wear.

Although I did wish we'd the time to visit the Capital Building, the Washington Monument and even Grant's Tomb, given that we were so close (and, as Groucho Marx knew, where no-one is buried).

Thursday, April 2, 2015: A morning off to the Washington Zoo, where Rose meandered very slowly, which means we didn’t see much at all, but at least she got some exercise.

Somehow, she absolutely fascinated by the cobblestone.

I think I’m finally getting the hang of the Washington Metro system. Although I don’t understand all the exhaust that lives in the tunnels; are the trains powered by coal? I don’t see or smell the same kind of exhaust from any of the subways in Toronto, Vancouver or Montreal. Explain? [Someone finally did: not coal, but a matter of accumulated exhaust that simply has nowhere else to go]

In the zoo (once we finally arrived; we got slightly turned around upon leaving the subway) we saw spotted leopards, giant pandas, elephants and a zebra. She made her elephant noises, she made her lion/dragon noises, she made her dog noises (we saw a dog on the way in). Given Rose’s schedule, we didn’t go much further into the zoo, but stopped briefly for food before heading back to the hotel for her nap. She was asleep before we left the train.

Sleeps, sleeps. She did sleep.

Post-nap we were off again, this time to visit poet Rod Smith at his bookstore gig, Bridge Street Books, where I picked up some titles from him directly, as well as some from store itself, including his newest poetry collection, TOUCHE (Wave Books, 2015). I brought along my copy of his previous poetry collection, Deed (University of Iowa Press, 2007), which he was kind enough to sign (and I remember enjoying). Also picked up a Susan Howe title I didn’t have, her Frame Structures: Early Poems 1974-1979 (New Directions, 1996), and a title (and poet) I wasn’t aware of previously, Elizabeth Arnold's Civilization (Flood Editions, 2006). I’d love to see more books from Flood Editions, but they just don’t make it up our way (there is so much I'm missing!). When in American bookstores, I always keep my eye open. Smith was also kind enough to pass along some review copies from his Edge Books, which I haven't had a chance to go through yet (hoping soon, once I'm back at my desk, properly).

It was good to meet Mr. Smith also, but my exhaustion from carrying baby for a couple of days prevented me from remembering to capture a photo of us in the store. I've only been kicking myself daily for that, since.

Slowly back towards the centre (ish), I fed Rose some dinner-ish on a small patch of grass just by the bridge. Yoghurt, cheese, crackers. Given that she’d been much of the day and the day prior in the ring sling, I figured I really needed to allow her some running space. I really didn’t want her running around in the museums, given the crowds (apparently kids are off school this week, which brings the incredible crowds to just about everything we’ve been attempting). She ate some yoghurt, and said hello to a dog.

Heading back, we met up with Christine and our pal Wendy (also here for the conference) for dinner, just by Dupont Circle. After carrying the wee lass around for two days of hotel and tourist, I was about ready to crash (which meant again: a lack of photos). Already looking forward to home, where I can just set her loose and not worry.

Friday, April 3, 2015: Our last day in Washington, we wandered our morning over to the National Museum of Natural History (where the above photo was taken). Given we were only at Ottawa’s Museum of Nature recently, it became easier to compare: I think I prefer our museum, at least for stuff for younger folk. We did see some exhibits that appealed, including an array of fish that caught her attention for more than a few minutes. The immobile (non-living) fish had to be super-large for her to be paying attention.

There were some pretty cool exhibits, including some mummies from Ancient Egypt, which Rose ran by quickly and I wasn't able to see more than skim. It was good, at least, to allow her to run around a bit.

After seeing various animals, we discovered the Hope Diamond was at the museum, which seemed rather odd. I went to see, just to be able to say that I had.

Once leaving, we shared a pretzel and wandered into the Sculpture Gardens, among the cherry blossoms. Yes, they exist. Yes, around the same time there was a freezing rain warning in Ottawa. What the?

 

 

And, also, a spider sculpture by the same artist who has the spider sculpture in front of the National Gallery of Canada, back home in that Ottawa.

She was asleep, again, before we landed back at the hotel. Given we had to check out by 3pm, her nearly three hour nap began in the ring sling, and ended in the ring sling. Dropped bags off at the front desk before meeting Christine at Air and Space (so she, too, could re-visit space-y things), and wandered around there a bit. A bit. A wee bit. And once done, we headed back for bags, and off to the airport [the worst part: getting to the airport and checking email to discover a good pal from high school lives in Washington D.C. and I COMPLETELY forgot; aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrgh]. The wee lass (eventually) crashed on the plane. Home.

 

Jennifer Moxley, There Are Things We Live Among: Essays on the Object World

            In George Eliot’s The Mill on the Floss, wedding china likewise serves as a symbol of a woman’s things apart from those of her husband (though acquired through her marriage). When Betsy Tulliver’s husband is financially ruined, it is the thought of selling off her “silver and chany” that most aggrieves her, especially her silver teapot and sugar tongs. Should strangers, who know nothing of their value, buy them, they are certain to be mistreated and scratched.

            Her heartbreak over the lost wedding china stands in for the larger failure—of a business, of a marriage, of a life. It is as if the dishes are the only thing standing between these women characters and the suffocating truth of how great a compromise marriage has asked of them. They cannot work to earn back such things, and their one bargaining chip—maidenhood—has long ago been cashed in. They have nothing else to barter. When the things go, the sacrifice made to acquire them seems for naught. (“Red Pickle Dish”)

American poet Jennifer Moxley’s There Are Things We Live Among: Essays on the Object World (Chicago IL: Flood Editions, 2012) is a series of short personal essays on objects and how they relate to us, and we to them. The pieces connect so well together that the book feels composed as a single unit, and the beauty of the collection is in how uncomplicated, straightforward, personal and wise these small essays are; how unadorned and readable, and deeply heartfelt and complex. Moxley’s thirty-eight essays work together to unfurl complicated ideas of self, home, family and belonging, expanding out into the entirety of history and literary ephemera even as she returns to the deeply personal. This is a book essentially about ideas, told through the perspective of an entire lifetime of reading, thinking and living. As she writes in the “Preface,” the book wraps itself around a quote by George Oppen.

            As soon as I had my topic I had my title, knowing that I would write about George Oppen’s poem “Of Being Numerous.” I have always loved the way the opening lines, “There are things / We live among ‘and to see them / Is to know ourselves,’” connect “things” to both self-knowledge and structural assumptions. Oppen’s poem provided me a template for writing about how things define us, as well as about the politics of things, and how they function in literature and philosophy. He helped me to explore the paradox of living in a materialistic culture that yet exalts idealist philosophical and religious traditions.

Moxley’s work is a complex one, requiring deep attention, rereading and very little interruption. We live in an object world, and Moxley navigates through what so many of us do daily, and with little thought. Moxley has an incredible attention to detail, as she writes about books, reading and living as a long, continuous thought, and the polyphonic effects of how we experience, understand and relate to the world. Her deep attention weaves through Balzac’s La Peau de Chagrin, her mother’s sewing machine, Edith Wharton’s Ethan Frome, Robinson Crusoe, George Eliot’s The Millon the Floss, her year in Paris as an au pair, Russell Edson, Proust’s The Search for Lost Time, Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain, the intimacy of clothes, Moby Dick, Walter Benjamin and the experience of clearing out her childhood home after the death of her stepfather. There is something of the short philosophical meanderings of writers such as Mark Kingwell and Alberto Manguel here, or even of Stan Dragland’s Journeys Through Bookland and Other Passages (Toronto ON: Coach House Press, 1984) and Apocrypha: Further Journeys (Edmonton AB: NeWest Press/writer as critic, 2005). Hers is a life lived through, in part, books, and Moxley’s pieces explore how it is we live in the world, how it has been discussed previously, and how certain things have changed, while others haven’t in the least. The fluid associations she makes are quite stunning, as is her fondness for the considered object, one thick with history and meaning, even if only her own.

            For me fetishes and talismans have always been things not only removed from human labor (as is Marx’s point), but from any social value whatsoever (use, exchange). Unlike the diabolical specimens found on the forgotten shelves of curiosity shops, and handed, like poisoned batons, from imprudent owner to imprudent owner, my fetishes are ostensibly valueless items whose special meaning remains a secret between me and the thing. This is the only way to keep them safe from the nefarious machinations of those who live to shatter the illusions of others.

            I have never bought or sold a fetish. All have come to me by chance, either as found objects or as gifts (but never as a ceremonious or wrapped gift, such as a birthday or Christmas present). When they arrive as gifts, they do so out of the blue, usually from someone I know but a little. An acquaintance who, by this gesture, suddenly seems to see into the very heart of who I am. The giver and I, once the gift has been given, will never be close friends. Too much is known already, and there is an understanding, a knowledge that would be destroyed by the quotidian banalities of cultivating a new friendship (telling our “stories,” planning cumbersome coffee dates).

            The fetish is always something with little or no apparent value; that is until, having tucked it away in my purse or slipped it into a pocket, its magic begins to work.