Mark Yakich, Spiritual Exercises

I was curious to see the latest by New Orleans poet Mark Yakich [see my review of one of his earlier titles here], the poetry collection Spiritual Exercises (Penguin, 2019). The poems in Spiritual Exercises articulate quiet meditations on family and faith, on spiritual and domestic matters, consciousness, death and loss, and a multitude of voices, from the “Love Poem to Ex-Husband” to “Parenting from Chicago to Abu Dhabi” to the “Love Poem to Ex-Wife” that begins:

Everyone has a story

He’s tired of telling.

For example,

A child dies and

It’s as natural

As a flower blooming.

And a plane crash is,

As you once said,

Just a “plain crash”—

No more absurd

Than a bouquet

Of fresh-cut flowers.

This is a collection of poems that appear to be centred on voice, working a myriad of narrators and perspectives, including a myriad of mental illness, exes, and those lost in or out of their faith, including a poem around squirrels and psychiatric visits that references Thoreau’s journals, “Seasonal Affective Disorder,” a poem that ends: “But to hell with pills. Friends, / Send down your scat and acorns // On my head. I can take the gravity after all— / Without it, the tears might never fall.” I’m fascinated by the movement of these poems, striking out in multiple directions and voices, some of which are more effective than others, all of which seek out a deeper meaning, and a series of deeper connections, to body and faith. Some distances are impossible to reach, but the reach itself becomes the important thing, it is said; such as the end of the poem “Son of a Nun,” that writes:

If I want to bring her back, I just have to

Put two fingers to my wrist

And face the heartbeats. I prefer

Hands at my throat, scratching carefully

And hard as one does a lottery card.

From the Fishouse: an audio archive of emerging poets

Pearl Pirie recently pointed out this website of American poets' readings and question-and-answer sessions. A pretty large archive of new and newer writers, it includes a ton of worthy American poets: Barbara Jane Reyes, Beth Bachmann, Evie Shockley, Ilya Kaminsky, Kazim Ali, Laura McCullough, Mark Yakich, Mathew Zapruder, Paul Guest, Paula Bohince, Philip Metres, Purvi Shah Betsy Sholl, Rachel M. Simon, Rachel Richardson, Ravi Shankar, Reb Livingston, Reginald Harris, Richard Siken, Rick Barot, Rick Noguchi, Robert Farnsworth, Robin Beth Schaer, Sandra Beasley, Sarah Manguso, Terry L. Kennedy, Thorpe Moeckel, Tim Seibles, Tom Thompson, Tony Barnstone, Victoria Chang, Vievee Francis, Xochiquetzal Candelaria and Yona Harvey.

Pretty envious, this. Should we try to convince them to include Canadian poets as well, or should someone here simply attempt to construct our own archive?

Their website self-describes as:

Poets Q & A:

From the Fishouse is designed to be, in part, a resource for teachers and students of contemporary poetry. What better way to learn about poetry than from the mouths of those who practice the art? Listen to poets talk about writing, the writing process, and about particular poems featured here at the Fishouse. Below are links to more than 500 audio files of poets talking about their craft, arranged by author. These Q&A files can also be accessed through the individual poets' Fishouse pages.

Ongoing notes: late late September, 2009

Please remember what Susan Sontag said: be careful talking about meaning in literature. It’s always one step away from sociology, the lowest form of measurement.
-- Barry Callaghan, as quoted in Walrus (October 2009)

Why is it that I’m predominantly getting chapbooks from American publishers these days? Don’t Canadian publishers make chapbooks anymore? Will we see you at our ottawa international writers festival, happening this month, or the ottawa small press book fair, happening next, or the Toronto one, happening in December this year? And are you finally going to subscribe to above/ground press this year? And did you see this piece, the beginning of my “toronto memoir” (remember I kept posting bits of “McLennan, Alberta,” one I attempted from Edmonton, moons ago) on Open Book Toronto? I’ve been so damned insular lately; can anyone out there, perhaps, tell me anything going on that I might be missing?

Denver CO: Something that appeared recently in my mailbox is Lesley Yalen’s This Elizabeth (2007), published by Eric Baus’ minus house press.

Answering the phone is like having your
ticket torn. Having your ticket torn is a
dramatic act of entrance. Inside the
telephone is a tiny talker, a husband
who is not able to be desired and who
does not desire his wife though she is
able. The wife needs to be pressed upon
as she dies. The husband needs to stay
in Antarctica doing work that will
benefit many. Actors and actresses are
desirable because they are needless.
They are commonly up on screens that
don’t touch. (from “(three)”)

Writing ten extensions/sections, what makes this poem is how she doesn’t hold herself to spacing or structure, weaving and blending from section to section, a wandering decalogue of extravagant voices. Who is this Lesley Yalen?

This kitchen person spares some change for the street people who squat beside the health food store.

The street people dumpster-dive to supplement memory.

Pass and be passed, spare and be spared.

This kitchen person is sporadic, sometimes carrying so many shopping bags, sometimes concentrating on sidewalk cracks.

Sometimes she starts a conversation but skips out quick.

Other times she just clicks on by.

The specialist tells her he is not going to lie down when he discovers her cells are
dividing unchecked.

(It’s going to hurt.) (from “(One)”)

Athens GA: I like the small moments that come out of American poet Lily Brown’s new chapbook Old With You (Kitchen Press, 2009).

I NAME

something something,

to understand. A

temporary piece.

Thought, images

repeat. I skim

for feeling, no

literal intent.

But where are all these small moments going, heading? Poems of breath and halting thought, pushing ahead by going thoughtfully slow. I am intrigued by the poems of this Lily Brown, and am intrigued as to what she might do with a full collection.

To find out more about this title, author or press check out www.kitchenpresschapbooks.blogspot.com

South Boston MA: I got some lovely little chapbooks some time ago from Rope-a-Dope Press, including Mark Yakich’s What, Friends, Is A City? [see my review of his most recent trade poetry collection here] and Kate Schapira’s Case Fbdy., each small chapbook produced in numbered editions of less than one hundred. They’re lovely little books; should I just let the poems speak for themselves?

At night
one wants
what everyone
else has. At dawn
thousands of
legs will scissor
together and apart
and a couple
will be crushed
by a harried
ambulance.
It will not be
sad, true or false. (Mark Yakich)

Girl aged eight years

Old enough to swallow herself
girls seem to be prone
with heads downward. Attention
transfixes across the lumen
her obligations. Chores.
Like on Little House
on the Prairie Sundays
no work as possible
as folded stillness.
Staring. Aged. Enough.
Cure. Inhale one every
year for the rest of your
life. See how you’ve grown. (Kate Schapira)

The Importance of Peeling Potatoes in Ukraine, by Mark Yakich

AFTER THE FLOOD ALL
THE CONDOMS FALL OFF

Anybody can be Noah.
Nobody can be his wife.

Send out the maven, not
The dove. Jump ship and accept

Death. No treasure without
A map. No lap without underlying

Pleasure. Let the mind worry
About the logic. But don’t

Forget to drag the body,
As witness, through the sand.

It's been a long time since I've seen poems as interesting, as different and as unusual as those of New Orleans writer Mark Yakich's The Importance of Peeling Potatoes in Ukraine (Penguin, 2008), a follow-up to his acclaimed debut collection, Unrelated Individuals Forming a Group Waiting to Cross (2003). Rarely have I seen such well-crafted poems done in such strange and subversive ways, writing about Elvis, 9-11, tourists and the Biblical flood. Who else has attempted a poem about the death of John F. Kennedy Jr. and anal sex, let alone done it so brilliantly well? Even the first couplet alone is enough to smash through concrete. Just where the hell did this kid come from?

OEDIPUS

for JFK Jr.

You can’t stop the clouds
By crashing an airplane.

And without money to protect
Morale, an elegy does nothing

More than inspire middle-
Finger children. Opium, ecstasy,

Star-fuckers. You have to love
Like an ass before your wife

Will fuck you in it. How true
Is true love when you’re both

In the dark? Know, the compass
Is more humble than the wing,

Or in your mind the image
Of Father, no-handed,

Doing Mother from behind.