Another
year, nearly done; where does it all go?
Don’t forget our Peter F. Yacht Club annual Christmas party/reading/regatta on December 28th, including a brand-new issue of The Peter F. Yacht Club [see my recent write-up on such here].
There might even be cookies as well…
Toronto ON: From one of
the COUGH regulars [see my review of the latest issue here] comes Toronto poet Emily Izsak’s Stickup (Toronto ON: shuffaloff / Eternal Network, 2015), a
collection predominantly made up of short, quirky, observational lyrics. The
shuffaloff / Eternal Network coupling (otherwise known as the collaboration
between Michael Boughn and Victor Coleman’s small publishing enterprises) has
been producing an intriguing number of chapbooks over the past couple of years,
with nearly a dozen titles, including a couple of first chapbooks, by poets
such as John Clarke, Victor Coleman, Michael Boughn, Robert Duncan, David Peter Clark, Ed Dorn and Oliver La Carerna Cusimano [see my review of such here].
Part of what appeals about first chapbooks (or, close to first; there is no biographical information to know if she published anything prior to this) is
knowing that, most likely, they showcase the best of everything that particular
author has composed up to that point, and Izsak’s Stickup feels very much like that kind of collection.
5
ATTEMPTS TO WRITE ABOUT RACHEL
I.
Why.
II.
I am not her tender
eyed sister,
second choice first
fucked.
Her fingertips are
creased with miltless lust.
III.
I imagine you grinned
at her
leopard print
undergarments
and I can’t
i can’t.
IV.
For all of my
suspicion,
how did I miss
her candy lips
on your computer
screen?
V.
You don’t need to make
anyone
feel lovely
but me.
The
appeal, also, comes through that very same variety, utilizing different shapes
and structures as exploratory, some of which is quite strong, and some of which
is less so, but somehow all imbibed with a vibrant energy. At some forty pages
of material, the diversity of styles somehow cohere as a unit, with some really
striking lines, such as to end the short poem, “ON WALKING THROUGH ALLAN
GARDENS,” where she writes: “This exhibitionist greenhouse / flashes a German
shepherd.” Or, the end of the poem “POW!” that brings out the more gymnastic
elements of her language and cadence: “Call it ornithophilia, / I am smitten by
your umlaut crowned / spit curl. Come now, / let’s dodge radioactive chondrules
/ till we’re dry lipped and sick with soroche, / too hypoxic for the kettledrum
clatter. // Lady, you’ll say, / you looking dazzling in my leotard.”
A
POSTMORTEM NOTE FROM RANDLE P.
McMURPHY
TO LENNIE SMALL
Shot in the head like a
three-legged horse,
what a way to go.
Hey man, did you ever
get to, you know, “pet the rabbit”
before you kicked it?
The bucket that is.
Let me tell ya, I know
a coupl’a girls up here—
blunt force trauma,
nothing infectious,
not that it matters
now, I guess.
Did it hurt?
Not the bullet, I mean
the part where you feel like leave you
like a goddamn puff of
smoke
after you’ve held it in
your lungs so long your eyes tear up.
He kinda reminds me of
you,
that gum chewing Chief,
anyway, his hands are
as big as yours,
big as my face,
which sorta worked out
for us.
But you gotta be
careful.
Keep those mitts in
your lap or something
‘cause I don’t want nothin’
else to end up
crushed.
Brooklyn NY: From Brooklyn’s Ugly Duckling Presse comes a new chapbook by American poet (and Toronto
resident) Hoa Nguyen [see my profile on her here], her TELLS OF THE CRACKLING (2015). Given her most recent poetry collection was a
selected/collected poems, Red Juice: Poems 1998 – 2008 (Seattle WA/New York NY: Wave Books, 2014) [see my review of such here], it has been three years since the appearance of a collection of
new work, after her As Long As Trees Last (Seattle WA/New York NY: Wave Books, 2012) [see my review of such here]. Three
years might not be seen as a long time between publications, but Nguyen appears
to release work slowly, meaning three years between publications could be
considered the speed of light (and we are enormously grateful for the speed, by
the by).
DREAM
IN OCTOBER
Dream of childhood
friend Wendy
casually exiting my
apartment window
to jump to the roof-top
deck
so we can perch and
talk with city
views
but she is too casual
and I see her
miss
the landing not jumping
far enough an absolute plunge
ten stories down
Her yelling regrets
cry out
Stop o no o no
I cover my ears so as
not to hear the impact
Not to refer to
widow or want
To mention the dream
scream
Frantic 9-1-1 dialing I
can barely
Let’s let it at this
Take the risk
Don’t
Die
Impact
Children
The
thirty-some pages of short lyrics in TELLS
OF THE CRACKLING continue Nguyen’s work in the small, personal moment, presenting
a series of narratives presented in halting breaths, pauses and precise
descriptions. Her cadences are marvellous, and constructed entirely for the
sake of attention. I haven’t yet heard her read, but, reading these poems, I am
reminded, yet again, that I would very much like to.
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