Emily Carr, Whosoever Has Let A Minotaur Enter Them, Or A Sonnet—

American poet Emily Carr’s [see my 2015 Jacket2 piece on her here] third trade poetry collection, after Directions for Flying, 36 fits: a young wife’s almanac (Furniture Press, 2010) [see my review of such here] and 13 ways of happily (Parlor Press, 2011) [see my review of such here], is Whosoever Has Let A Minotaur Enter Them, Or A Sonnet— (San Francisco CA: McSweeney’s, 2016), a self-described volume of “divorce poems.” Carr’s poems are elegantly carved fragments, composed as scraps and ellipses that collage into something elusive, yet incredibly coherent. Structured in six sections—“drama of the forfeit,” “show & tell,” “scouts across america,” “amateurs,” “cathedral” and “state of grace”—her collection of “divorce poems” revels in compound words and the portmanteau, and a wonderfully striking linguistic density of meaning and sound, as she writes in the opening poem “) A SPLITBRAIN GRACE NOTE”:

imagine it: fleshliness.

leapfrog slingshot see (like eve side-arming apples from the trees.

gravity curls fernstalk, a red wind licks

your elbows. in current downriver singing the ocean grows. smoke

bellies the flagpole. slim–

ankled oaks dream in the soil.

he goes ahead coatless, lightsoaked. breathing in folds, like a fish. he

deals all his selves (was it a rib or catgut

LIKE THE COROLLAS OF A DYING SUN HOW/ BRILLIANT

Carr is also the author of a number of poetry chapbooks, including & look there goes a sparrow transplanting soil (above/ground press, 2009) (reprinted in full in the anthology Ground rules: the best of the second decade of above/ground press 2003-2013), UP THE SHINBONE SUPERLATIVES (Horse Less Press, 2012), Resurrection Refrains: 22 Tarot Lyrics in the Form of the Yellow Brick Road (Dancing Girl Press, 2013), STAY THIS MOMENT: THE AUTOPSY LYRICS, ACTS 1 & 2 (Little Red Leaves, 2013) and STAY THIS MOMENT: THE AUTOPSY LYRICS,ACTS 3 & 4 (Little Red Leaves, 2015), some of which has appeared since in trade editions, and some, such as “THE AUTOPSY LYRICS,” suggest a further full-length volume. Her poems, much like Toronto poet Margaret Christakos’ poetry collections, are constructed out of fractals and fragments and sentence-strands that break, sequence and accumulate into something far larger.

) IN THE BONE MARGIN

gentled on tended lawn, slender neurotic dinosaurs.

pale cows bewildered in the open air.

a greyhound pursued to static. her thin & scarcely believable arms.

fishy sounds from sherbet strollers. in the flaming

liturgical distance: souvenir flowers, beer

cans, propeller wings, clipped feathers, tears. railroads

part like children. a suicide swaggers in a garden plot. breaking

this fall, itself

FALLING/                 WHILE BREAKING

As the back cover of Whosoever Has Let A Minotaur Enter Them, Or A Sonnet— offers: “A swiftly moving poetry of love—and divorce—that rips open romance in the age of men who, for all they love you, just don’t know how to love you anymore. These fairytales are for the heartbreakers as much as the heartbroken, for those smitten with wanderlust, who, no matter how hard they try, aren’t at home with themselves or this world—the beauty of that, in a kind of SOS way.” Carr utilizes fairytale and myth to speak of marriage and an eventual break, as in the poem “) STRUGGLING (IN FACT),” that includes: “the grassblades touch & touch in their small distances, the myth / begins: as family life, one lash by lash undreamt— [.]” Marriage is a subject that runs through the length and breadth of her published work, exploring marriage, happiness, expectation, heartbreak and disappointment as a kind of extended, meditative study, akin to the work of Anne Carson or Cole Swensen, attempting to approach the minutiae of the break (via myth) from multiple angles. As the opening of her author biography at the end of the collection tells us:

emily carr writes murder mysteries that turn into love poems that are sometimes (by her mcsweeney’s editors, for example) called divorce poems. some other folks say she’s writing a life-long love poem, & that’s probably true, too. regardless of the form she’s writing in, she’s most interested in experiment, with heart.

"Emily Carr: three new poems," Jacket2

My nineteenth 'commentary,' "Emily Carr: three new poems," is now online at Jacket2.

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Victoria Chang

Victoria Chang's third book of poems, The Boss, was published by McSweeney's in July 2013.  Her other books are Salvinia Molesta and Circle.  Her poems have been published in American Poetry Review, POETRY, Virginia Quarterly Review, New Republic, The Nation, The Believer, Agni, Kenyon Review, and Best American Poetry.  She lives in Southern California and works in business.

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
It did change my life in so many ways in that I had a real book out in the world and that was really neat.  It was a big hurdle and still is a big hurdle for a lot of poets.  At the core, it didn't change who I was.  I think I thought it was going to change my life, but it didn't. 

My new book, The Boss, published by McSweeney's is really different from my previous work, but I think it is still me.  I wrote it in 2 months sitting in front of a tree while waiting for our older daughter to finish a language class every Saturday for a series of Saturdays.  I wrote quickly and furiously on long lines with no punctuation, allowing word play to propel the poems forward to mimic the loss of control I was feeling in my life--bad boss, father had a stroke, little kids everywhere.  So my process was different and the outcome, the work, feels very different to me.  It's my voice in its entirety. 

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I was one of those poets who always wrote poetry.  It was introduced to me in grade school and I never left it or it never left me.  I've tried fiction and non-fiction but have never been drawn to it.  Poetry is who I am for better or worse.  It's very much a part of my identity and I don't like the poetry community that much but I still love poetry.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?
This last manuscript, as I said, was written quickly and that's how I like it now that I've tasted it!  I now want to write from that kind of inspiration instead of toiling and toiling over poems.  I think sometimes in the past, I have toiled over poems because I was searching for something to say.

4 - Where does a poem usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?
If I knew where poems begin, I would be a much better writer!  I try not to be so controlling and try to be more intuitive so allow the poems to tell me how to form the greater work.  I would never sit down to write a theme-oriented book.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
Counter for sure.  Ask anyone who knows me well that I despise readings.  It's an awful process.  I like to write poetry.  That's it.  I like to read poetry.  That's it.  I don't enjoy anything else about it, including the poetry world and the politics and all the climbing and angling, not my thing.

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?
I have no idea how to answer that.  I imagine people would say that my work tries to transcend the personal to the political?  I don't know.  I don't like to think so consciously about my poetry.  I just want to feel it and let it be how it wants to be.  Just like my children--they are who they are and I love them for what and who they are.  I don't question who they are.  They just are. 

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?
I think the role of the writer should be to get people to think about something deeper, more philosophical.  I think the role of a writer should be to surprise people and to make them see things in different ways.  I think the role of the writer in American culture is to counter all the trash on television!

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
I am very flexible and open--have always thirsted for feedback with very few people willing or able to give it.  My editors at McSweeney's were amazing!  We worked and toiled over the manuscript word for word and made it better.  I don't think a lot of editors would do that mostly because poets are so full of themselves and their work that we think it's pristine, untouchable.  I don't think that at all.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
The advice I give myself every day is to be authentic and don't give a crap what other people think of you.  If you spend your energy trying to control how you are perceived, you are not real.  I like real people.  I don't care if you are a climber or a jerk, just call yourself out.  That doesn't mean you have to be a jerk all the time.  I love professional people--people who know how to behave. 

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to critical prose)? What do you see as the appeal?
It's nice to be able to think about other people's work in an intelligent and critical way.  I think many of us are smart enough to do it, but some of us don't like to do it as much.  I have so little time between a job in business, kids, ailing parents, etc., that I am lucky if I get to read anything.  I don't write poetry now for years at a time and that's okay with me.  I hear Louise Gluck is the same way (not to compare myself to Louise Gluck), but I can identify with that.

11 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?
None.  I don't write really.  Haven't in a year+ or more.  My typical day is getting kids ready for school, driving them to school, working at my job, picking the kids up from school, cleaning the house, doing homework with them, driving them to swimming or art or something else, preparing meals, showers, more cleaning, book reading to them, yelling at them to go to bed, emails for me at night, then repeat.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I don't get so worried about my writing getting stalled.  It's always "stalled".  I just like to read anything and everything poetry or not poetry-related.  I'm an avid reader and interested in everything.  Frankly, as I told my editor at McSweeney's, I don't care if I never write another poem.  I mean it.  I don't care if I never publish another book.  Really.  I'm at that place in my life where I don't care.  To be totally honest, I get a little sick of the poetry community and all the politics that it wouldn't bother me to never be a part of it again.  I sound like a bitter old lady!  I don't mean to sound like a bitter old lady, but that's just how I feel.  That's the truth. 

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Dog.

14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?
All of the above.  I used to be more influenced by good books of poetry, but truthfully, I look within more than without now.  My life influences my work too.  I just live it and see where it takes me.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
Business books, fiction books, news, everything.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Get a good night's rest.  An honest one.  After having kids, I never really get an honest good night's rest.  I'm always worried about something even if I don't think I am.  It's frightening being a parent.

17 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?
My occupation isn't writing.  It's my "hobby", which I always get scolded about to call an "avocation" or whatever.  I make my living and always have in business.  And I like business very much.  I like thinking about business and companies and strategies, etc.  I like writing about business.  Poetry and many other things are just my interests.  I don't mean to demean other people who do it for a living, but I just couldn't do that.  I'm too interested in too many other things.  And I like to have money to feed myself and family and to have a house, to remodel a house, to save for retirement, this is all fun for me.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
See above.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
A Hologram for the King, by Dave Eggers, just finished it this weekend.   I don't watch great films, I just watch silly animated movies with my kids now.  Not a single one is memorable. 

20 - What are you currently working on?
Nothing writing-related.  I'm on a book tour for my new book, The Boss.  Lots of work doing readings and traveling to places and trying to convince people to spend money to buy a poetry book.  It's not remotely pleasurable.  People aren't dishing out cash these days and if they are, it's not for poetry.  But I still go out there anyway in the hopes to find one reader!

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Victoria Chang, The Boss

THE BOSS IS NOT POETIC

The boss is not poetic writing about the boss is not poetic

            a corporate pencil doesn’t gallop

    dactyls one foot two feet six feet seven the boss

                only has two feet the rain taps its

trimeters all over my roof the boss can only jump up and

            down in one spot the boss cannot do the

    splits the rain splits into pieces the rain slants into

                my face into my eyes that are not really

slanted the boss only rhymes with cross and loss

            poem rhymes with palindrome and loam a desk is

    not poetic either it has four sides hard and stiff a

                Herman Miller chair loses question marks

through its holes as it holds a Herman or a Miller one day

            I watch a shrill pelican dive straight down into

    the water a waiter brings us fish on a plate a pelican

                swallows a fish whole a pelican is the boss

with its endless office of sky I could stand on the pier

            the whole day and peer at the pelicans that fall

    from the sky with their briefcases of fish in their

                oily grey suits and shined black shoes

I’m quite taken with the poems in California poet Victoria Chang’s third trade poetry collection, The Boss (San Francisco CA: McSweeney’s, 2013), the first of her work I’ve read. Her poems move like a rush of water, hardly a break or a pause, and must be fantastic to hear read aloud for the lyric flow. Chang’s cadence balances one of near-assault against a soft flow, playing with repetition and intoxicating rhythm, and seems to favour the staggered four-line stanza, in poems ranging in size from three to eight stanzas long. In a book of less than fifty pages, who exactly, one might ask, is the boss? Throughout the collection, the perspective of the poems shift, ranging from the obvious suggestion of the boss as an employer, to a new infant and the narrator’s own father, and even the father of the boss as the boss himself. Writing around subservience, notions of personal, professional, sexual and gendered power, and who truly might be in charge, Chang’s poems are nearly liquid, and include a number of pieces for and from the works of Edward Hopper, slipping his images between that of “the boss.” As she writes to open the poem “EDWARD HOPPER’S OFFICE AT NIGHT,” “Maybe the woman in the blue dress is the boss [.]”

THE BOSS IS BACK

The boss is back from the hospital is hospitable then

            hostile the boss gave birth the boss

    lay still on a bed to rest to bedrest to rest

                the baby girl on the bed

each morning I lay my cast to rest but there’s no jury no

            fury I lay my baby on the bed I sponge

    her I wonder whether the boss feels what I feel

                for my baby a heel on a cheek

doesn’t always mean love the boss kicks up her heels

            her eyes empty and eerie like a fish’s eyes

    we are weary we are wary of the boss we

                sleep standing up but so

does the boss miles and miles under the sea even the fish

            don’t sleep they can hear the helicopters

    carrying soldiers going back and forth

                and back and forth

Miranda July, It Chooses You

LA is so many things, but it is also a company town – almost everyone I knew worked on movies, at least part of the time. Which made it hard, almost rude, to resist the rules and rituals of Hollywood filmmaking; I was grateful to be a part of it, in a way. And in another way, I was desperately trying to remind myself that there was no one way to make a good movie; I could actually write anything or cast anyone. I could cast ghosts or shadows, or a pineapple, or the shadow of a pineapple.

I find it increasingly difficult to discover prose that really jumps out at me. Sometimes I get lucky, but not as often as I’d like. A couple of years ago [see my post on such here], through an issue of McSweeney’s, I discovered the stories of American writer and filmmaker Miranda July, which immediately took me to her short story collection, No One Belongs Here More Than You (Scribner, 2007). A few weeks ago, I ordered her follow-up, It Chooses You (McSweeney’s, 2011), a collection of interviews she conducted with people who ran ads in the PennySaver. As the back cover writes:

In the summer of 2009, Miranda July was struggling to finish writing the screenplay for her much-anticipated second film. During her increasingly long lunch breaks, she began to obsessively read the PennySaver, the iconic classifieds booklet that reached everywhere and seemed to come from nowhere. Who was the person selling the “Large leather Jacket, $10”? It seemed important to find out—or at least it was a great distraction from the screenplay.

Who are these people July interviews? Michael, selling a leather jacket, and in the midst of gender transformation. Andrew, selling bullfrog tadpoles, who manages to do far more than his teachers have already decided he is capable of. Pam, selling photo albums of people she doesn’t know, so their lives aren’t thrown away. What strikes is the ordinariness of each of their stories, and the incredible richness of each of them, far more compelling, optimistic and heartbreaking than any fiction. What strikes is just how real these real people are, and the care in which July attempts to open and respect their stories, even if, in one case, she doesn’t entirely feel safe (each interview is conducted with photographer Brigette Sire, who has photographs throughout the book). In It Chooses You, July doesn’t think about the screenplay she’s supposed to be writing, instead focusing on painting a series of portraits, all of which include her, just inside the frame. And then there is Joe, selling Christmas card fronts:

Miranda: Are these grocery lists?

Joe: Yeah, I shop for seven different widows and one widower – they can’t get out of the house. I’ve got one jacket that I wear when I go to the store. It belonged to a policeman I knew that got shot and killed, and his brother gave me his jacket. He says, “Every time you go to the grocery story I want you to wear it.” Well, I go at least four times a week, times thirty-five, thirty-six years. I must’ve worn that to the store, oh, three or four thousand times, and my wife has had to repair it. But now it’s almost beyond repair.

I very much like the idea of a distraction project, one that you work on while you’re really supposed to be doing something else. Part of the benefit of such a project is that it allows the back of the mind to continue working on the main project in unexpected ways, without the conscious mind getting in the way. Part of what strikes about July’s strange and utterly charming prose is in just how personality-driven the work seems to be; you go along with the narrative simply because of how much you identify with the narrator, no matter what might be happening, said or thought.

Although this project is very much about other people, interviews with those whose ads she has answered, more and more of her own procrastinated project manages to seep its way into the text. There is something of the journal entry to this book, as July writes deeply intimate moments and thoughts in-between edited selections of interviews, notes she has composed as small snippets, scraps and sentences of her life, both outside and in filmmaking, mixed in with the words and lives of random strangers, each of whom are attempting to sell something through the PennySaver. There is something, too, reminiscent of Guy Maddin's collection of selected writings, From the Atelier Tovar (Coach House Books, 2003); even when you aren't working, you are still, and even constantly, working. As she writes to open the section titled “Beverly / Bengal Leopard Baby / Call for Prices / Vista”:

Movies are the only thing I make that puts me at the mercy of financiers, which is partly why I make other things too. Writing is free, and I can rehearse a performance in my living room; it may turn out that no one wants to publish the book or present the performance, but at least I’m not waiting for permission to make the thing. Having a screenplay and no money to make it would almost be worse than not having a screenplay and maintaining the dream of being wanted. At times it seemed that I was only pretending the script wasn’t finished, to save face, to give myself some sense of control. And on a more superstitious level, I secretly believed I would get financing when I had completed my vision quest, learned the thing I needed to know. The gods were at the edges of their seats, hoping I would do everything right so they could reward me.