The Best American Poetry

The New York School Diaspora (Part Twenty-One): Jennifer Grotz [by Angela Ball]

The Crows

There must have been greetings
that rhymed with each of them,

but now she only remembers
the goodbyes, the countless times

they stood together speechless
under a starry meal of snow,

crows congregating above them
in bare winter branches, all through

the desperate sadness at the end,
one of them still madly in love

while the other admitted defeat,
taking turns as if exchanging

a heavy suitcase. And they were after all
always traveling. Somehow never at home.

He loved her in libraries and parking lots,
in cemeteries and cafes. She loved him

in the held breath of elevators, in stairwells
and trains. He loved her in daylight. But also

in the dark. She loved him most at the end
of the day, telling a story at dinner

while waving his fork and knife. He was her
never husband and she his never wife.

There must have been greetings
that rhymed with each of them.

All along, though they couldn’t hear it,
before they had stopped being lovers,

before they had even started,
back when they were two people leaving

a restaurant in summer’s dusk,
the crows were growing busy, numerous,

there was one coming to land
on every branch of every tree, once

the thumbless black hands of their wings
had finished stroking the malleable sky,

all along, though they couldn’t hear it,
the birds had been winging

their silent applause
for the love that was going to be, then was.

--Jennifer Grotz

Jennifer Grotz is the author of three books of poetry, most recently Window Left Open, and translator of three books from the French and Polish, most recently Everything I Don’t Know, the selected poems of Jerzy Ficowski, co-translated with Piotr Sommer. She teaches at the University of Rochester and directs the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conferences. Still Falling, her fourth book of poems, is forthcoming from Graywolf Press in 2023.

Photo by Marion Ettlinger

The New York School Diaspora (Part Twenty-One): Jennifer Grotz

Jennifer’s Grotz’s mysterious, generous poem, “The Crows,” is parable—but more; the crows, its totems, but more. Reading it, we are pulled in two directions. There is much to say, there is nothing to say—the direction of the ordinary, the direction of the holy. The poem’s almost-refrain, “There must have been greetings / that rhymed with each of them” suggests a Blakean song of innocence in which the world is right, is true; but also suggests the calls of crows announcing something dead and ready to eat; and Ted Hughes’s landmark book, Crow, the dark parable he made of marriage.

The poem dramatizes Robert Frost’s useful dictum, which applies so well to the New York School of Poets and their diaspora: poetry must possess either outer humor and inner seriousness or outer seriousness and inner humor. Dead seriousness is powerless to move us. That’s why the late Stephen Sondheim, in his wrenching (though often over-acted: Judi Dench sings it best) song of lost love, calls for clowns.

The poem’s two characters are isolated, as in parables and fairy tales:

     they stood together speechless

     under a starry meal of snow,

     crows congregating above them

     in bare winter branches, all through

     the desperate sadness at the end,

     one of them still madly in love

     while the other admitted defeat,

     taking turns as if exchanging

     a heavy suitcase.

Dark humor informs the mechanical exchanging of roles, the absurd simile of the suitcase.

The poem partakes, also, of Wallace Stevens’ “mind of winter,” in which silence has the most say.

Yet at its heart there’s a beautiful fairy tale in which each lover’s action is answered variously but exactly by the other’s:

     He loved her in libraries and parking lots,

     in cemeteries and cafes.  She loved him

     in the held breath of elevators, in stairwells

     and trains. He loved her in daylight. But also

     in the dark. She loved him most at the end

     of the day, telling a story at dinner

     while waving his fork and knife. He was her

     never husband and she his never wife.

How exact, that “held breath of elevators.” The last sentence of the interlude, with its nursery-style clinching rhyme, pronounces both the perfection of the moment and the disaster hovering over the couple from and, indeed, before their beginning. Arrive it does, with a suggestion of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds:

     the crows were growing busy, numerous,

     there was one coming to land

     on every branch of every tree

     that introduces the poem’s final trajectory with this most lovely, most chilling couplet: “once / / the thumbless black hands of their wings / had finished stroking the malleable sky,” finally declaring the ascendency of fate, the force that ever and always operates in silence:

     all along, though they couldn’t hear it,

     the birds had been winging

     their silent applause

     for the love that was going to be, then was.

It is the last small phrase of Jennifer Grotz’s The Crows that pronounces victory not just for fate, but for love. Love “was”—existed, held sway. The small word, a weak verb’s past tense, declares both loss and possession, two forces that equally hold us—until, at last, they fade.

--Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Twenty): William Stobb [by Angela Ball]

Beep Boop

Once like oxygen these people—
you drove all night across Utah to sob
peel puke-hair celebrate
weddings supervise divorces in everyone’s best interest.

Relationships shriveled in the relentless
attack-phone-election-virus
-five-star-economy-doom-delivery-system.

Against the white glare
of right now sky behind
the surplus auto yard you walk alone
the creek-side trail toward the closed-down
ice cream stand falling
over in long grass along the highway.

You’re only out here because an attractive
television doctor said
active legs fuel immunity.
Something about being a machine
prompted you to shift

from in- to exterior seclusion—some current
of possible nobility triggered by a vision
of a lost appliance wandering in the world.

A can opener seeks its garbanzos.
A dishwasher a nozzle. A father
a son. A Roomba.

Where the creek widens and meets the river
through branches over the bluff line
you notice the moon
setting in afternoon correction
of an idea as basic as night or day.

You are still alive.
Your thinking is not accurate.

The trail drops off where waves lap
at a graffiti rock and a fire pit
littered with empty White Claws.
The sounds of birds and small animals
scrabbling among the twigs.
Something bobs to the surface
and vanishes back in current.

Across the river, people you loved.
A person named Francis
who danced at underground sex clubs
met Tina, got sober, and now goes by Frank.

People. Off in the squirrely distance.

--William Stobb

About "Beep Boop"

I was a little freaked out about having the COVID-19 virus in my body in March of 2020. I was over-dramatic, probably, thinking about "my life." I mean... the whole idea of being alive doesn't compute for me, sometimes. Some things are "alive?" and others aren't? I'm not trying to be cavalier or ungrateful or undermine the value of anything. And I'm not trying to die. I'm thinking that'll take care of itself. Look at Rutger Hauer as Roy Batty saying "I want more life, fucker," and then crying so poetically in that monologue: "I've seen things you people wouldn't believe.... Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion... I watched C-Beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate.... All these things will be lost in time, like tears in rain." What a beautiful robot. I wish my poem were as awesome as that. Mainly, I'm saying I don't understand what I am.

--William Stobb

William Stobb's most recent poetry collection is You Are Still Alive (42 Miles Press 2019). His five previous collections include the National Poetry Series selection, Nervous Systems (Penguin 2007) and a chapbook of desert fragments focusing on the work of artist Michael Heizer, entitled Artifact Eleven (Black Rock Press 2011). Stobb works on the editorial staff of Conduit and its book publishing arm, Conduit Books and Ephemera, and as Professor of English at the University of Wisconsin - La Crosse.

The New York School Diaspora (Part Twenty): William Stobb

“Beep Boop” is a walk poem, a bop whose lightness is belied by a host of losses. Most crucially, it is a lament for friendship, that entity so central to the New York School of Poets. In William Stobb's nature, the depredations of industry and the strains of global malaise confront and confound inner and outer worlds.

The poem begins in deft overdrive, with a montage of bacchanalia, loss, and recovery. In pandemic isolation, the speaker is far enough—several months, a river—from friendship to limn its devolution:  “attack phone election virus / -five-star economy-doom-delivery-system.” The landscape is not the gently modulating elevations of peripatetic William Wordsworth’s Lake Country, but “the surplus auto yard,” . . . “the Creekside trail toward the closed-down / ice cream stand falling / over in long grass along the highway”—a description whose cadence seems to presage a James Wright-style epiphany never reached. We and the speaker (the “you” that includes us ) have insular reasons (“attractive TV doctor,” “immunity”) for moving. The poem zig-zags between perception and half-perceived possible transcendence:

     Where the creek widens and meets the river

     through branches over the bluff line

     you notice the moon

     setting in afternoon correction

     of an idea as basic as night or day.

The daylight moon is recognized; vision “correction” is still possible. An idea can modify, and false separations disappear.

The two lines that follow: “You are still alive. / Your thinking is not accurate” assert and deny possibility. (The first could have been written by James Wright, the second, never.)

The transformation, near the poem’s end, of the “person named Francis” functions to further distance them. We think of another person named Francis, who went by Frank, having a Coke with Vincent Warren and us or walking around at lunchtime in “Personal Poem.” But here, in lieu of construction workers in their lovely silver hats, we have the absent homeless, their quenched fire strewn with empties of their drink of choice, “White Claw”—this so distant from Frank O’Hara’s hopeful urban scene, in which lunch is both favorite meal and poem opportunity, and demolition an entrée to the new. In O’Hara’s city, people prosper; their work and breaks from work are brisk; a louse who shows up on Frank while he is at work in his MoMA office gets a name, “Louise,” and immortality in a poem. In this poem’s purview, relationships shrivel; animals struggle, “scrabbling among twigs,” and we contemplate “—some current / of possible nobility triggered by a vision / of a lost appliance wandering in the world.”

The penultimate word, “squirrely,” both locates that ubiquitous animal and comically epitomizes the tenor of thought that rules the poem. William Stobb’s “Beep Boop,” strongly addresses time’s distempers. Its adroit wanderings—haunted by a ghost appliance, machined appendage—subside to isolation, “the white glare of right now.”

--Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Nineteen): Amy Gerstler [by Angela Ball]

Night Life

How can this equal rest or peace, this garble of gasps, snuffles,
and horse-like snorts? His lips flutter as though he’s blowing
bubbles, his moans so choked he must be drowning…or are
his legs being sucked in by quicksand, the way a restaurant
critic sucks the bones of her osso buco? In my overheated,
night-gowned silence I watch him flinch in a puddle of bedside
light. A range of ages and plights wash over his face. Who is
this sleeping, unshaven male, this slab of snoring meat, this
leaky ship of divinity? I stare across the chasm which divides
each waking or sleeping creature, whether they’ve touched
each other or not. He’s a magician who made an orchard
disappear, an unhinged shooter from St. Louis, a plum
colored shadow, a handful of chameleon teeth, one of god’s
toboggans, a tree denuded of leaves bleeding beads of amber.

--Amy Gerstler (from Index of Women)

Amy Gerstler has published thirteen books of poems. The most recent is Index of Women (Penguin Random House, 2021). In 2019, she received a Foundation for Contemporary Arts CD Wright Grant. In 2018, she was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship. Her previous books include Scattered at Sea and Dearest Creature. She is currently working on a musical play with composer/arranger/actor Steve Gunderson.

The New York School Diaspora (Part Nineteen): Amy Gerstler

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, in his Biograpia Literaria of 1817, draws a signal distinction, declaring that “the objects of fancy are fixed and dead”; whereas the objects of imagination are imbued with “esemplastic power.” In Amy Gerstler’s humorous and revelatory poem, “Night Life,” the object of her imagination, her sleeping partner, is anything but “fixed and dead.” In fact, the poem embodies a rare quality I’ll call “logo-plasticity,” in which a poem’s images, made of words, rise from the page to model a sculptural and kinesthetic likeness. The poem’s speaker watches in “overheated, nightgowned silence” as whole swathes of human and animal peril are enacted to appalling dramatic effect: “. . . or are / his legs being sucked in by quicksand, the way a restaurant critic / sucks the bones of her osso buco?” With the speaker, we grow transfixed as “a range of ages and plights wash across his face,” and wonder “Who is / this sleeping, unshaven male, this slab of snoring meat, this / leaky ship of divinity?” Coming after what may be the poem’s most hilarious comparison, “this slab of snoring meat,” “this / leaky ship of divinity” announces a turn in Gerstler’s free-wheeling sonnet. The partner’s disordered repose becomes an entrée into mystery, “the chasm that divides / each waking or sleeping creature, whether they’ve touched / each other or not.” What a direct, modest, and thus effective way to describe the isolation in which we move. Observer turned sculptor, the speaker cycles the dreaming man through deeds and identities, including the astonishing, tragi-comic “God’s toboggan,” shifting him to shapes that contain us all: murderous, yet powerless; decaying, yet primordial in beauty: “a tree denuded of leaves bleeding beads of amber.” Amy Gerstler’s “Night Life” is the work of a poetic magus.

--Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Eighteen): Jennifer Michael Hecht [by Angela Ball]

September

Tonight there must be people who are getting what they want.
I let my oars fall into the water.
Good for them. Good for them, getting what they want.

The night is so still that I forget to breathe.
The dark air is getting colder. Birds are leaving.

Tonight there are people getting just what they need.

The air is so still that it seems to stop my heart.
I remember you in a black and white photograph
taken this time of some year. You were leaning against a half-shed tree,
standing in the leaves the tree had lost.

When I finally exhale it takes forever to be over.

Tonight, there are people who are so happy
that they have forgotten to worry about tomorrow.

Somewhere, people have entirely forgotten about tomorrow.
My hand trails in the water.
I should not have dropped those oars. Such a soft wind.

--Jennifer Michael Hecht

You know Whitman’s “ample hills of Brooklyn”? I’ll tell you a secret that has been hidden by ample hills of ice cream. And the two kids. What can I tell you?, you swell. So the point is, the secret is inside my wedding ring, which no longer comes off. Though, is my husband’s ring equally stuck? Just checked and Yes! So it’s a quite secret message that I’m sneak-peeking you. Inside our wedding rings we had engraved G.F.U.G.W.W.W. Can you guess? It’s Good For Us, Getting What We Want. The poem of mine we took it from, "September," came out in The Best American Poetry in 1999 and we were married in 2001. Just had our twenty-year anniversary — and we’ve got two teenagers. On Getting What We Want I’d say it’s not great to want anything specific, but apparently, as the Stones taught, if you try, and practice a ruthless patience with yourself, you get can what you need. I wouldn’t say that even now I’ve exactly got my oars in the water, but the four of us manage to keep afloat under the weird glowing skies of recent times.
--Jennifer Michael Hecht

Jennifer Michael Hecht is a poet, historian, and commentator. She is the author of seven books including Who Said (Copper Canyon), Doubt: A History (Harper), and Stay: A History of Suicide and the Arguments Against It (Yale). Hecht holds a Ph.D. in History from Columbia University and is finishing a book on poetry and post-religious ritual for FSG. She blogged with great fun on BAP for years and is delighted to visit in this form. Thanks Angela, for thinking of me.

The New York School Diaspora (Part Eighteen): Jennifer Michael Hecht [by Angela Ball]

Jennifer Michael Hecht’s “September” is a living paradox: it works through allegory, but is absolute in its immediacy. It is an “I do this I do that” poem—not of exuberance, but of despair.

     Like Emily Dickinson’s “After great pain, a formal feeling comes—”

     The Feet, mechanical, go round

     Of Ground, or Air, or Ought—

     A Wooden way, regardless grown,

     A Quartz contentment, like a stone—

Hecht’s poem seems enunciated from afar; yet, unlike “After great pain,” and like Frank O’Hara’s action/observation poems, we are with the speaker in the moment. A time freeze analogous to the invocation of held breath at the end of O’Hara’s “The Day Lady Died” galvanizes the poem’s center:

     The air is so still that it seems to stop my heart.

     I remember you in a black and white photograph

     taken this time of some year. You were leaning against a half-shed tree,

     standing in the leaves the tree had lost.

 

     When I finally exhale it takes forever to be over.

“The Day Lady Died” ends in a tumble of syntax without a period—“and everyone and I stopped breathing”—in ecstatic tribute to Billie Holiday’s passing. The syntax of Hecht’s poem is crystalline and correct—“A Wooden way”—declarative, accurate, end-stopped—so much so that it invites life’s vital disorder—the welter that includes people “getting just what they need”—to its edges, killing it on contact: “I remember you in a black and white photograph / taken this time of some year.” The figure stands in lost leaves, hardly distinguished from grayness, but with the power to produce an endlessness the opposite of bliss: “When I finally exhale it takes forever to be over.”

Jennifer Michael Hecht’s masterful “September” has so numbed us with sadness that when the speaker “trails her hand” in the water and produces a mild exclamation, “Such a soft wind,” the change is electric. From wooden despair, the speaker wakes to recollect nature. Yes, the oars are gone. But the lone skipper obeys the ironclad law of maritime advice: Stay with the boat.
--Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Seventeen): Hannah Dow [by Angela Ball]

Another Summer Without Classical Music

I haven’t lived in Southern California
very long but every summer that I do
it occurs to me
only after the summer has ended
that I should go see “Mozart
Under the Stars” or some other
classical music concert at the Hollywood Bowl
because I should get out more
I should get more culture
at least that is what my lover tells me
and it occurs to me that culture
is not a bowl of spaghetti
or anything that can be twirled on a fork
and wiped up with a hunk of bread
then abandoned for days in the fridge
like most of the new plans I make—
cancelled, because—as the actor
in my poetry workshop used to say:
we have a new realization every one to two seconds
and I’ll believe just about anything
if it sounds interesting enough
which is why the only ghost I believe in
is that of a 1930s Hollywood actress
who jumped from the sign’s H
and is sometimes seen wandering
below and maybe I believe this
because H is the letter I would choose
or because I don’t believe the explanation
given for her death (learning
that her role in her first film
had been cut to four minutes)
because Thirteen Women is a film about manipulating
women into killing themselves or one another
and I believe this too-easy coincidence
this culture I cannot digest
is proof that men have always wanted women
to hate one another and ourselves
so we will love them more

--Hannah Dow

Hannah Dow is the author of ROSARIUM (Acre Books, 2018). Her poems have recently appeared in Shenandoah, Image, and The Southern Review, among others. She received the Cream City Review Summer Prize in Poetry, selected by Aimee Nezhukumatathil, and has received awards and scholarships from the Sewanee Writers' Conference and Bread Loaf Orion. Hannah is the editor-in-chief of Tinderbox Poetry Journal and an Assistant Professor of English at Missouri Southern State University.

The New York School Diaspora (Part Seventeen): Hannah Dow [by Angela Ball]

In its casual self-criticism, Hannah Dow’s “Another Summer Without Classical Music” has something in common with James Schuyler’s rueful attitude toward the self; in its fascination with Hollywood, something in common with Frank O’Hara. Dow engages with “Hollywood” culture via the 1932 horror film Thirteen Women and its cast member, brand-new film actress Peg Entwistle, who jumped from the famous sign’s letter “H,” possibly in response to her supporting role being edited down to a bit part. Entwistle divorces herself from “Hollywood” both actually and symbolically in the most graphic way possible. Entanglement between art and life is at the heart of this deft poem.

The tissue-thin plot of the hour-long Thirteen Women involves a “half-caste” mesmerist played by Myrna Loy who plots revenge on the alumnae of a fancy finishing school who excluded her from their sorority. She has the unwitting participation of her associate, a “swami” who has promised to send horoscopes to all the women of the group. Loy’s character forges replacement horoscopes predicting death and mayhem. The film begins with a statement (endorsed by two prominent professors of psychology) that the human mind is vulnerable to suggestion. Indeed, the scenario consists of one instance after another of suggestion inciting action and/or accident to produce death, each marked by a ‘special effect’ that resembles an exploding star as drawn by a novice artist. In a sense, Entwistle’s suicide functions to extend or complete the movie as it simultaneously culminates her life. On one level, her death is pathetic. But on another, it is tragic. Her suicide note pleads cowardice. There was certainly plenty to fear in Hollywood—not from “half-caste women” but from men--priapic studio execs, rapacious agents, and actors skilled in date rape (a concept yet unknown). The penalty for non-participation was often exclusion. Suicide pre-emptively excludes the world, and its invocation marks an increase in the poem’s complexity:

     as the actor

     in my poetry workshop used to say:

     we have a new realization every one to two seconds

     and I’ll believe just about anything

     if it sounds interesting enough

     which is why the only ghost I believe in

     is that of a 1930s Hollywood actress

     who jumped from the sign’s H

     and is sometimes seen wandering below . . .

Hannah Dow’s engaging and disturbing “Another Summer Without Classical Music” is a poem about the difficulty of making sense of culture, Hollywood or otherwise, and of finding a coherent place within it—more particularly, the continuing difficulty for women who want to “digest” culture rather than be digested by it. In other words, a problem of agency. The explanation proposed at the end of the poem,

     . . . Thirteen Women is a film about manipulating

     women into killing themselves or one another

     and I believe this too-easy coincidence 

     this culture I cannot digest

     is proof that men have always wanted women

     to hate one another and ourselves

     so we will love them more

is provisional at best, asserted as belief by a speaker who earlier says, “I’ll believe just about anything / if it sounds interesting enough.” The poem’s missing period indicates that the speaker’s stabs at belief, along with our own, will continue, as unquiet as the ghost who frequents the sign, shadowed by its thirteen fifty-foot high letters.

--Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Sixteen): Elaine Equi [by Angela Ball]

FOR YEARS, I SUFFERED FROM A STRANGE MELODY

I couldn’t knit thistles into sweaters for swans,
nor spin straw into gold records.

I didn’t have a gingersnap or bluebird to my name.

The oven overheard me tell my story and called it
rumpled, stilted, and half-baked.

Then a dirty stinky fog came and sat down next to me.

But the moment I kissed its slobbering mist,
it turned into a handsome prince who dropped
the glass slipper he’d been carrying onto the floor

where it shattered into a million princes,
each more handsome than the last,

and everyone shouted, “L’chaim!”

--Elaine Equi

Elaine Equi’s most recent book is The Intangibles from Coffee House Press. Her other books include Voice-Over, which won the San Francisco State Poetry Award; Ripple Effect: New & Selected Poems, which was a finalist for the L.A. Times Book Award and on the short list for The Griffin Poetry Prize; and Sentences and Rain. Widely published and anthologized, her work has appeared in American Poetry Review, Brooklyn Rail, Court Green, The Nation, The New Yorker, Poetry, and in many editions of the Best American Poetry. She teaches in the MFA Program in Creative Writing at The New School.

The New York School Diaspora (Part Sixteen): Elaine Equi [by Angela Ball]

Its title, "For Years, I Suffered From a Strange Melody," suggests the piece was prompted by a spoonerism— a goofy felicity. The poem goes on to conquer all frustrations in its path with deliberate and delicious mistakes. One of its ancestors may be a cartoon show called Fractured Fairy Tales (1959-64), also based on the notion that the way to fix things—make them more fun—is to break them.

The speaker starts out feeling bereft, unable to “spin straw into gold records.” No “gingersnaps,” no “bluebirds” (of happiness or anything else). But the mysterious conjunction of confection and flight is a fine thing in itself; as is the oven talking smack: a slumgullion of anagram and idiom.

In this liquid atmosphere, tales survive as waking dreams that shelter the childlike: “Then a dirty stinky fog came and sat down next to me.” Words like “stinky” and “slobbering” are notably absent from traditional fairytales, with their low threshold for effluvia. At the speaker’s spontaneous kiss, the “slobbering mist” becomes the “handsome prince” of “Cinderella” fame, who drops the glass slipper of the foot test, and it becomes mother of many princes, “each more handsome than the last.” Elaine Equi’s “For Years, I Suffered from a Strange Melody” is word alchemy: a fertile muddle in which pieces become princes; and breakage, celebration; a climactic union in which “everyone” arrives from nowhere to deliver a final, life-affirming shout.

--Angela Ball

The Winning Entry: "When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan" [by Angela Ball] with judge Jim Cummins's comments & runners up

Charles Bukowski in One Corner; in the Other, Bob Dylan

If anyone should take eighteen-shot Dylan Thomas’s name,
it’s me. I challenge you to a duel
with two bottles of Four Roses.

--Chuck, that may be you, but
me, I crossed the green mountain
I slept by the sea.
you’re walkin’ in dreams
where black is the color
and nothing the number.

Bob, I got to tell you
I’m sorry for my wife
I’m sorry for anyone’s wife.
If you want me, find me clinging to a freight car,
Find me underground.
But you’ll never find me
vagrant in the rain, nabbed by a rookie cop,
a skirt, no less,
in Long Branch, New Jersey.

-- Angela Ball

James Cummins writes:

As with most of David's prompts, this one resulted in some terrific entries.  I went with Angela Ball's poem for the first prize, but there was a good pool to pick from (I counted eight entries as possibles).  It came down to some great lines.  Angela wrote (in Buk's voice) "I'm sorry for my wife / I'm sorry for anyone's wife" which seemed to me to combine the compassion B. tried to keep hidden with the world-weariness we love about the guy.  And the ending, referring to Dylan's run-in with the police in 2009, who thought he was a homeless vagrant, was perfect; the word "skirt" was inspired.  George Schaefer's prose-poem "scene" takes second; it combines the grittiness of many of the entries with a lyric grace I love.  "The bluebird in him allows him to order a round for the idealistic young troubadour" and "Poetry only happens when nothing else can" are two examples.  And again, the ending is perfect.  Finally, Adam Baron's poem gets honorable mention for the use of the word "dumb," the moon sitting on Bukowski's solipsistic rim, and the friendly atmosphere of two schmucks having a moment together.  The difference between these three and at least four or five other entries is as thin as the bill Buk slides into his favorite pinball machine.  Thanks to all.  

George Schafer's prose poem (second place):

When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan

A jaded old bard pounds a shot of J.D. and mocks an idealistic young troubadour. “So just how many beers must one man drink before he’s allowed to pass out?” The bartender chuckles at the joke. The young troubadour debates if Jesus will ever forgive these sins. Loose leaf papers holding his poems gets blown away in the wind. With a soul deader than a dead Christmas tree, the jaded old bard orders another beer and another shot. The bluebird in him allows him to order a round for the idealistic young troubadour. After all, poetry only happens when nothing else can. The sooner this kid learns the ways of the world the better. The young troubadour claims everyone gets stoned so he can abide. He pulls up a stool and throws down the shot. Old poet says “Don’t try.”

Adam Baron's poem (third place)

When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan

Night fell, broke.
One day they'll reward you old man.
Chuck laughed. Me? Not me, but I'll tell you
this: if I knew guitar I'd strum the
moon out of the dumb sky. I'd make it sit on
the edge of my glass - and stare
at me for a change.
But you don't, Bob said
and Chuck laughed. Then I'll leave it
where it is, which he did, and
though Bob tries now and then, he
can't shift it.

The New York School Diaspora (Part Fifteen): Ron Padgett [by Angela Ball]

Over There

I have always assumed that my body would provide
reliable transportation to carry me through the day
and no I will not extend that metaphor
and if you know what that means
you’ll know what I mean.

John Ashbery once said
“I never get up before the crack of noon.”
Pope Francis said
“I am Argentinian. You know
how an Argentinian commits suicide?
He climbs up on top of his ego and jumps off.”
“That’s all, Bruno,”
Fairfield Porter said to his dog.
Does it help to know that Bruno was a golden retriever?
And that Fairfield was invisible?

--Ron Padgett

Ron Padgett’s How Long was a Pulitzer Prize finalist in poetry and his Collected Poems won the LA Times Prize for the best poetry book of 2014 and the William Carlos Williams Award from the Poetry Society of America. His translations include Zone: Selected Poems of Guillaume Apollinaire and Blaise Cendrars’ Complete Poems. Seven of his poems were used in Jim Jarmusch’s film, Paterson. Padgett’s most recent collection is Big Cabin (Coffee House Press). Forthcoming is Dot (Coffee House Press). New York City has been his home base since 1960.

The New York School Diaspora (Part Fifteen): Ron Padgett [by Angela Ball]

Carved from silence, Ron Padgett’s “Over There,” refuses to “extend” its opening metaphor. Yet it is expansive. As in Frank O’Hara’s poems, all people known in fact or reputation, living or dead, are free to enter, to be heard. “I never get up before the crack of noon,” says John Ashbery, at once sardonic and cheerful, invoking both “crack of dawn” and “crack of doom.” The pope, God’s arm on earth, imagines his own suicide in a joke—though in it, his ego remains, a vertical ghost.

As in Kenneth Koch’s late poem, “Proverb,” “Les morts vont vite.” Though we may prefer to regard mortality as “over there,” world vanishes for all: poet, pope, dog, even painter—maestro of the visible (of course, he names his dog a color, a color the dog isn’t). Reading Fairfield Porter’s succinct send-off to Bruno, we hear Mel Blanc’s Porky Pig sputter “Th-that’s all, folks”—the phrase Blanc chose as epitaph.

The office Fairfield Porter performs for his dog, Ron Padgett’s “Over There” performs for us. In surrounding mortality with play, he looses its darkness. Art’s scarifying knowledge confers power. Yes, it helps.

--Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Fourteen): Jessica Guzman [by Angela Ball]

ODE AT THE HOSPITAL

My father’s moustache aced geometry.
My father’s moustache makes cowboys blush
with its hard line. My father’s moustache
has two spots, one light in one dark,
like a black-eyed pea, or a tube t.v.
shutting off. My father’s moustache talks
like Ricky Ricardo, tells fortunes, chants
Our Fathers in its sleep—it dreams blue seas.
My father’s moustache survived chemotherapy.
My father’s moustache goes by Antonio
if you’re family. If not, try a cup of water
under your bed—it cures everything.

--Jessica Guzman

I had been writing poems about my father’s illness when I read an essay in which Stanley Plumly describes odes as rendering their subjects into art objects. Something similar to but not quite ekphrasis. My father had a commanding moustache, and I imagined it on display in a museum next to a little plaque. ‘Ode at the Hospital’ began with that image before anaphora morphed it into something more intimate and dynamic.

--Jessica Guzman

Jessica Guzman is the author of Adelante (Switchback Books, 2020), selected by Patricia Smith as winner of the 2019 Gatewood Prize. Her poems have appeared in Shenandoah, jubilat, The Academy of American Poets’ Poem-a-Day, and elsewhere. She teaches at Widener University and lives in Philadelphia.

The New York School Diaspora, Part Fourteen: Jessica Guzman [by Angela Ball]

“My Father’s Moustache” is an expression of disdain from 1930’s Brooklyn, a raucous song by Woody Herman & His Herd (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ft8X0wXZOhY) , and a likely name for 60’s/70’s soda shops and used-clothing emporiums. It had, by then, an aura of gentle nostalgia—the “my father” referenced a sprightly older gentleman likely a member of a barbershop quartet. In Jessica Guzman’s “Ode At The Hospital,” these associations ground active description, as the moustache “aced geometry” and “makes cowboys blush.” When the ‘stache shows its spots, “one light in one dark, / like a black-eyed pea, or a tube t.v. / shutting off,” it takes on quasi-religious powers, chanting “Our Fathers in its sleep.” With “My father’s moustache survived chemotherapy” it draws us up short with the reality of illness and invokes the protective exclusivity of family, a magic circle. This is, after all “My father’s mustache,” not yours. Like its subject, Guzman’s poem refuses despair, ending with mock advice tinged with mysterious truth: “try a cup of water / under your bed—it cures everything.” In its terse twelve lines, the poem plays life’s essences against one another—virility and age, cultural and personal memory, humor and sadness, exile and belonging, personality and the loss thereof, the body and the loss thereof.  Set in God’s hostel, Jessica Guzman’s “Ode At The Hospital” makes permanent not just its potent moustache, but the particularity of praise.

--Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Thirteen): James Cummins [by Angela Ball]

Ode to Sycamores

Not helplessness;
But a sort of timelessness,
The understanding
That will can only take you so far.
You leave behind lust
That caused you to deceive each other
With whispers of mutuality
When need was only singular;
Now the cores of your beings
Aren't reaching for something
But for each other.

You begin to say, oh, god,
Which are the words we use
To express our humility
In these moments, our compassion;
Perhaps her lips are on your neck,
Perhaps your lips are on her neck—
The idea there are necks at all
In this lifting up, or that you thought
There were two of them
When you began,
Is astonishing, and delightful,
And one of the myriad lovely things
About you the brain—
Not only not slowing down,
But speeding up, along for the ride
Now, like a dog in a car window—
Has noted in passing.

And the scent of ambrosia—
You thought it would be
Some kind of clear fine
Wine that made the brain
A metaphor for the body—
So you are surprised
At its muskiness, its wetness,
Like a stand of sycamores in spring;
And you are gods now,
But gods under the moon,
Not someone’s idea of the moon.

--James Cummins

When my wife, Maureen, and I first got married, we made love one night alongside the Iowa River. It was romantic in conception, a little less so in execution. Between us and the lovely full moon were a lot of mosquitoes; and the "rich black fertile Iowa soil" turned out to be rather unyielding, though I took the bottom to gallantly cushion my willing-to-go-along-with-this-up-to-a-point bride. (And, okay, from preference.) But the poem itself didn't take shape for decades until one time I was driving along on a sunny day while our apricot standard poodle, Bella, who, after Maureen and our two daughters, I loved more than any sentient being in the universe, was enjoying the sun and the wind with her head resting out the back window. She turned and looked at me with such happiness that the two moments fused as one, like Vardaman's mother and the fish. I then found an old notebook with some early attempts and finished the poem.
--James Cummins

Jim Cummins was raised in a canebrake by an old mama lion. No, he's just a midwestern boy through-and-through, who's become a cray-cray old man who never leaves his house except to get booster shots. Recently, he purchased a lot of stock in Ivermectin.

The New York School Diaspora (Part Thirteen): James Cummins [by Angela Ball]

A standard-issue ode devotes itself single-mindedly to its announced subject. Not this one. We find ourselves inside a poem of “compassion”: passion compounded; a concentration lacking the expansiveness we associate with the ode; the result, perhaps, of long togetherness, a shared “you,” broken to emphasize its unity: “Perhaps her lips are on your neck, / Perhaps your lips are on her neck”; broken again in order to praise: “one of the myriad lovely things / About you your brain— / Not only not slowing down, / But speeding up, along for the ride / Now, like a dog in a car window—. . .”

Suddenly, near the close, the sycamores rise from the poem’s concentration as a surprising simile for “the scent of ambrosia,” a bodily redolence, not cerebral or soul-like. Sycamores’ chief beauty may be that they are open in how they accommodate to growth, their bark visibly breaking. James Cummins’s “Ode to Sycamores” opens at its close, addressing what might be the widest problem of postmodernism, as analyzed by Walker Percy’s “The Loss of the Creature” and Roland Barthes’s “Operation Margarine”: the replacement of originals with simulacra, the real with easy nostalgia:

“But you are gods now / But gods under the moon, / Not someone’s idea of the moon.”

--Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Twelve): John Gallaher [by Angela Ball]

Garden of Mirrors (Architecture 23)

I look up from lunch and see a guy dozing back in his chair
and I imagine my dead father that way, perpetual sleeping passenger,
his head full of roads. “And who cares,” he says in his dream,
“that since you’ll never wake, that you’re not inscribing memories?”
Describing a hallucination means you’re describing it
to someone, so who’s to say this isn’t part of the hallucination?
My odometer hit 123456 today and I had a minor celebration
and took a picture. They say as much about the idea of time
as they do the idea of reality, most recently in the mechanism
through which birds see the earth’s magnetic field. It’s a kind
of blue. I like that. Everyone you know is suddenly an art student.
Or how families have a recurring theme, generation to generation.
Measure the shoulders. Measure a taste for parsley. Hand tremors.
As in the Enquists vs the Gormans. The Enquists want the baby,
the child, as he’s three now, spring 1968, to be adopted out
through their side of the family to the Gallahers, and the Gormans
want to keep it in Portland, maybe cut a deal
over where it is and when. The Enquists sign the papers, though,
and the child is off on a Continental jet with a golden tail
to Kansas. (The painting keeps folding that we’re working on,
fretting along the edges of the frame.) A few weeks later,
the Gormans are still not taking it well. For them, it was
a kidnapping, and one, the mother, goes off somewhere,
and the father, the Enquist, goes looking for her
with some friends. One, driving, July 8, falls asleep,
and they cross the median, down the hillside, into the trees.
You fall asleep over this life, and you wake
in a doll playground in a doll town surrounded by a doll
forest. You’re planning some sort of festival.
The Enquists and the Gormans understand each other,
as a desert understands rain. As now, 50 years later,
they’ve all gone but for the mother and the child,
and he finds her one day in late fall, and she asks him
if his eyes are still a beautiful steel blue.

--John Gallaher                                       first published in LIPS, as "Golden (23)"

Though I’ve always known he died in a car wreck, I didn’t know until recently that my birth-father died in his sleep. Likewise, I’ve always known I was adopted (at age three), but the circumstances, as well as my birth-mother’s name, were a mystery, until I found her recently. I’ve been trying, since my book, In a Landscape (BOA 2014), to find a way to write as I’m thinking, to try to write the thinking itself, the imagination, but in a non-fiction landscape. From Lyn Hejinian, I think of it as thought transference, or articulating the inarticulate. Ashbery talks about this as well, describing it as a project reflecting how the mind works, the play of thought. I like these ideas, keeping in mind O’Hara’s directness (“I did this I did that”) and Miles Davis playing what the day presents. I’m not sure if any of this makes much sense to anyone but me, which is why I hesitate to put too fine a point on it.
--John Gallaher

The New York School Diaspora (Part Twelve): John Gallaher [by Angela Ball]

John Gallaher’s tribute to origins, “Garden of Mirrors (Architecture 23)” shares the breathless energy of Frank O’Hara’s elegy, “The Day Lady Died,” and its trajectory from the circumstantial to the transcendent. “It is 12:20 in New York a Friday” . . . “I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun / and have a hamburger and a malted. . ,” while the poet-speaker of “Garden of Mirrors” looks “up from lunch. . .” and imagines his dead father, “perpetual passenger, his head full of roads.” O’Hara records his lunch-hour movements; Gallaher celebrates his car’s 123456th mile. O’Hara’s bank teller’s name, “Miss Stillwagon,” is part of his day’s momentousness, along with “NEW WORLD WRITING,” “Verlaine,” “Bonnard,” “Strega,” and “Gauloises.” (Lady, not pinned to her daylight name, enters the poem via photograph.) Gallaher describes the navigation of birds, their precise jazz of vision, “a kind of blue”; linking it to a family’s serial mirroring: a set of shoulders, “a taste for parsley.” Then we hear, in third person, the story of his divided parentage, related as Enquists vs. Gormans—recalling Faulkner’s Snopes and Compsons, discordant tribes. Suddenly, the poem mirrors itself, registers the strain exacted by the telling, the difficulty of keeping the story within bounds: “(The painting keeps folding that we’re working on, / fretting along the edges of the frame.)” The father goes looking for the mother “with some friends.” He drives, then sleeps, and all disappear “down the hillside, into the trees,” dispatched in two phrases with the killing loveliness of a Hemingway title. At poem’s end the son has found the mother, “in late fall,” is with her in the way that Frank is with Lady Day at the 5-Spot: “while she whispered a song along the keyboard/to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing”(no end-stop). Art pre-empts time. John Gallaher’s “Garden of Mirrors (Architecture 23)” collapses fifty years as the mother asks her son “if his eyes are still a beautiful steel blue.”
--Angela Ball

(The New York School Diaspora will be on sabbatical till Tuesday, 31 August, when it will return as a biweekly feature.)

The New York School Diaspora (Part Eleven): Paul Hoover [by Angela Ball]

Written (after Szymborska)

The written stone rests
in the unwritten river;
unwritten rain is falling
over the written town.

Nothing written today,
but tomorrow you’ll be written
as you sit in your room not writing.

Lo, it is written.
Pollen writes on the stamen.
The man writes a child
in the body of the woman.
Your eyes write the view
into the window,
but it doesn’t stay forever.
It returns with you into the unwritten.

All that means is written.
Lo, a tiger of a word
has escaped its cage.

Our quiet words
wait beneath the stair
for a reason to speak,
an edge or fold or cause
to remark. Oh, we say,
no way and no how.

This is how the world begins,
dark branches written
against a white sky.

The written stone rests
in the written river;
written rain falls
over the written town.

--Paul Hoover

Written (after Szymborska)

In teaching the work of Wisława Szymborska, the Nobel Prize winning Polish poet, I came across her lines about “a written deer running through a written forest.”  The phrase is magical and generative, reminding us of the central issue of writing, the encounter of the real and the imaginary.  Speaking the word “deer” brings them to mind, as we have individually experienced deer.  This form of magic was known by ancient Greeks as ekphrasis.  I’m drawn to the poetry of Wallace Stevens, because, in bringing us closer to the real, we discover the Real.  

--Paul Hoover

Paul Hoover's book, O, and Green:  New and Selected Poems will be published in August by MadHat Press / Plume Editions.  It includes selections from all his books since 2001.  With Maria Baranda he edited and translated The Complete Poems of San Juan de la Cruz, published by Milkweed Editions earlier this year.  He also edited, and in part translated, The New World Written:  Selected Poems of Maria Baranda (Yale University Press, 2021).  He is editor of the annual literary magazine, New American Writing, and two editions of Postmodern American Poetry:  A Norton Anthology (1994 / 2013).  His collection of literary essays, Fables of Representation, is available from University of Michigan Press.

The New York School Diaspora (Part Eleven): Paul Hoover [by Angela Ball]

For me, an important question is whether a poem’s language seems to originate from outside the poet or from within. The first case allows for selection and collage, for serious play. Paul Hoover’s “Written” (after Szymborska) belongs in this camp, finding voice from a line of Wislawa Szymborska’s poem, “The Joy of Writing.” What results is a poem with these striking lines: “The man writes a child / in the body of the woman.” The article used for both participants, “the,” is impersonal. The preposition, “in,” with its stern accuracy, has the same coolness. These choices tell us we are in the realm of the primordial:

     This is how the world begins,
     dark branches written
     against a white sky.

The poem’s repetition of “written” hones the word, sharpens its force and the force of all words: “Lo [look!], a tiger of a word / has escaped its cage.”

The poem’s “written stone” is cousin to the stone in W.B. Yeats’s famous poem, “Easter, 1916,” where it lies unchanged “in the midst of all,” holding the “terrible beauty” of those martyred for Ireland in the Easter rising. Amid violent change, an abiding coolness. This is the temperature of Paul Hoover’s “Written,” in which words are marks, and primal remarks express surprise or disbelief: “Oh, we say, / no way and no how.” Why is the poem’s river “unwritten” at the beginning and “written” at the end? The answer is this poem, tiger of language and the permanence of meaning.

--Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Ten): Star Black [by Angela Ball]

Feather-Flown

There was a laughing photograph that laughed
at the photographer who laughed back until the creases
of the laugh twinned and became perfectly aligned.
Then, glassine slipped between them,

absorbing both, and became an alamode mist
of a ̀ la monde that floats above lazarettos and hobos,
lawn bowlers and braided vines, as a missing photograph
of the inestimable, in an inestimable amount of time.

Come back, photograph. It is too rare
that anyone laughs. Come down to the scribble
of smiles, the earth-stained chameleons and epitaphs.

Come down to the blousy cries of those
who need more muffs. Come down to the cold and
curious who think too much: to the fingertip, the touch.

--Star Black

A photograph missed, meaning seen by the photographer but
not taken by the camera because there was no time to set up,
focus and snap the shutter, lingers in the mind as an afterimage
but only briefly. The universe has moved on, like a velvet tank
on a crowded plain, and the untaken photograph becomes
missed and irretrievable in more ways than one.
--Star Black

An Army brat who lived in many places for many years, Star Black arrived in New York City in 1977 as a photographer for United Press International. She went freelance in 1980, photographing for The New York Times, the Museum of Modern Art and other clients while studying poetry at Brooklyn College with John Ashbery and earning an MFA degree in 1984. She is the author of four books of sonnets, Waterworn, Balefire, Ghostwood and Velleity's Shade; a collection of double sestinas, Double Time; and a book of collaged free verse, October for Idas. Her latest book, The Popular Vote, a collection of poems that addresses the aftermath of the 2016 presidential election, was published by Saturnalia Books in 2019. Her collages have been exhibited at Poets House and The Center for Book Arts. She co-founded the KGB Bar Monday Night Poetry Series in the East Village in 1997, which continues today, and has taught poetry at The New School and at Stony Brook University’s MFA and BFA programs.

Star Black in the 90s. Photo by John Hill.

"Surround-Sound" by Star Black

 

The New York School Diaspora (Part Ten): Star Black [by Angela Ball]

“Feather-Flown,” Star Black’s meditation on photography, nuance, and vital laughter, begins like an ancient story: “There was a laughing photograph that laughed,” and is one: the story of creator, creation, and a third thing—fugitive, seldom articulated—their union.

The poet/photographer summons this amalgam of self, light, and fixative; this brilliant (and funny) “alamode mist,” —reprising it not just for herself, but for the “cold and / curious who think too much,” like, for example, Anton Chekhov’s “Man in a Shell,” who isolates himself from experience in fear of the silly, the exuberant.

The poem’s summons to the photograph, or rather to its genius, accelerates. Can it hear, where it hovers, freed of the miseries, amusements, and natural strivings of “lazarettos and hobos, / lawn bowlers and braided vines” that are the world’s emulsion? “Come back,” it calls. And, three times, “Come down.” Does the spell work? Or is the spell its own fulfillment?

As final imprimatur, Star Black’s “Feather-Flown” invokes the immediacy of touch both ethereal and actual--the way, in photographs, vision finds materiality; its stanzas our contact sheet, positive print, “missing photo of the inestimable.”

--Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Nine): David Kirby [by Angela Ball]

I Wish I Were a Cannibal

because if I were a cannibal I could cook you and put you on a plate
and eat you up but I’d be a magic cannibal so you’d come back tomorrow
and I’d prepare you in a new way and eat you up all over again
or, wait, not a magic cannibal but a cannibal who lives on a magic island
where people who are crazy about each other just keep devouring
the other person every day and then do it again and again and again.
Today I think I’d like to roll you gently in flour, then dip you in
an egg wash and some bread crumbs and slide you into a skillet
in which I have heated butter and olive oil and cook you for three
minutes on one side and two on the other and put a slice of cheese
on you and stick you in the oven just long enough to melt the cheese.
I’d like to make a carrot soufflé out of you. Or a sandwich. But not
just any sandwich: one of those jumbo hot dogs the Chileans call
a completo and for good reason because it’s slathered in tomato
and pickle and guacamole and mayonnaise and sauerkraut and whatever
else you want to put on it. A completo has to have a lot of toppings
or else it’s not completo. Or a Primanti Bros. sandwich from
the famed Pittsburgh deli of that name that consists of capicola
and provolone topped with french fries and cole slaw and tomato
slices on sourdough. Or wait, I know, the Monte Cristo, which is
truly the Cadillac of sandwiches in that you make it by putting
turkey and ham on Dijon-coated white bread which you coat
with a well-beaten egg and cook until brown on both sides and then
sprinkle with powdered sugar and serve with red currant jelly
alongside for dipping, although you’d be delicious dipped in anything.
I’m certainly not going to turn you into a strawberry pretzel salad!
It’s not even a salad, though also delicious. I’d like to smother you,
by which I mean not put a pillow over your face but first make a roux
out of flour and vegetable oil the way they do in Cajun country
and add onion and celery and garlic and chicken broth and then immerse
you and cook you on the lowest heat possible until you emerge tender.
Tender . . . listen to me! How could you possibly be more tender
than you are now! Or sweeter. Notice that I haven’t mentioned dessert.
Why would I? You’re sweeter than ten desserts—a hundred!
If I eat you and dessert both, I couldn’t eat anything for the next three
days except insulin lollipops. I wish you were a shot of whiskey
so I could toss you down my throat or a bottle of beer so I could chug
you on a hot day or a glass of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo so I could
sip you slowly in the presence of one of the yummy dishes I have
described above even though that means I’d be consuming you twice,
which, come to think of it, is not the worst idea I’ve had lately.
I wish you were a cigar so I could stick one end of you in my mouth
and light the other. I wish I were a cigar as well so we could both
go up in smoke. Let’s send smoke signals to everyone on the mainland.
We’ll tell all the other lovers to join us. Bring your toques, lovers!
Or should it just be us? Romantic dinner for two or Bruegel-esque
banquet with dogs and children and big thick-bodied Dutch peasant
types larking about to the tune of a drum and pipe band. And dice,
of course. Peasants love to gamble. Who doesn’t? Why, the first time
I saw you, you were doubling down at the blackjack table, and I myself
am hardly averse to a hand of baccarat or chemin de fer. Did you hear
that? Dinner bell! I think I’ll marinate you for two hours or maybe
overnight in umm lemon and ahh garlic and ooh thyme and

 

David Kirby's collection The House on Boulevard St.: New and Selected Poems was a finalist for the National Book Award. He is the author of Little Richard: The Birth of Rock ‘n’ Roll, which the Times Literary Supplement of London called “a hymn of praise to the emancipatory power of nonsense” and was named one of Booklist’s Top 10 Black History Non-Fiction Books of 2010. His latest books are a poetry collection, Help Me, Information, and a textbook modestly entitled The Knowledge: Where Poems Come From and How to Write Them. He teaches English at Florida State University.

“I Wish I Were a Cannibal” is forthcoming in Help Me, Information, which will be out from LSU Press this summer.

You might call this a love poem, but that'd be selling it short. I've actually told students they can print out a copy on Valentine's Day and give it to their baby doll and say they wrote it, if they like, because it works just fine as a poem from one person to another. But I had a bigger picture in mind. I hope every reader had a mom who said something along the lines of "you're so sweet, I could just eat you up," which is really my starting place. After that I pile on the calories and the trans fats, but then alcohol shows up, as do cigars, dancing, art, dogs, card games -- the whole world's in this poem. Let's put the whole world in our poems. And then eat it.
--David Kirby

The New York School Diaspora (Part Nine): David Kirby [by Angela Ball]

David Kirby, poet of constant surprise, returns consumption to the frank lust of Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones, as visualized in Tony Richardson’s movie and its lovers’ meal where each voracious bite implies a sex act. Kirby doesn’t devour his love with kisses, but “with tomato and pickle and guacamole and mayonnaise and sauerkraut and whatever else,” marinates her “for two hours or maybe / overnight in umm lemon and ahh garlic and ooh thyme. . .” A taboo isn’t violated, as in the wonderful title of the satirical novel by Malcolm Bradbury, Eating People is Wrong. It simply doesn’t exist.

This impulse recalls the original poets of the New York school in their wish to abolish intermediaries between poem and reader, that shows itself in Frank O’Hara’s desire to place the poem between people rather than pages, “lucky Pierre style”; in John Ashbery’s gift to us of his mind transposed to language; in Kenneth Koch’s “new addresses” to War and other abstractions—their effect on us is direct, so why not their representation? James Schuyler gives us his coffee cup, his Korean mums, not as representatives of something else, but as themselves: life’s components. When he sips his coffee, it’s as if a still-life artist were eating the fruits and hams being painted, as of course they did, outside the frame of art. Why do we need the frame?

David Kirby’s “I Wish I Were a Cannibal” doesn’t. It consummates metaphor, makes tenor and vehicle one. How great to be free, eating love as avidly as Mark Strand’s avatar dog eats poetry. And aren’t they, after all, the same, unending as this poem with its connecting “and.”
--Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Eight) The News from Great Britain: Martin Stannard [by Angela Ball]

THAT THING

We once had one in our house
with handles on both sides. But
I forget its name. Sometimes

I even forget my own. The self is
an overlaying of multiple identities,
comprised not just of what is

remembered and forgotten, but
of how one is located in the wider
questions of belonging, memory

and solidarity. At least, that is what
was on my mind as I lit a bonfire
in the kitchen, which is where

I was located. It’s a mystery as to
what that lump is but the chances
are it’s nothing to be concerned

about. There are better reasons
to lay awake at night worrying
yourself sick. I am from here,

I thought, and recognise the pots
and pans, and how if one polishes
them enough they shine like brilliant

household suns. I think I may go
and live in a shed when all this is
over. In the last twenty years

average house prices have grown
about seven times faster than
average income. That’s on my mind

as I write this, and watch the fire
brigade go about their business
with consummate professionalism

and gusto. It occurred to me also
that Galileo said “Nature’s great
book is written in mathematical

symbols”, although I think he said it
in Italian and it’s not really relevant.
It’s interesting what crosses one’s

mind as the events of the day occur,
watched by miserable youths and
unquiet presences who, with nothing

to do but act as reminders of what
has been lost, refuse to stay home,
and instead nibble away at the edges

of what would otherwise be a perfectly
acceptable existence. Here comes
another little person trying to attract

my attention. Take my hat, please.
You’ll see it’s not been keeping much
warm at all. Those are shadows

taking shape before my very eyes,
and that’s a horror show over
there, and those little horror shows

gathered around them will, I guess,
be their children. How awful!
The boys and girls I have known,

the workmen and the labourers
on the estate, they are in the past
now, of course, but they are still

kind of present, although I don’t
know their names, and never
did. And when old Chivers choked

on a chicken leg everyone thought
it was a joke until it was too late.
That was a learning experience for

all of us, and is on my mind as
I write this. The burning issues of
the day are ablaze with themselves

but grow tiresome. To be a fireman is
apparently the career of choice among
an increasing number of university

graduates, and is a sign of the times.
Yes, thank you - I will have another
of those canapés. They’re delicious

even if they’re not home-made.
And thank you for reading this.
You’ve made my life better, briefly.

—Martin Stannard

from “Reading Moby-Dick and Various Other Matters”

Leafe Press, 2020

https://www.leafepresspoetry.com/2020/05/martin-stannard-reading-moby-dick-and.html

Martin Stannard lives in Nottingham, England, and his poetry and reviews have been published widely since the late 1970s. He has also had the honour (and pleasure) to read his work at the Poetry Project at St. Mark’s in New York City. He was the founding editor of joe soap’s canoe magazine from 1978-93 which, after Martin in 1980 discovered the work of Paul Violi (with whom he subsequently became a close friend), was the first magazine in the UK to regularly publish New York School poets including Ashbery, Koch, Violi, Charles North and Tony Towle. The magazine’s complete archive can be found as downloadable PDFs at www.martinstannard.com/jsc. In 1993 he arranged and accompanied Koch and Violi on a reading tour of the UK, after helping to organize an exhibition of Koch’s collaborations with artists at The Wolsey Gallery, Ipswich, Suffolk.

Martin’s recent publications include “The Review” (Knives Forks and Spoons Press, 2020) and “Reading Moby-Dick and Various Other Matters” (Leafe Press, 2020). More information can be found at www.martinstannard.com

Like most of my poems, “That Thing” is language-driven, insofar as it’s not about any thing in particular, but takes a line or phrase as somewhere to begin and heads off to a place I don’t know exists until I get there. The starting point here, as far as I recall, was an overheard phrase (“with handles on both sides”) describing some object or other. What follows is helped along by four or five other snippets culled from I can’t remember where, but most of what is said in the poem is from inside what I like to call my brain, joined together to make what I hope is a coherent (sort of) object. It occurs to me now that the last two lines could perhaps be stuck on the end of almost every poem I’ve ever written, albeit with an irony warning.

--Martin Stannard

The New York School Diaspora (Part Eight) The News from Great Britain: Martin Stannard [by Angela Ball]

Martin Stannard’s “That Thing” meditates on an emergency: a bonfire lit by the speaker. We get, amid flames, this stunning observation on pots and pans: “how if one polishes / them enough they shine like brilliant /household suns.” The lyric moment dissolves as the speaker holds forth on surrounding phenomena. A patrician anti-Whitman, he rejects multitudes; speaks with a pre-emptory directness not unlike Frank O’Hara’s in one of several poems called “Poem”: “I am thinking my own thoughts, who else’s?” Oblique subject-shifts disorient as we bowl along his association-stream to a party we have catered (mediocrely), to land in our role as readers, receiving thanks given with one hand and retracted with the other. There’s an obtuseness reminiscent of another O’Hara “Poem” in which the speaker arrives in the middle of the night to find his host lying “flat on a sheet of blood”: “There are few hosts who so thoroughly prepare to greet a guest / only casually invited and that several months ago.” With the hauteur and finesse of a Jack Benny, “That Thing’s” delightfully absurd persona, sheathed in aplomb, presents us with a world of incongruities, its source of absurdity not merely events, but our take on them. “The burning issues of / the day are ablaze with themselves / / but grow tiresome.”

--Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Seven): George Green [by Angela Ball]

Gone With the Wind

When Rhett grabs Scarlet on their flight to Tara,
their isometric kiss implies coition
and romance will peak with his profession of love
made to a horny widow woman imperiled
on the bumpy road to burnt and pillaged mansions.
Some sparkling Aphrodites debuted that year:
Maureen O’Hara, Ingrid Bergman, Greer
Garson, Brenda Joyce, and Rita Hayworth,

but who would win the sizzling bombshell prize?
Miss Scarlet, hussified in her red dress.
Vivian hated Gable’s denture breath
and later claimed he really tried to rape her,
though no one paid attention to that story,
and she got the Oscar, she and Hattie McDaniel,
though Hattie had to sit off to the side.
“I know you girls would trade me for Clark Gable,”

said Hitler to a gaggle of German debs.
Gone with the Wind was the Fuhrer’s favorite film,
and lots of his future subjects read the book.
In the movie poster Atlanta is in flames,
under a giant Rhett apparently
having his way with a giant, yielding Scarlet.
The burning town is, yes, a metaphor,
for all their fiery amorous compulsions,

but it suggests, as well, a more Vedantic
perspective, a hyper-lapse depiction of war
speeding the ashes to ashes. Poor Scott Fitzgerald
failed to make Aunt Pitty-Pat amusing,
so Selznick canned his sorry ass, launching
his fatal binge, but Margaret Mitchell wouldn’t
read the script, and never put her nose in,
quipping that Groucho Marx should play Rhett Butler.

 

George Green’s book, Lord Byron’s Foot, won The New Criterion Poetry Prize, The Poet’s Prize, and an Academy Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. He has lived for forty years in Manhattan’s East Village, but longs for “The milder minstrelsies of rural scenes.”

In my “TCM” poems I try to locate the movies historically, or relate them to events in my everyday life. In the six years between 9/01/39 and 9/02/45 roughly eighty million people lost their lives. The marvelous culture that produced GWTW, The Wizard of Oz, Only Angels Have Wings, Goodbye Mr. Chips, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Wuthering Heights, and Stagecoach, could do nothing to forestall or mitigate the catastrophe. Let me add that I could triple this list of 1939 classics without any drop in quality. I am unashamedly obsessed with ancient actresses, and the roll call at the end of stanza one is my favorite part of the poem. My Hitler quote comes from Eva Braun’s home movies.

--George Green

 

The New York School Diaspora, Part Seven: George Green

George Green’s “Gone with the Wind,” an ekphrastic poem, is about a movie poster that opens to engage late 1930’s culture at large. We disappear into it, like a reader of Roussel into the scene on a Perrier label, to enjoy tragicomic carnage and lusts of all kinds. As Rhett and Scarlett’s monstrous forms loom above a tiny, torched Atlanta, a bevy of actresses have failed to nab the transcendent role of Scarlet; Hattie McDaniel persists, portraying a maid instead of being one; Faulkner bombs as script doctor and drowns in bourbon; Hitler schemes to re-write civilization; executives strive for primacy and poolside leisure. The poem’s elegant octets feature a peanut gallery of vulgar language (“horny widow woman,” “hussified,” “denture breath,” “sorry ass”) hilariously foiled by the precise and analytical “isometric kiss,” “coition,” “Vedantic perspective,” “hyper-lapse depiction.” The novelist who sparked it all gets the last laugh, invoking the antithesis of Gable (sexiness jerry-rigged by acting coach he married): that most-refreshing nemesis of vainglory, Groucho Marx.

--Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Six): The News in Sports [by Angela Ball]

Mississippi State’s Football Coach Ponders the Fake People in the Stands

--for and after Mike Leach

I have to be honest. I haven’t really gotten
the cut-out people in the stands,
the cardboard torsos
pretending to be fans.

A Twilight Zone episode! All these fakes
frozen in time, enthusing all day
regardless of who scores, who
throws the ball away. I haven’t really gotten
the fake people in the stands.

It’s science fiction meets haunted stadium:
you’re watching the big game, and you can’t move,
let alone cheer or boo. If it’s cool,
and people enjoy it, great, but it’s a little
surreal, the fake people in the stands.

Do the person impersonators have a lottery
to see who gets the best seats? Some have way better ones,
those fake people in the stands.

I want to be one of the lucky cut-outs
on the 50-yard line. Not one of those suckers
up in the rafters. In these weird times,
even a fake person can get screwed, stuck
in the worst part of the stands.

The moral of the story is this: live clean, live smart,
and maybe someday
you’ll get good seats at the LSU game
and won’t care you’re made of cardboard,
a fake person in the stands.

--Angela Ball

“Mississippi State’s Football Coach Ponders the Fake People in the Stands” honors Mississippi State’s idiosyncratic and polymathic football coach, Mike Leach, who last fall made comments to the media about a game played at LSU and the “fake people” in the stands. His words, which seemed to capture the dysphoria of sports and life at that time, invited the poem into being.

Leach is a writer of note. Here is his biography as it appears on his publisher’s website:

“Mike Leach is a legendary college football coach and New York Times bestselling author of Swing Your Sword. He has appeared on 60 Minutes and has been featured in The New York Times Magazine, Sports Illustrated, ESPN The Magazine, and USA TODAY. He is the only college coach ever featured by NFL Films.”

The New York School Diaspora (Part Five): Nin Andrews [by Angela Ball]

Sometimes I feel so inspired
after Ulalume González de LeónI think I am flying. Yes, flying far away. So far away, in fact, that between you and me, I am at a loss for words. So this is what it’s like to be an artist, I think. Which brings me to the question: if I had to choose between being bliss and writing about it, which would I choose?

Oh Yellow Bird, I sigh as I gaze outside. Oh Yellow Sun, Yellow Mood flooding my office with longing, I want to surrender to you. I want to give up all my bad habits.

I am so filled with happiness, I do not write. I cannot. What should I do? I finally ask you, my dearest poet friend. You don’t answer. So I watch you. I do what you do.

Word by word, line by line, I change my mind. I change my mood, my laundry, my socks. I change the sun into wind, the wind into clouds and grief. I talk about my soul as if it were a shroud, my heart as if it were lost. Then I change it into a sparrow, an egg, a frying pan.

Yes, I lie. Today, I am a poet. I write lies.

Nin Andrews is the author of seven chapbooks and seven full-length collections of poetry. Her poems have appeared in many literary reviews and anthologies including Ploughshares, The Paris Review, The Best of the Prose Poem, and four volumes of Best American Poetry. She has translated the prose poems of Henri Michaux and edited an anthology of them titled Someone Wants to Steal My Name (Cleveland State University Press). Her most recent book, The Last Orgasm, was published by Etruscan Press in 2020.

In writing this poem, I was thinking how inspiration is the crack cocaine of writers—that there’s a high when the rush of ideas and images and words coalesces in the mind and begins to form a poem, an essay, a story. But there are also those days when the high is there, but one can lack the ability to translate it into words. I wanted to describe the distance that sometimes opens up between what I feel and what I can express, between what I say and what I mean, between what I describe and what I actually see. I was also thinking of the Mexican poet, Ulalume González de León, and how she often addresses that which cannot be put into words.
--Nin Andrews

The New York School Diaspora, Part Five: Nin Andrews

Nin Andrews’s poem, “Sometimes I feel so inspired,” like the poems of Frank O’Hara, engages the mutable and its quandaries, the seemingly competing needs to experience bliss and to write it. Here, as in O’Hara, there are friends to consult: “What should I do?” . . .”You don’t answer. So I watch you. I do what you do.” The vexed question, Be or Write: O’Hara evaded it. Or rather, surrendered to both, as Andrews does in this poem inspired by Ulalume González de León.

Like Mayakovsky, O’Hara and Andrews are clouds in human dress, implicated in the bliss of vapor’s changing shapes. O’Hara’s heart resides in his pocket, “it is Poems by Pierre Reverdy”; Andrews’ changes hers into beauty, nourishment, practicality: “a sparrow, an egg, a frying pan.” As O’Hara says, “The eagerness of objects to / be what we are afraid to do / cannot help but move us.”

“Sometimes I feel so inspired” is an encounter of sensibility with world. To read is like strapping oneself to an experienced parachutist. We land on the fact of poetry and its seminal prevarication.

--Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Four): Barbara Hamby [by Angela Ball]

               Ode on My Prison

This morning I read about a couple arrested
       for selling hundreds of tickets to heaven
which they said were made from pure gold
       and all you have to do is hand yours over
to St. Peter and you are ushered into paradise. Tito Watts,
       the mastermind of this scheme, told the police
Jesus gave him the tickets in the parking lot
       behind the KFC and told him to sell them
so he could pay Stevie, an alien Tito met at a bar,
       to take him to a planet made of drugs.
"You should arrest Jesus," said Tito. "I'll wear a wire
       and set him up." His wife agreed they both
wanted to leave Earth, and I know how she feels,
       because most newspaper stories are such a bummer—
sexcapades, lying, the Russians—so Jesus, where
       is my golden ticket? Not that I'm all that keen
to go to heaven, but I would like to go to Vietnam
       and Cambodia, though I guess a travel agent
could set that up for me, and I'm always fantasizing
       about dropping in on Haydon’s immortal dinner
and eavesdropping on Keats and Wordsworth or spending
       a fortnight in London in 1601, seeing Shakespeare
as Hamlet's father’s ghost, taking in the general squalor
       and maybe picking up some manuscripts
from the printing house floor, tucking them in my farthingale,
       and then taking off to Chawton Cottage to stalk
Jane Austen for a while, though in that dress it’s going to be hard
       to go incognito, so maybe I should wear black jeans,
and you may be forgiven for thinking that I’ve touched down
       on that planet of drugs, but who needs them
really when your mind can spin out its own delirium,
       a dream here, a phantasmagoria there, and right now
I'm fixated on Tito wired to bust Jesus, and doesn't it seem
       sometimes as if we’re hanging around the KFC
waiting for something supernatural to appear, not Jesus,
       but maybe Walt Whitman walking to New Orleans
with his brother, a cloud of words crowding out Stevie
       and the other aliens as Walt fuels his own dream
of America where we’re looking after each other instead
       of grubbing for all the moolah we can stuff
up our backsides, though a friend of my sister’s says that Earth
       is an alien penal colony, and we’re all doing time
for crimes against the universe, so I guess Stevie’s a rogue
       guard in the Florida penitentiary, and sometimes
my body does seem like a prison of sprains and back pain,
       my mind like the trenches at Verdun—the mud,
the mustard gas—yet when the war is over, I'm still alive,
       seem to have all my limbs, every cup of tea
is ambrosia, and if that’s not enough, it’s May, jasmine
       and roses are blooming, my heart clambering
over the clouds as if on wings, and I can’t help but think
       of Solzhenitsyn looking back on his years in the gulag
saying, “Bless you, my prison, for having been in my life.”

I usually start writing with an image (golden tickets to heaven) and then let my mind roam free and make wild associations. I love it when a poem surprises me, and this one did. It was like riding a roller coaster. I wrote it during the summer of 2018 in Florence. I had had a busy spring semester in which I hadn't had time to do much writing, but I had been collecting lots of starts and notes. I think I ended up writing 45 pages that summer, which turned out to be over half of my new book Holoholo. I was on fire. I doubt I'll see the like of that again, but I can always hope.

--Barbara Hamby

Barbara Hamby is the author of seven books of poems, most recently Holoholo (2021), Bird Odyssey (2018) and On the Street of Divine Love: New and Selected Poems (2014), all published by the University of Pittsburgh Press, which also published Babel (2004) and All-Night Lingo Tango (2009). She was a 2010 Guggenheim fellow in Poetry and her book of short stories, Lester Higata’s 20^th Century, won the 2010 Iowa Short Fiction Award. She has also edited an anthology of poems, Seriously Funny (Georgia, 2009), with her husband David Kirby. She teaches at Florida State University.

The New York School Diaspora, Part Four: Barbara Hamby

“Ode On My Prison,” from Barbara Hamby’s peripatetic new book, Holoholo, recalls Frank O’Hara’s celebration of the immediate, “Having a Coke with You,” that begins, “is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne.” Hamby’s imagined travelogue spools from news that  a couple has been arrested for “selling tickets to Heaven.”

In O’Hara-esque fashion, Hamby honors her subject by departure in pursuit of the extravagant choices it suggests.  Instead of a ticket to Heaven or O’Hara’s “warm New York 4 o’clock light,” she opts for “Vietnam and Cambodia” “Haydon’s famous dinner,” “Walt Whitman walking to New Orleans,” a “cup of tea,” “May,” “jasmine and roses.” The result is both baroque and colloquial. Invoking Shakespeare’s turn as Hamlet’s father’s ghost, Hamby then riffs on the bard’s trope of mind as prison by making hers “like the trenches at Verdun” and her body “a prison of sprains and back pain.”  Provided in lieu of the abstractions we expect, these harsh specifics are pure comedy.

The poem rejects the monotony of heaven in favor of the chaos of dailiness. It accepts the premise of earth as prison, one that—like Solzhenitsyn’s—inspires permanent gratitude from its inmates.

--Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora Part Three: Allison Campbell [by Angela Ball]

STENDHAL SYNDROME

Ever wanted to make love to a work of art—
die in the obscene smear of paint or a written passage
where the protagonist stands on a Sears Tower diving board
but then climbs down, ever mirrored a manikin and felt
you were falling into its apparel, the fabric swimming you,
sometimes listened to music with the back of your head
or took a moment in the bath to observe the water in opposition
with your hair, had a pop song puncture to nerve by amplifying
something hidden, finding a stranger knew your feelings exactly,
but more so, decided nature is wonderful, but alive, you needed
acrylic, oil, the page, a breathing note, or a warm drink in a white cafe
designed by someone rich from drawing children in animal suits?
It’s not that you cannot go on living without these things,
it’s that without them you have questioned the point.

Allison Campbell is the author of the prose poetry collection Encyclopédie of the Common & Encompassing. Her work has appeared in such places as Copper Nickel, The Cincinnati Review, Tampa Review, Witness, and Rattle. She lives in New Orleans.

In a museum built into the side of a mountain, I stood before Claude Monet’s Sunset on the Seine in Winter. Until this point, my experience of Impressionism was limited to dentist’s office reproductions and wall calendars. But in this museum, I stared at the orange-red dot-of- a-setting-sun and felt myself falling into the river. I began to cry. I did not know what I was experiencing, but later learned that the syndrome was named in 1989 by an Italian doctor who saw many patients whose physical and mental health were affected by the beauty of Florence. I wrote this poem pointing out overwhelming episodes, instances when I was acutely receptive to human-made beauty.
--Allison Campbell

The New York School Diaspora, Part Three: Allison Campbell

A member of the New York School seminar that participated in the USM Center for Writers’ 2014 Symposium on the New York School of Poetry and the South, Allison Campbell served as The Best American Poetry’s special correspondent, blogging about the event.

“The Stendhal Syndrome” is an affliction named after the 19th-century French author, whose description of his experience in Florence first documented the phenomenon. Of his initial visit to the Basilica of Santa Croce, where Niccolo Machiavelli, Michelangelo, and Galileo Galilei are buried, Stendhal wrote

I was in a sort of ecstasy, from the idea of being in Florence, close to the great men whose tombs I had seen. Absorbed in the contemplation of sublime beauty ... I reached the point where one encounters celestial sensations ... Everything spoke so vividly to my soul. Ah, if I could only forget. I had palpitations of the heart, what in Berlin they call 'nerves'. Life was drained from me. I walked with the fear of falling.

Allison Campbell’s invocation of art-generated rapture, its head-over-heels multi-part interrogative, suggests Kenneth Koch and his“Fresh Air”; in particular, this line: “Did you ever glance inside a bottle of sparkling pop?” It also recalls Frank O’Hara’s desire, expressed in “Personism: A Manifesto,” for a poem to exist not between two pages but “between two persons,” “Lucky-Pierre style,” and the melding of art, nature, and identity that Keats enacts in “Ode to a Nightingale”: “Now more than ever seems it rich to die.” We are most ourselves when in transport, when we’ve “had a pop song puncture to nerve by amplifying / something hidden.”

--Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora: Part Two, Julia Johnson [by Angela Ball]

Failure

I’m standing at the stove cooking pancakes
when in walks a goat.
The goat is black and white and gives me
a look over the bridge of his nose that I recognize 
as a look of sadness.
And so I have a sad goat in my kitchen.
The tornado sirens have stopped.
He’s countertop height. 
The cast on my arm under the sleeve
of my sweater isn’t visible to the goat, and I’m  
glad for that. I flip the pancakes.
The goat shakes gently his beard, kicks
his left hoof, and stomps. I try to imagine
anything as smooth as a flipped pancake
as I wait for the other side to brown.

I was introduced to the work of Russell Edson, Charles Simic, James Tate and the French surrealist prose poets, including Charles Baudelaire, Arthur Rimbaud, and Guillaume Apollinaire early on in my writing life, in high school. Their influence is forever in my imagination, I think, as are the Surrealist painters. One day, I was standing in the kitchen in Kentucky cooking pancakes when I heard tornado warning sirens. This poem came out of that moment. 

--Julia Johnson

The New York School Diaspora, Part Two: Julia Johnson

My post here last week, “The New York School Diaspora, Part One,” asserted that the values of the New York School of Poetry survive to enliven much of the strongest American poetry. James Tate’s work, incorporating what appreciative critics have called “the surrealism of everyday life,” represents a branch of this diaspora.

Julia Johnson’s “Failure” shares with James Tate’s work (in such poems as “The Buddhists Have the Field” and “The Distant Orgasm”) the marriage of the pedestrian and the unexpected. It shares one of the key convictions of New York School poetry: life is chaotic, resists explanation.

The poem’s title, “Failure,” sits at an oblique angle to the poem. We are tempted to think of how tragedy is goat-song, and how failures of character result in tragedy. There’s the expression, diluted by time, “I am the goat.” Is the goat a stray sacrifice? Why does he stamp? From whence his sadness? Why does the speaker cook pancakes when there is a cast on her arm? Why glad that her cast is hidden? Is the now-absent tornado connected with the goat? With guilt? Question marks rotate playfully, as in an old illustration of bewilderment. The incident, as solid and self-contained as a flipped pancake, calls to us. The cooking continues.

--Angela Ball