Archive for September, 2008

Rachel Mallino’s ANTI

Wednesday, September 24th, 2008

The five poems from Rachel Mallino’s ANTI published by Gold Wake Press as an echap take the names of anti-depressants as their titles. More difficult than identifying the meaning of these titles is describing the relationships of the poems’ lush contents to their titles.

At times they seem to detail the states which these drugs are intended to oppose. The phrase “afghan gloom” with its delicious consonance in “Venlafaxine”, for example, evokes one who suffers from depression huddled under a crocheted blanket. A similar image appears in “Sertraline”: “We own twenty- / four hours to bed down and you’re / / already full inside: bed-sheet / burier . . .” Here depression is complicated by a grandiose, almost manic tone, and the question of who exactly “you”, “we”, and “I” are. Such a manic tone may be a side effect of an anti-depressant and is suggested once again in “Trazodone” with the speaker’s talk of being “too electrical”.

Of course, even without side effects, not every treatment works. The opening lines of “Bupropion” seem to suggest a treatment that has failed, that doesn’t prevent depression from getting into the mind, doesn’t prevent the reuptake of norepinephrine and dopamine as this drug is supposed to. “Escitalopram” suggests withdrawal with a voice that has a “buzzing” and possibly hallucinatory head asking for wares from the punnish “[p]ill pauper”.

The difficulty of assigning one poem-title relationship to this collection complicates the relationship between the poem titles and collection title. Does ANTI merely echo the fact of these drugs being anti-depressants, or does it suggest an opposition to them, an anti-anti-depressant tract?

Neither of these interpretation does justice to the beautiful intricacy of these poems. Rather, what Mallino has created is an image of the liminality of depression, an in-betweenness that persists even as one tries different treatments, suffers side effects, or goes off meds that may or may not have worked.

Reality is messy. It is always good to find poems that reflect this truth in language that creates both striking images and luscious sounds when read aloud.

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Equinox Approaches

Sunday, September 21st, 2008

The very term equinox suggests balance, the evenness and certainty of mathematical equations. Equity. Equality. Equidistant. A night that equals day (at least in theory). Any state of balance, however, is charged with the potential of transition. No real stasis can exist.

In the midst of my (unexpected) transition back to life in the Pacific Northwest, another transition occurs around me with neither awareness of nor concern for my own. As Mabon nears, clouds and rain have curtained off the blue sky that against the green of Douglas Fir looks as if some amateur photographer turned up the saturation too much in Photoshop.

No moment of balance, no pause, between these seasonal weather patterns occurred, though I could name one if I wanted to–if I felt it necessary.

That is the spirit in which we mark equinox.

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Vocation & The Potential for Economic Change

Friday, September 12th, 2008

In “The Idea of a Local Economy”, published in Milkweed EditionsThe Future of Nature: Writing on a Human Ecology from Orion Magazine, Wendell Berry lists the assumptions that go with the notion that corporations ought to be “free” to buy cheap and sell dear anywhere and any time they please. These include:

13. That the economy is a machine, of which people are merely the interchangeable parts. One has no choice but to do the work (if any) that the economy prescribes, and to accept the prescribed wage.
14. That, therefore, vocation is a dead issue. One does not do the work that one chooses to do because one is called to it by Heaven or by one’s natural or god-given abilities, but does instead the work that is determined and imposed by the economy. Any work is all right as long as one gets paid for it.

This places poets, underground artists of all kinds, and farmers who grow unfashionable tomatoes (for example) in opposition to the primary economic order that we know today. We may do ‘any work’ in order to survive, but it is always in order to fund our vocation, unless of course we are fortunate enough to find that we have a secondary vocation that pays. (It is reasonable to be suspicious of claims of such a vocation– it is unlikely that all poets-turned-professors love teaching– but it is unnecessarily cynical to assume that all such claims must be false.) Fortunately, a true vocation will survive long hours in pursuit of survival, discouraging rejection letters, and everything else. Those teachers of ‘creative writing’ who attempt to dissuade young writers from following their path test this vocation intentionally.

By insisting on our vocations and prioritizing them, we present a threat to the corporate economy. No, a scattering of artists (and tomato farmers) working only as necessary to live will not shake up the system. The threat comes from the power of example. What would happen if everyone found this path?

Fortunately for the corporations, the present-day education system hardly encourages children and adolescents to seek a vocation. Explorations is discouraged and the range of learning opportunities limited. Legislation like No Child Left Behind has seen to that. By demanding a certain level of test-taking ability from all students, they have limited the time and resources that can be spent on the arts, experiential learning, and field trips. The Bellevue School District in western Washington dictates to teachers what they should do every day in class; individual student interests and potential do not come into it. (Though one of the reasons for the current strike there is that the teachers detest this sort curricular micromanagement. One suspects that many of these teachers teach because they believe it is their vocation.) You cannot find a vocation in something you have never experienced.

It is also very difficult to say the least for parents to follow their vocations. In today’s economy, often both parents have to work long hours, even multiple jobs just to keep food on the table. They feel pressured to move into more expensive houses than they would otherwise buy simply in order to find decent schools for their children. To be able to pursue a vocation in such a situation requires either a lack of need for sleep that would impress this lifelong insomniac or else a degree of community or extended family support that is rare.

Defining vocation in terms that approach destiny challenges the corporate-dominated economic order, but only if that definition becomes accepted over the sort that allows ‘vocation’ to become part of the names of colleges that provide technical and other skills desireable primarily for purposes of employability. None of this, however, should be taken as reflecting negatively on those who must or choose to pursue what is today called vocational education, as they are simply trying to survive and maybe make their lives an inch or two better.

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Death in Gerald McCarthy’s Attica 1977

Wednesday, September 3rd, 2008

I have rarely been impressed by the poetry section of The Pedestal Magazine. In the current issue, however, I found an exception that addresses, in a poem set primarily in a prison, that final transition known as death. Gerald McCarthy makes the reader feel the oppressiveness of Attica 1977 by beginning the poem with the line “A skull” and only telling us in the next few lines why. By saving the words that signal simile for the second line, we get the presence of death whole and without mitigation. It is real. “[T]he pressure / the way the ceilings push down” comes almost as a relief except that a reader with even an instinctive awareness of the maxim or relevance will attempt to connect this pressure back to the skull.

This pressure makes something worse than a headache. More deadly too with “soft yellow patches”– the color of old bones– covering bullet holes.

We are taken on this journey into a skull, into death, only to find something quite close to the sort of activities young writers often engage in outside:

We smoked it there,
watched the snow fall in the yards,
outside.
And then we read
to each other, the words
spinning out.

Except that what is smoked is not a bong or a regular joint but “a thin jailhouse joint”.

The real threat of death to the poem’s speaker, however, only comes after the place like death (or like its sign) is left: “On my way home / I skidded in the drifts”. Could this be the grip of death remaining from the prison? The speaker’s thoughts certainly return there, but then they drift to a place that instead of being a skull carries thousands of skulls, as if each of the dead in the Capuchin’s cavern of skulls represents a place of imprisonment.

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