Today's Book of Poetry: adrienne rich

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Tuesday, May 22, 2018

Lady Lazarus Redux — Amanda Earl (above/ground press)

Today's book of poetry:
Lady Lazarus Redux. Amanda Earl. above/ground press. Ottawa, Ontario. 2017.

Gwendolyn MacEwen, Adrienne Rich, Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath.

Amanda Earl has gone to the source, the deep pool, and come up smoking. Today's book of poetry won't bother explaining how and what Earl borrowed from these giants, Earl explains it clearly enough in an "Afterword." The technique doesn't matter that much to Today's book of poetry although it is an amazing and diligent feat, all that matters to us is what Earl does with the tools she has manufactured.

Amanda Earl's Lady Lazarus Redux burns.

Today's book of poetry is relatively familiar with some of Amanda Earl's earlier works, we had Milo, our head tech, go into the stacks and he brought back Kiki (Chaudiere Books, 2014), I Owe Saint Hildegard the Light (unarmed chapbooks, no date), and 48 Bowls (le Temps des cerises/an Angel House Press Imprint, 2013). Of course Milo now knows he has to add a few Amanda Earl titles to our ongoing list of poetry titles we are in search mode for.

Today's book of poetry is familiar enough with Earl to know that unlike the rest of us, Earl is willing to spread her net wide. Amanda Earl isn't dedicated to a particular voice, a particular style, instead she tries new styles on like intellectual hats. The poems in Lady Lazarus Redux employ a more narrative hook and Earl is happy to step on the gas, she is willing and able to stretch her bad engine into a higher gear.

Part Ten: The Same, Identical Woman

I am exhausted. I am exhausted.

Pillar of white in a blackout of knives.

Sylvia Plath, The Bee Meeting

Another messy wake up at four thirty a.m. against my will. I sip water, try to

dehydrate so I won't be clumsy but all the ghosts are here. They won't let me

breathe.

Silence makes its painstaking way into the day's carnival. Tap screech. Fridge

moan. I am unaccustomed to strangers. Dawn is my sleep's enemy. I want to make

a mansion out of my bed. Exhausted by eight p.m., I become thin as glass.

Winter is smooth. I crave the burr of spring, its exotic tricks of light, shadow

dancing. I avoid crowds, put on a velvet demeanour, tile my worries as limestone

shale on Ashburnham Hill. My goal is translucence.

What's the etiquette for I don't give a fuck! I choose a white card. My hands are

dry. I'd steal moisture from the moon, but that's time-consuming. The moon

despises me. We are rivals.

I am an exile in a colourful fish pond. I swim in the wrong direction, if I swim at

all. I am neglected with the sodden lilies and lazy bullfrogs, my outsider pals. I

unravel the seams of my gills to reveal my scars. I am graceless. Most days I fake it.

In public I don another mask, made of leaves that never turn or die. I am the

overripe thorn never the flower. I have outstayed my welcome. I have teeth. I am

sharp. I can sting. I bristle. There is no gentle here.

My hair is silver. I refuse to dye. I let it grow. It curtains the dark. I am

embarrassed not noble. A roll of sorrow overcomes.

I've never paid attention to omens. I choose a blue card. Blue for melancholy, for

medicine in the form of small pills. Yellow for Valium. I shred portents. I cry.

Fountains overflow. Here's an obsolete penny. Make a wish.

Fear is lamp black, impenetrable. I drown in my unadulterated contradictions. I

poison the light with humid passion when I'm supposed to be dried up. See me

smile to camouflage the sorrow, blond as flaxen, smooth as linseed. Spin me into

cool material.

I am monstrous, a whore, I confess reluctantly to eager suitors. They wear out

their purity. I canvas misery. I am a beautiful liar, n'est-ce pas? It's an affliction. A

siren with a head of silver years. Men swagger. I indulge them. I am fond of the

ingenue, but I don't want to guide him, I just want to be a witness.

...

In Lady Lazarus Redux Amanda Earl is almost always quoting someone in her single project based matrix, one of the four, MacEwen,Rich, Sexton or Plath. But the language is always Earl. But when Earl quotes Plath she is starting up the engine.

"I am terrified by the dark thing

That sleeps inside me."

Sylvia Plath, Elm

Earl starts one of the her ten dynamos that appear in Lady Lazarus Redux with this great Plath quote and Today's book of poetry is pretty sure that Earl realizes that most of us have "dark things" that come in the night, but very few of us are capable of making music out of the dark. Discord is a big black raven that sweeps above and around Earl's poems, that is until she grabs the beast and starts plucking it's long feathers.

Earl leans on the dark and pulls it taut. Men aren't secondary in these poems, but they are barely present, barely necessary. Earl is speaking from a place that seeks no approval. This is a type of reporting for the new poetry news.

Part Four: The Paperweight

The world is blood-hot and personal

Sylvia Plath, Totem

Dread follows a siege of cravings and aversions. As if my plasma is pleading for

iron, a backbone, resilience.

The leaf of my temper unfurls and fiery bells of fury clang in my skull. I stumble

with the weight of hot iron. I am charred. I boil. I am a danger zone. Now

emotions are snow-feathered, delicate. I tremble, so brittle, I splinter.

This blood rust scent of myself incites burnt ocher dreams: cars on fire, sirens

wailing, the howl of nameless creatures in the hot dark. Gardens are luminous with

flame. I cannot surface.

Saints cry out to me in nightmares. The sheets are stained. I press my finger

against my clit. In the morning I wake with dried blood on my palm.

Treat this body as a numb castle with the drawbridge up. Do not attempt to

rescue the princess. She is seated at her doom, doing nervous needlework, pricking

her finger. She is cursed.

Thoughts shear through my mind. Dread is an icicle that stabs into calm. Ice turns

to brick. This is not alchemy, it is anxiety, a muddy recognition. Flat, unpercussive

despair.

It doesn't matter if I cross a thousand cold rivers, hug an icepack in my sleep, eat

an ice cream cone while wandering in January with my coat open, stand naked at

the window on a wintry night, the serpent of heat licks flame at my skin until I am

soaked in sweat.

Dear moon, a gesture would be nice. You're always so regular. I have a calendar

that tells me when you wax and wane. I envy your predictability. Bright wolf of

silvery gibbons while my uterus clenches blankly.

I am not made of iron. I seethe and sob. The earth turns from day to night and I

from dark to light. My bounce against infinity is no more than an ephemeral

quiver.

This lust is carried on scorched winds. When I touch a pencil, it turns to ash. I stay

away on purpose. Internalize my fervour. I am no gallery of calm. I am a

connoisseur of carnality. A heat-seeker, a bomb.

...

The women here at Today's book of poetry are all big fans of Amanda Earl. As Kathyrn, our Jr. Editor said this morning: "She will say the thing!" No fear.

In an effort for full disclosure Today's book of poetry does know Amanda Earl, we have one of her hand-made bowls sitting beside the desk in our office. Today's book of poetry would go so far as to say that we are friends with Ms. Earl — but our circles don't intersect all that often.

Our morning read was smooth as glass. Maggie, our new intern, took over the reins and laser pointed us home. A Ms. Birney (yes, an honest to goodness, real life, relative of the late Saint Earle of Birney) joined us for this morning's reading. The gang rose to the challenge and waltzed Amanda Earl around our offices and into the beautiful spring morning. Ms. Birney brought a friend, Lucy, who was new to us all but made she made friends of us all quickly, joined in the reading. Lucy chose this last poem

Part Eight: The Cat

Love is a shadow.

How you lie and cry after it.

Sylvia Plath, Elm

Opening childproof extra strength sinus medication, plastic pantyliner bags, jars of

nuts, wine sealed with corks has become increasingly difficult with age. Will alone

isn't enough. I aspire to be enriched. I end up a restless paces of the night, all

packages destroyed by my teeth, my head pounding and stains in my underpants.

Age inscribes its sophistry on my body. This flesh was never holy but decadent

and real. I caress my scars.

My senses incinerate order, but I am no fan of chaos. The surface is rapacious and

dull. I want to delve, not to police my actions. I try to get hold of myself.

My emotions roar. My anxieties sear me. I am clinging as hard as I can to the

balustrade of optimism. I have two sides at least, odd and even. Odd usually wins.

I am an actor in the torchlight, making unidentifiable shadow puppets on the wall.

I do not envy youth. I am an arsonist of memory. I set each reminiscence on fire

and watch the remnants curl as it burns. I wake up sweating. My father tried to

possess me. Sometimes I believe he succeeded. And we are in hell together.

Here is a recollection. It is Christmas Eve. My father is into the whiskey again. I

am upstairs in my bedroom, but the shouts of my parents' battle reach my ears.

There is sudden movement. Screams. Something crashes. I hide underneath my

bed. I piss my pajamas because I am too afraid to leave the room to go to the

toilet.

Nightmares have anchors. This ship doesn't move. Holidays weigh me down. Bing

Crosby is singing White Christmas. I love the red cardinals on the cards strung

across the silver garlands in the living room. But a black bird caws in the sun and

the sky darkens once again.

Flights of fancy got me through childhood. My stories, my imaginary friends, the

willow tree fairies, standing still on the railroad tracks, imagining the train would

take me away, escapes to cool creeks, tadpoles in a bucket, surprise frogs. I

remember that little girl. I wish I could be her guardian angel.

When I left home I took the Red Rose tea figurines with me. The owl and the

duck, the foxes and deer, the cats and dogs, the fish, the monkeys, we fled. I

wrapped them in tissue paper to keep them whole.

The little girl is made of glass. Despair causes cracks in her psyche that can't quite

be repaired. Now she reflects the light. So many colours in the prism of her life

reflected back as shards of memory and a love of the broken.

...

"...and a love of the broken." That damned line broke Today's book of poetry's heart the first time we read it, and the second and the third.

Today's book of poetry was very happy to write about Amanda Earl's most recent chapbook Lady Lazarus Redux. Amanda Earl is a poet of large appetites, Today's book of poetry is certain we will see more from Earl.

Amanda Earl

Photo: Charles Earl

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Amanda Earl is an Ottawa writer, publisher and visual poet. She's the managing editor of Bywords.ca and the fallen angel of AngelHousePress. More information is available at AmandaEarl.com.

Amanda Earl

Tree reading series

Video: Tree Reading Series

abovegroundpress.blogspot.com

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DISCLAIMERS

Poems cited here are assumed to be under copyright by the poet and/or publisher. They are shown here for publicity and review purposes. For any other kind of re-use of these poems, please contact the listed publishers for permission.

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Sunday, February 19, 2017

Acquired Community - Jane Byers (Caitlin Press)

Today's book of poetry:
Acquired Community. Jane Byers. Caitlin Press. Halfmoon Bay, British Columbia. 2016.

When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it

become less and less important whether I am afraid

- Audre Lorde

...that without tenderness, we are in hell.

-Adrienne Rich, Twenty-One Love Poems, X

Today's book of poetry had to borrow these two epigraphs from Jane Byers brilliant Acquired Community because they synthesize in such a beautifully acute fashion everything that is about to occur. Byers gives us a deeply personal and highly politicized march into her queer experience and it is riveting.

These poems are a proud parade of perseverance rendered gallant under extreme duress; not everyone gets out alive.

The Lavender Scare

According to a concerned mother of a Women's Army Corps recruit,

Fort Oglethorpe was full of homosexual sex maniacs in WWII,

"women having the appearance of perverts have been observed--

mannish haircuts, clothing, posture, stride...

seeking to date other girls, paying all the bills."

--from "Coming Out Under Fire"

Only if we were "addicted to the practice", could we be discharged in wartime.

It was a gay time, the war.

The General ignored all our signals--

we whistled that ode to secret lovers, the Hawaiian War Chant,

said, "We're going to have a gay time tonight"

or "Are you in the mood?"

The Inspector General ignored civilians

cruising servicemen along highways near bases,

the bars we frequented, men in drag, women arm in arm.

Ignored, that is, until peacetime,

when, addicts after all, we were given blue discharges.

The Lavender Scare rendered us

shunned from civilian jobs

ineligible for GI benefits,

unable to go back to small towns and family farms.

Some of us moved to D.C., L.A., SanFran,

some started homophile groups,

some men got married but fucked other men in the bushes,

some women became stone butches and never let their lovers touch them,

some of us jumped from tall buildings.

...

Jane Byers writes with such mature assurance, such a steady hand. Today's book of poetry had never read Jane Byers before but the connect was immediate, instantaneous. There is always lots and lots of room on our shelves for such impassioned and intelligent reason. There is always room at our table for this sort of company.

Byers shares with us a history, a herstory, that for the majority of Canadian and Americans will be entirely new news. For the legions of our LGBTQ sisters and brothers it is a new documentation of a sad history they are all too familiar with.

Regardless of gender or disposition Today's book of poetry defies you not to be moved by these compelling narratives. Whether singing out a questioning tune in call and response or intoning a solemn prayer Byers is captivating.

Come Out

Stylized geometry,

pink triangle shadowed by black

above purple text--

Toronto's pride theme, 1993.

Come Out, urging,

statement--

it changes through years.

Some took offense,

mostly conservative men who had a lot to lose

but no, that's too simple.

There were women too, unwilling

to lose what little they had.

I was righteous, thought I had come out.

I'd told my high school friends, my parents, my aunt by then.

I celebrated in the streets with my friends,

eight of us in solid-coloured shirts,

walked in rainbow formation,

Made the cover of Xtra.

In my naivete, I thought I was done.

Twenty years later, I'm still doing it,

the only thing i want to have come out of is my mother's womb.

Not to the kindergarten teacher, the triage nurse,

the dentist, the law clerk, the adoption worker,

or the post woman in the condo elevator

who asks, Which one of you is the mom?

then turns to press any button she can

when I say, We both are.

The agent at the ticket counter,

glances at us with a question,

I nod before he gets the chance--

no words, but he understands.

Resignation passes over his face

with a raised eyebrow as if to say,

"When did this happen?"

I feign ignorance, glance at our kids, say,

"Follow Mama while Mom gets our bags checked."

It's like breathing, not birth.

...

Sometimes, and this is one of those cases, the limited selection of three poems doesn't speak to the breadth of a book at all. Acquired Community speaks to that sense of community we find with new friends and cherished old friends, mutual understanding and respect, in the modern era this is how we build family. We acquire people less joined by blood than by bonds of empathy.

When Today's book of poetry reads about Byers being "gay-bashed" by her brother and the subsequent torment and disappointment that ensue -- our entire staff sends out an appropriate hug for Byers. As a brother who cherishes the ground his sisters walk on I've also sent out our entirely inappropriate Poetry Hit Squad searching for Byers brother. Not to worry, they only use poetry. They'll poeticize him to reason, tolerance and compassion or they'll dance him outside.

Blood Orange

Joppa, Tarocco, Cara Cara, Sanguinello.

A hybrid between mandarin and pomello,

oranges grow near the Blood River in Limpopo,

alongside the ungraded dirt road, where the runners train,

barefoot, through the bush

in the red/orange co-mingle of sunrise,

in the descending crescendo of sunset.

After she shattered the 800 metre world record in Berlin,

Caster Semenya, of Limpopo, breathtakingly butch,

was accused of being a man,

jeered by the sixth and eighth place runners.

Deep voice, chiseled deltoids and biceps,

she visited the bathroom with competitors,

to show them her labia, again and again.

Her auntie says she knows what Caster is. she changed her nappies.

Turns out how we measure gender is complex.

No menses, not a big deal,

few female athletes bleed.

There is no definitive test.

She finds out she is intersex.

Undescended testes.

Mosiac female.

Caster retains the world record that she broke that night,

after the freak-show coverage and gender verification testing.

Hormone therapy renders her armour-like chest more curved,

her cheeks less angular, attenuated her power,

until we believe she is female.

Semenya goes on to win Olympic bronze, then gold.

Forget what you know.

Limpopo is South African slang for nowhere.

Imagine the dismay when you split one in half.

Red.

No, orange.

No, red.

There will be blood.

...

Byers poems are a magnificent bridge that span the years from imperilled hostility and even imprisonment for any LGBTQ citizen, through the marching and the parades, the hidden clubs and hidden desires - right up to today and the marvelous imperfect present. Steps have been made, there has been progress, new laws, but we are all still a long way from home.

Acquired Community is not only a fine book of poetry it is a necessary piece of social history, a reminder, an entreaty. Hope.

Jane Byers

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jane Byers lives with her wife and two children in Nelson, British Columbia. She writes about human resilience in the context of raising children, lesbian and gay issues, and health and safety in the workplace. She has worked as an ergonomist and vocational rehabilitation consultant for many years and is passionate about facilitating resilience in ill and injured workers. She has had poems, essays and short fiction published in a variety of books and literary magazines in Canada, the US, and the UK, including Grain, Rattle, Descant, the Antigonish Review, the Canadian Journal of Hockey Literature, Our Times, Poetry in Transit and Best Canadian Poetry 2014. Her first book of poetry, Steeling Effects, was published by Caitlin Press in 2014. Her latest book of poetry is Acquired Community.

BLURBS

“Byers’ poems are an important reflection on the devastation of the AIDS crisis, the ‘veiled love and lament’ of the early gay rights movement, and the memories held by queer elders.”
— Leah Horlick, author of For Your Own Good and winner of the 2016 Dayne Ogilvie Prize

“Jane Byers’ Acquired Community fills an often overlooked niche in Canadian queer history. Written in strong, careful poetics, both personal and political, Byers gives readers a glimpse into what was possible then, what is possible now. If you care about queer lives, this is an important book to read, to enjoy!”
—Arleen Paré, author of Lake of Two Mountains (Winner of the 2014 Governor General’s Award for Poetry), and He Leaves His Face in the Funeral Car

Jane Byers

reads "Red is the Colour of Spring"

Video: Amy Bohigian's Channel

caitlin-press.com

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