Showing posts with label dylan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dylan. Show all posts

Wednesday, July 11, 2018

Particles - New & Selected Poems — Dan Gerber (Copper Canyon Press)

Today's book of poetry:
Particles - New & Selected Poems.  Dan Gerber.  Copper Canyon Press.  Port Townsend, Washington.  2017.


Dan Gerber's Particles - New & Selected Poems covers the years 1971 to the present and the first thing that Today's book of poetry noticed was the consistency.  Gerber is writing with the same careful authority now as he did almost fifty years ago.  Another way to approach this would be to say that Gerber's older poems do not feel dated, they remain fresh as daisies.

It's no mean feat to carry a voice through the decades.  Even the Rolling Stones have changed their sound over the years, Dylan went electric.  Gerber, strong out of the gate,  and has still never wavered.

Spring Creek

Standing at ease in the current,
watching my thoughts stream by,
seventeen thousand thoughts in a day.
If I grasp one the river stops flowing.

Those horses on the walls of the Chauvet cave,
twenty thousand years before the pharoahs—
unsurpassed and thoroughly modern—
before Homer, Heraclitus, or Pollock.

Do we think of pigeons as lowly
because they crowd our trees and the empty spring day?
I saw one torn apart by a hawk — one bird —
and at that moment I grieved.

My grief is here with my joy now,
wingtip to talon, they circle,
one closer at first, then the other.

...

Dan Gerber reminds Today's book of poetry of Robert Bly with his clean voice. But Gerber is a poet on his own, Today's book of poetry can't remember when we last read a poet with this combination of certain and clear.

We could be terribly wrong but Today's book of poetry sees cycles as a central theme of Particles.
The circle of life,"we are born, we suffer, we die" as Anatole France suggested, has been altered by the smooth dulcet tones of Dan Gerber's poems to be, more properly, "we are born, we see beauty and we suffer, we die."

Now don't ever blame Mr. Gerber for the outlandish claims of Today's book of poetry.  But Dan Gerber's shift of the bar is not small change.  In the order of things Gerber's consistent, charming and subtly powerful voice has been ringing the bell through generations who've abandoned the narrative for more academic and esoteric ground.

Not Gerber, he has stayed the course with his reflective posture, careful breathing and sustained optimism.

For Randall Jarrell

                             for Gretel Ehrlich

A man struck by lightning
is seldom appeased by house current.
The bolt that steals vision or
restores it, splits the young poplar,
hurls thunder over the roof,
makes widows of farmwives
and ashes of the barn.

The wild geese never die; the lilacs
reappear each May, and the night sky
continues its imperturbable dance.

...

Today's book of poetry gets excited when the name of any of the giants appears in a poem.  Randall Jarrell was under appreciated, but we can see that Dan Gerber thought highly of him.  Yet another reason to sit down at Gerber's fire and listen to him burn.

Our morning read was a tickle here at the Today's book of poetry offices.  Our heat wave continues; my computer has turned itself off twice this morning, the screen just goes blank with a pppffffffttttt.
It does not like the heat.  Someone was kind enough to leave a chocolate on my pillow last night.  When I tried to open it, liquid chocolate ran all over my hand.  Pure liquid.

We've got the big fans out now, blowing directly on our computers.  Milo, our head tech, is working on better solutions, bless his big egghead heart.  Kathryn, our Jr. Editor, led the charge this morning.

Dan Gerber's poetry makes all the readers look good.  At every point in these poems Gerber's honest voice, and all of his intentions, are perfectly clear.  His quiet voice rings with authority.

Finally, This Rain

Every spring, foretold by its candles,
the pine grows that much taller.

Becoming the image of the image cast ahead
of what we hope to become —

stars continually revising themselves
and stars too faint to be named

translate the great dark hours of our being
into a language we love.

...

Today's book of poetry has a great deal of admiration for the poet/novelist Jim Harrison.  When we saw his blurb on the cover of Particles Today's book of poetry knew we would like the poetry of Dan Gerber.  We just had no idea how much.

Just like the best in any other endeavor, these poems quietly go about their business without a care in the world.  They know their own strength.  Dan Gerber burns with assured certainty.


Dan Gerber

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
 Dan Gerber is the author of a dozen books of poetry, fiction, essays, and memoir.  He has received the Mark Twain Award, "Book of the Year" honors from Foreward magazine, and inclusion in Best American Poetry and The American Life in Poetry

BLURBS
“Dan Gerber tenderly reels his readers through the ‘beautiful movie’ he calls the passing of time on earth in a language completely unadorned and Zen-like in its quietude. The thing itself carries the weight of these poems, which recall the deep imagery of Vallejo, Neruda and Wright.”
—Rain Taxi

“Gerber has a gentle touch and an unaffected, articulate voice that can be smart, funny, wise—sometimes all at the same time.”
 —Library Journal

“These are beautiful meditative poems of surprise and wonder fully engaged with the world of experience, which he regards with a sacramental reverence.”
 —Mark Arendt, awards judge, Society of Midland Authors 2013 Book of the Year Award in Poetry

“[Gerber’s] poetry explores everyday experiences and images, successfully converting them into something unique and magical.”
 —Library of Michigan

“[Gerber’s] evocations are clearly, simply rendered with an almost Zen-like kind of meditative transcendence.”
 —Fallon Eagle Standard

“[Gerber] is one of the most adept and accessible of the poets who explore the meaning of humans, relation with earth and existence itself.”
 —ForeWord

"Dan Gerber's work is completely untarnished by fad or fashion and I enter it again and again with a sense of wonderment.  When our age pass, this work will remain."
—Jim Harrison

Dan Gerber
at the EP Foster Library
Video: AskewPoetryJournal


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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.
We here at TBOP are technically deficient and rely on our bashful Milo to fix everything.  We received notice from Google that we were using "cookies"
and that for our readers in Europe there had to be notification of the use of those "cookies.  Please be aware that TBOP may employ the use of some "cookies" (whatever they are) and you should take that into consideration







Sunday, April 15, 2018

How to Dance in This Rarefied Air - Rienzi Crusz (Mawenzi House)

Today's book of poetry:
How to Dance in This Rarefied Air.  Rienzi Crusz.  Mawenzi House.  Toronto, Ontario.  2017.

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Today's book of poetry couldn't say it for a certainty but we strongly believe Rienzi Crusz has some of the answers we've been seeking.  This past week has been a difficult time here in the Today's book of poetry offices.

Sometimes, and this is one of them, the world news is just too much to bear and we become deafened by the fusillade of despair.  Syria, Beirut, Rwanda, Mogadishu.  And there are no saints dancing in Canada either as Aboriginal women continue to vanish and reconciliation remains a bitter word and an unfulfillable promise.

Closer to home friends of my age group having been falling to the side like pine needles off of a tree in a stiff wind.  Mortality has been licking at our heels and the entire staff feels a little skittish.

So How to Dance in This Rarefied Air by Rienzi Crusz feels like a balm.  These are poems from a sophisticated and robust citizen of the world.  Crusz, who was born in Sri Lanka (formerly Ceylon) now resides in Canada, understands our country and our society from both sides;  he is both an immigrant and a citizen.  Both narratives play out in these poems that feel like stories we should know.

How to Dance in This Rarefied Air

How he jabs his thick forefinger
     into my poetic
as if it were a breastbone.
     O God, how it hurts;

cups his eyes
     against my passionate burning,
the bougainvillea's profusion,
     elephant
as a rogue in heat.

My words, it would seem.
     elude him by a generation;
I would walk only
     in shaded byways or exotic arbours,
the poem jaundiced
     without the blood of a new idiom.

What he wants
     is wasteland:
white, scrubbed, frontier;
whose poems
     must deconstruct to bare bone,
the flesh and blood laid out separately
     to dry like fish
in the noonday sun.

No. I will not desert
     those wintered killing fields,
the spilled blood sweeter
     among the paddies, the frangipani,
upside-down elephant
     squinting at the sun.
Noble Eliot, you might as well
     rest in peace,
your ransom will not be paid.

My ear to the ground
     and I hear the drumbeat of Avon,
mad Hamlet strut and nurse
     his eloquent pain;
Milton, hammering Lucifer
     to a perfect poetic, a perfect Hell.

Wounded, give me the psalms of David,
     words to learn by rote, comfort the dark sargassum
of my days,
     how the valley of death
passes like a bad dream.

I am still here, Montes de Oca,
     my beautiful wild Mexican bard,
belting my boisterous song;
     and Pablo, hug me again,
show me the true metaphors
     of sun and rain,
how to throw my bread on the waters,
     circle the world with a poem.

Speak to me, Rabindranath,
     I need to hear your distant voice,
bask under your stunning skies; 
     and Kahlil, I haven't forgotten
your wisdom that must laugh
     and weep, how one's head to a child.

And Dylan, do I ever love the melody
     of your song, your riotous book of words;
good Manley, sing, sing, sing,
     I'm all ears and silent;
Lorca, my friend,
     tell me the secrets of "Duende",
ask the spirit to stab my words again.

Rilke, take me gently
     into the depths of myself,
the soundless paths,
     how to listen, listen, listen;
as for you, Vallejo,
     teach me the thunder of silence,
the value of the spilled blood,
     how to dance in this rarefied air.

...

How to Dance in This Rarefied Air is old time wisdom.  Crusz reads Pablo Neruda and all the other Poet-Saints and he wants you to read them too.  Today's book of poetry had Milo, our head tech, go into the stacks and he came back with Rienzi Crusz's Elephant and Ice (Porcupine's Quill, 1980) but unfortunately - nothing else.  Milo's newest assignment will be to procure any/all of the other many Rienzi Crusz poetry titles.

After reading How to Dance in This Rarefied Air Crusz has become a must read, Today's book of poetry is always going to have time for poetry this smart.  As Adhipadya Rienzi Crusz (see Adhipadya and think Duke) says:

     "Listen. At the margins of poetry
      are lies, modes of ridicule,
      foul words, sweet nothings;
      but savour the mad beautiful dance of metaphor,
      imaginative leaps, primeval chaos --
      for at the centre
      lies truth
      still and uncompromising as desert stone."
  
                                       from Poetics for the Doubting One

Today's book of poetry loves the image of "God playing marbles" that Crusz leaves burned in my skull because it fits perfectly with my theory of plans made and the Gods laughing.  Crusz writes poems like elegant missives of understanding.

In Crusz world his vision encompasses all of us, his poems narratives that cover all that empty space between a new country and the old.

Roots

For Cleta Nora Marcellina Serpanchy

What the end usually demands
is something of the beginning,
and so
I conjure history from a cup
of warm Portuguese blood
from my forefathers
black diamond eyes, charcoal hair
from my Sinhalese mothers;
the beached catamaran,
gravel voices of the fishermen,
the catch still beating like a heart
under the pelting sun;
how the pariah dogs looked urgent
with fish-meal in their brains,
the children romped, sagged,
then melted into the sand.

A Portuguese captain holds
the soft brown hand of my Sinhala mother.
It's the year 1515 AD,
when two civilizations kissed and merged,
and I, burgher of that hot embrace,
write a poem of history
as if it were only the romance
of a lonely soldier on a crowded beach
in Southern Ceylon.

...

The morning read here in the Today's book of poetry offices was a little more boisterous than usual as several members of a book club descended on our little corner of the world in the hopes of gourmet coffee and teasing brunch treats.  Today's book of poetry said they were more than welcome to stay for the reading -- but only if they participated.  There is no better way to get inside a poem than to read it out loud.

How to Dance in This Rarefied Air got the full treatment and it sounded spectacular; Crusz bounced around room and hushed all conversation like we were in church.  Deep respect rose in the voice of every reader.

Legacy

For Anne

"This is all there is and this is everything" - JOYCE CAROL OATES


Take my poems--
I have nothing else of value to give you.
fruits
of lonely nights, faithful candles
that flamed and sputtered until
my metaphors were right.

Take my poems--
my kingdom of fears in harness,
days of silence
when my neighbouring world
danced its tumultuous jig
and laughed.

Take my poems--
they were born with a brown skin,
sang with a brown voice,
danced a brown jig, preserved,
until the cold white paper
took in my words with the music
and fatted calf of the prodigal story.

Take my poems--
my umber heart my umber words,
the forgotten pain, the remembered music,
the new landscape,
why I thought God was a poem,
the poem, the only cosmic poet.

Take my poems--
mostly, because I love you,
they are the bloodstones
of my youth, fading footsteps of age,
small bouquets
that may, perhaps, survive a little while
like a memory.

Nothing else comes to mind--
the house is only wood and cabook,
the money is paper.

...

"Take my poems--".  What better legacy.

Rienzi Crusz impressed today's book of poetry with his compassionate reason and his beautiful song.  How to Dance in This Rarefied Air is a poetry treasure.  You want to be in this poetry kitchen, Crusz has spiced this thing just so



Rienzi Crusz

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rienzi Crusz was born in Sri Lanka and came to Canada in 1965. Educated at the Universities of Ceylon, London (England), Toronto, and Waterloo. He has widely published in magazines in Canada and the United States, and is the author of ten previous collections of poetry.

BLURBS
"[R]omantic and keenly self-aware, How to Dance in this Rarefied Air examines the immigrant experience in Canada, and, by extension, the human experience, with an unabashed and postmodern flair and clarity.
     —CBC Books

"Arguably the best living Sri Lankan poet in English."
     —World Literature Today

"At 84, the Waterloo poet knows a thing or two about mortality. His thoughts, musings and speculations, not to mention certainties and anxieties, are given eloquent expression in this deep, rich, moving meditative collection of poems that celebrate life as it reflects on death."
     —Robert Reid, The Record, December 2, 2009


Please note that it was only after Today's book of poetry posted this blog/review that we were informed that Mr. Crusz had passed away in September of 2017.


mawenzihouse.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.
We here at TBOP are technically deficient and rely on our bashful Milo to fix everything.  We received notice from Google that we were using "cookies"
and that for our readers in Europe there had to be notification of the use of those "cookies.  Please be aware that TBOP may employ the use of some "cookies" (whatever they are) and you should take that into consideration