You Can't Be Serious - Ronald Wallace (Parallel Press/University of Wisconsin-Madison Libraries)

Today's book of poetry:
You Can't Be Serious.  Ronald Wallace.  Parallel Press.  University of Wisconsin-Madison Libraries.  Madison, Wisconsin.  2015.

When I first read You Can't Be Serious back in December I avoided reading the Author's Note at the beginning of the book.  When I'm reading for the blog I always avoid introductions, notes or any other sort of preamble to the poems.  Today's book of poetry is never looking for prior context.  (Of course we always read these notes afterward).

So, I liked these poems a lot before I realized that the poems in You Can't Be Serious are all constructed in such a way that "the last words of each line of each poem, read vertically top to bottom, form a haiku by a classic Japanese master."

It's brilliant stuff.

When I read You Can't Be Serious again last night it was like each poem was a main course, the haiku an illuminating dessert.  This is the cue for Wallace to take a big bow.

The Wisdom of the Old

     after Basho

I thought when I got old that I'd be wise. Wearing

my vast learning lightly I'd find myself a

source of wisdom for others. If you looked in the paper,

you'd find me quoted on most any subject, the robe

of knowledge trailing from my shoulders. Even

my enemies would marvel at my sagacity. If

you had an insoluble problem, I'd solve it. It

would be a no-brainer. I'd be the sage who gets

to explain everything. Turns out, I was all wet.

The older I get the less I know. Here I am picking

through the alleyways of my memory looking for flowers

and finding only trash, a panhandler who, in

better days, had what passed for a brain, but now is the

wacky preacher who won't come in out of the rain.

...

Ronald Wallace is a "Wascally Wabbit" by every stretch of the imagination and as coy as he is clever. These poems roll off the tongue like you'd written them yourself, they go down as naturally as a drink of water.  These poems are ripe with moments that are familiar to us all.

Our morning read was a scream.  Milo, our head tech, read the poems and the Kathryn, our new intern, read the haiku.  The rest of us leisured at their feet as though we were in front of a warming fire in the hearth on a snowy night.  It was morning bliss.

You Can't Be Serious

      after Basho

A writer who can deal with murder, barbarity, horror--with

"tragic elements"--is the greater artist, said the young

Anthony Trollope, than the writer of the mundane. This leaves

me out. "The mild walks of everyday life" are what I

gravitate to. The neighbor's sudden dementia--would

that count as horror? Could barbarity be something like

mistakenly digging up my wife's favorite lemon verbena? To

poison the pesky chipmunks, to do my best to wipe

them out--would that be considered murder? I far and away

prefer the milder walks of the lesser art--the stroll in the

happy diurnal, the observable day-to-day. Tears

are plentiful enough in this life without me putting in

my own two cents. Tragically unambitious, I'm your

chronicler of the commonplace, a ramble in Trollope's eyes.

...

Today's book of poetry admires You Can't Be Serious very much.  As much as Wallace proclaims the anti-Trollope stance and trolls the quiet conventional corners, he has no problem at all taking on the big subjects like abortion, gay rights, politics, sexism, religion and so on.

The fact is You Can't Be Serious can be very serious indeed while remaining entirely Basho/Issa tongue in cheek.  Serious as a heart attack, serious as two grasshoppers can get.  That's when you know there is a master at work.

Bully for You, Mitt Romney

     after Issa

We held the gay boy down and cut his hair. Hey,

it was fifty years ago, and we didn't know, you

know, that he was gay. It was just a prank. There

is nothing more to it. He's dead by now, anyway. do

you think I'd do that today? We'll of course not!

Look at this smile. You can see it wouldn't swat

a flea. Let's have some other questions. Marriage? The

union of one man, one woman. We don't want to fly

in the face of sacred conventions. Abortion? It wrings

my heart to see an innocent fetus murdered, his

teenage mother bereft. Let's leave it in God's hands.

The elderly, the indigent? Give them work! If they're on

the dole, they'll never be useful. The gay boy? On bended

knee he came on to us. We gave him a knee.

...

It's a dreary grey Wednesday here in our nation's capital, spring is trying to come through the clouds and there may even be a bit of sun on the horizon.  It doesn't matter, You Can't Be Serious has already made our day.

Ronald Wallace

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ron Wallace is the author of twenty previous books and chapbooks of poetry, fiction and criticism. He co-directs the creative writing program at the UW-Madison, and serves as editor of the UW Press Poetry Series which he founded in 1985.

He is currently Halls-Bascom Professor of English and Felix Pollak Professor of Poetry and the recipient of three distinguished teaching awards, and prizes from his previous poetry collections from The Council for Wisconsin Writers, The Society of Midland Authors, and the Wisconsin Library Association. In 2005 he was awarded the first George Garrett Prize of the Association of Writers and Writing Programs for his service to writers and writing.

Born in Cedar Rapids, Iowa and raised in St. Louis, Missouri, he has been a Wisconsin resident since 1972, dividing his time between Madison and a forty-acre farm in Richland County’s Bear Valley.

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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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The Lawyer Who Died in the Courthouse Bathroom - Thomas J. Erickson (Parallel Press/University of Wisconsin-Madison Libraries)

Today's book of poetry:
The Lawyer Who Died in the Courthouse Bathroom.  Thomas J. Erickson.  Parallel Press.  University of Wisconsin-Madison Libraries.  Madison, Wisconsin.  2013.

(This one is for Luba)

I don't know Thomas J. Erickson but I'd certainly like to.  My sister-in-law, Ann Marie is a lawyer and one of the wittiest people I know.

One of my closest and dearest and oldest friends, Michael Thompson, is a lawyer and is also the smartest person I know, and one of the funniest.  Thompson introduced me to Kurt Vonnegut when we were teenagers along with a number of other important discoveries.

But Erickson is the first lawyer who has written a book of poetry that I've read.  More importantly the first lawyer to write a book of poetry that I love.

Dead serious and tongue in cheek, Erickson's The Lawyer Who Died in the Courthouse Bathroom is intelligent, funny, sad and enlightening.

Speaking in Tongues

I smoked a blunt and drank too much bumpy
face so I called a johnny cab to take me to my baby
mama's crib. I saw a brother kickin' it. He said he
got a couchy-coupon from my lady. I said do you
know what time it is and he said it's time for some
drama so I took out my strap and busted a cap
on his ass.

These words -- in their doomed vibrancy -- literally
mean: I smoke a marijuana and cocaine-laced cigar and
drank too much Seagram's Gin. I called an anonymous
phone number and told them where I was. A few minutes
later, a car picked me up and I gave the driver five dollars.
I told him to drive me to the mother of my child's house.
I saw a guy on the corner who told me that my girlfriend
had propositioned him for sex. I challenged him to a duel
and he accepted. I pulled out my gun and I killed him.

Eventually, I will argue to the jury the following:
My client had a drink with friends. He called a taxi
to take him home to his family. On the way home
he encountered a long-time enemy of his who spoke
rudely about my client's girlfriend. The man pulled
a gun on my client. My client killed him in self-defense.

I explicate, obfuscate, mitigate, equivocate --
the translator of a story of death.

...

Most of these poems are set within Erickson's legal world of trials, criminals and legal process, but what is most clear is that regardless of what sort of lawyer Erickson is -- he is one hell of a good poet.

It is evident that Erickson has the tools to write about anything - for now the world of a lawyer and his orbit provide sufficient material for Erickson to shine.

Word

     Interpretation is the revenge of the intellect upon art.
     -Susan Sontag

I walk into a video store and ask the clerk
if they have I'm Not There. The clerk
checks his computer and says, "No,
but we have I'm Not Scared." His tone
is expectant and hopeful and it makes me feel
bad to tell him that while it sounds close,
it's not the movie I wanted.

I represent drug clients with the given first
names of Kilo and Easy Money, who sell
teenagers (one-eighth grams of heroin) to teenagers.
I have two teenagers.

Until a few years ago, I thought the term fitful sleep
meant a good night's sleep. Now that I know
the true meaning, I'm not sleeping so well.

HIDTA (pronounced high-da) is an acronym
for High Density Drug Trafficking Areas
which is an anti-crime task force. My client keeps
complaining that Al Qaeda is after him.
I think he means HIDTA.

When Kafka read The Trial to his friends
for the first time, he laughed so hard
that there were moments when he couldn't
read further. I, for one, do not think
the alienation of modern man is so funny.

...

With quantum leaps of logic and reason Erickson people's his sad stories with famous poets, Franz Kafka, even "drunk Mike" shows up.

Parallel Press/University of Wisconsin-Madison Libraries consistently publish chapbooks that we here at Today's book of poetry admire.

The Lawyer Who Died in the Courthouse Bathroom got a big thumbs-up from everyone in our office including Elliott, the office gopher, who generally only reads poets with a "P" in their name.  He knows everything there is to know about Purdy to Pound, Pratt to Paz.

Sweating the Bottle

     Even a lawyer carries in him the debris of a poet.
     -Flaubert

I love to push down the brown
paper bag to get to the mouth
of my forty and I love to screw
the cap back on after every swig.

It is the morning after a crackling
trial. I'm thinking about my gnome
of a client with his beady-black eyes
and salt-and-pepper beard -- the kind
of beard that comes right up to the eyes
like a mask.

The morning dew has covered my car
windows like a gauzy cocoon. I
hear a dog howling with the conviction
reserved for strangers.

While we waited for the verdict, my client told
me he had molested the boys for years.
He told me this because he knew
he was going to walk and it was time
to let me in on the joke.

I take the empty bottle and knead
the moist sides until the glass is warm
and the tiny droplets fall and pool
together and now I have enough
left for one more drink.

...

Erickson's all too brief The Lawyer Who Died in the Courthouse Bathroom has more to it than just poems that brush with the law, it is full of promise.

Here is a poet we will want to hear much more from at Today's book of poetry.  These poems raise the bar.

And if I am ever in trouble in Milwaukee, Erickson will be the first person I call.

Thomas J. Erickson

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Thomas J. Erickson was born in 1960 and grew up in Kohler, Wisconsin.  He received a BA from Beloit College in English Composition and a law degree from Marquette University.  His poems have appeared in numerous publications including The Los Angeles Review, Quiddity International Literary Review, Mad Poet's Review, The New Poet, and Slant.  He is an attorney in Milwaukee, where he is a member of the Hartford Avenue Poets.  He is the proud father of Charles and John.

Thomas J. Erickson

Reads his poem "The Breathing Lesson"

Video courtesy of: Gerald So

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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.

The Beauty of This World - Rosemary Zurlo-Cuva (Parallel Press)

Today's book of poetry:
The Beauty of This World.  Rosemary Zurlo-Cuva.  Parallel Press.  University of Wisconsin-Madison Libraries.  Madison, Wisconsin.  2014.

"A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of this world,
and the responsibilities of your life.

Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away."

                                                                   Mary Oliver
                                                                   from Flare 12

Rosemary Zurlo-Cuva starts her marvelous chapbook The Beauty of This World with this perfect Mary Oliver quote.

It is the exact right tone to set for these poems.

Zurlo-Cruz is subtle and slightly subversive.  These poems start you in one clear direction, a recognizable path and then Zurlo-Cruz effortlessly turns the world around under our feet.  It is an accomplished feat of engineering, an impressive skill to have.

We Have Always Known Grief

There were always the fireflies, rising
out of the grass at dusk, the call of crickets
at summer's end when the fat milk pods begged
to be split and their seeds to float like
questions on the wind

and the endlessly churning lake, impervious
to the cries of seagulls, changing color with each
passing cloud, smoothing bits of shattered
bottle glass and spitting them back
as jewels to be treasured and forgotten
in a small girl's pocket

the roar of the city bus after depositing
the cleaning ladies on our unimproved
suburban lanes as if aliens from
another planet, the immigrant grandmother
enthroned on a lime-green plastic
lawn chair, tugging her black sweater close
on the hottest summer afternoon.

...

Zurlo-Cuva's poem "Post Card to My Mother" rang so familiar to me that for a moment I thought I'd written it, which is faint praise for poor Ms. Zurlo-Cuva - but this poem paralleled my life experience in the most surrealistic way.

I had to share it with Today's book of poetry readers.

Post Card to My Mother
                            -Winchcombe, Gloucestershire

On the lane from Sudeley Castle, a shaded
stone bench beside a brook and a meadow. A horse
grazing far off in the corner seems not to notice
when I sit down to rest from the gravel dust
and a midday sun. "You've dreamed your whole
life about England," my mother said as I packed
to leave. "I worry the real thing might
disappoint you." It went unsaid
the number of real things that had come
to disappoint her.

I pull a post card and a pen out of my pack
and pause, listening to the rush
and slap of the brook over stones, the world
imperturbably green. I sit frozen long enough
that the horse comes to investigate, leaning
over the fence to blow a puff of hot breath
on my shoulder.

Years later, boxing my mother's things, cleaning
out her desk after the funeral, I find
among the other letters and cards, the one
picturing Sudeley Castle. On it I had written: Dear Mom,
I am not disappointed.

...

Well that teared me up real good.  Caused a tear for one or two of our interns as well. Handkerchief time.

There are no pyrotechnics or marvels of post-modernist construction in The Beauty of This World.  These poems are old-school, bell in the belfry, certain.  The ring with clarity.

My Mother's Bones

We buried her in pink Pumas -- her last
mail-order purchase -- and now I can't stop
picturing those sneakers cradling
the small, gnarled bones
of her feet. We ought to have dressed
her in woolens, a London Fog
for the damp, instead of the pale
summer dress she'd worn to parties
and teas, and matched
her vivid blue eyes -- so thoroughly
unsuitable for an eternity
in the ground.

...

Rosemary Zurlo-Cuva's solid poems are ones you could hang your hat on, come in, make yourself at home with.

Today's book of poetry staff all liked this book, solid as rock, subtle as a knowing whisper.

Rosemary Zurlo-Cuva

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rosemary Zurlo-Cuva grew up in Milwaukee, got her undergraduate degree at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and has lived there ever since. She works as a journalist, editor, and writing teacher. Her novel, Travel for Agoraphobics was published as an e-book in 2011.

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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.

Alibi for Two - Augustus Merrill (Parallel Press)

Today's book of poetry:
Alibi for Two.  Augustus Merrill.  Parallel Press.  University of Wisconsin-Madison Libraries.  Madison, Wisconsin.  2014.

The poems in Augustus Merrill's Alibi for Two are diptychs.  Or at least that's what they would be called if they were paintings.  Masterful painting at that.

I asked our intern to find the appropriate literary term for this form, a poem in two parts with a prose introduction, but she left the office for lunch yesterday and hasn't been heard from since.

Merrill is a retired English professor and I think, after reading these fine, fine poems, I would have enjoyed listening to what he had to say about almost anything.  I'm certainly game for more of these poems.

Perhaps these poems could be filed in the "call and response" tag - but ultimately it doesn't matter.   Each of the poems in this collection starts with a short prose section or introduction and ends with a brief poetic retort, summation, response.

The effect is startling.

The Crossing Guard

They moved to town for the sake of the baby. It was just too hard

living out like that. She was immediately relieved. The grocery store,

the Laundromat, the city parks. It took him the remainder of his life

to make the adjustment. As a very old man his greatest pleasure was

to look out his narrow window at the young crossing guards directing

traffic by the elementary school in the middle of the afternoon. If

civilization were like this, he thought, he never would have gone to live

in the woods.

Not a decade behind them

The young crossing guards stand duty at the stop.

Already they have assumed the serious and sober robes of responsibility.

In neon safety vests they arrive early at their stations

Dwarfed by the nine foot signs.

With miniature mirrored signs of their own they stop traffic.

On the world's windswept open streets.

Obediently the traffic halts

As the guards conduct their small charges to safety.

No one, not even the most hardened criminal

Would disobey their small upraised hand.

Whatever the future brings, into this scene

Such authority and obedience will never be theirs again.

The power and satisfaction given over to them as children

Will soon be replaced by defiance and disappointment at every turn.

Before accelerating again

We stop to admire the young guards and to admire ourselves

Doing what we are supposed to do.

...

Stylistically Merrill's intelligent poems read like a familiar, but Today's book of poetry has never seen quite this sort of poem work quite this effectively.

To go back to the diptych metaphor; Merrill has found the recipe to create the perfect union between the two halves of these poems.

Merrill has mastered pace and tension so that many of these poems read and sound and taste like folklore we had forgotten.

Leave Your Bow Man Alone

They had been married and divorced three times, and now they were

trying to go down a little, rocky, northern river together. He screamed

for her to paddle on the right. She paddled on the right. He screamed

for her to paddle on the left. She paddled on the left. All the while

she didn't say a word. Her thoughts flowed with the current as light

and easily as a leaf. Three times is enough, she thought, three times is 

enough.

Leave your bow man alone;

You are lucky to have him there,

And if he is a she, leave her alone too--

She has had enough of your bad advice already.

Choose which side is dear

Then change like the changing of the year

Without premeditation, plan, or word.

Leave your bow man alone.

Steer when you are tired,

Moving forward as you never would have done alone.

If you must command,

Command yourself to the passing world

Remembering that you are heavy

And that she is light

And that the two of your are only being led along

Because the water has forgiven you both.

Leave your bow man alone.

Go to the shore in silence and tenderly touch the limbs

That have brought you home at last

Where there is no water

And no need for forgiveness.

...

Augustus Merrill uses dry humour with much the same delicacy as a painter using the dry-brush technique.

Wait, that's the ticket!, diptych's, dry-brush technique -- this guy is a painter.  And what lovely paintings.

I Sit With You

It was not a good place to quarrel. In a city or in a town there would

be restraint, but there was no restraint there and the lake did not help.

When it began to freeze their differences were magnified. The water

creaked and groaned as though it were in its death throes. It pinged

without mercy through the fragile house and the fragile marriage.

When there was no more to say, a cruel silence would set in. Sometimes

it would last almost until the lake thawed in spring.

No wind over the eighty-eight acre face of Lake Nothing,

No moon in the leaf stained water.

The pike who has hunted the ducklings

All summer in the shallows

Is hunted himself now

By the pressures of the winter thermocline.

The otters in their den,

The city people in their city,

The loons flown south,

I sit with you, my silent wife,

Until the wind stirs and the ice forms

Between us and the lake.

...

Augustus Merrill's poetry has the confidence of the experienced and the humility of man who knows too much.  This chapbook of very human poetry remind us at Today's book of poetry that some of the very best things come in small packages.

Lee Merrill, his hunting dog, Belle, and his grandson, Bastiaan.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Augustus Lee Merrill is retired from a thirty-year career as professor of English literature at Northland College in Ashland, Wisconsin. He has been involved in the conservation issues of the Lake Superior region as a member of the boards of the Sigurd Olson Environmental Institute and Voyageurs National Park. His writing has appeared in College English, Poetry Now, The Wisconsin Academy Review, and Gray's Sporting Journal. Merrill lives with his wife Melinda in Washburn, Wisconsin.

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