Poetry State Forest

Bernadette Mayer strikes again, playing with words, showing you her old notebooks with lists of words, creating poems out of daily life that reveal bits of herself: her fights with Phil, presents from her son Max, the neighbor who buys the land next door to put up a cabin (“At least it’s not a walmart/a used care lot or a mine”), railing against George Bush (W), going to anti-war demonstrations, talking about the gloomy month of December. My favorite one was “Idyll,” written from the perspective of a know-nothing typical redneck white male who’s vacationing by the lake, dousing his bbq with lighter fluid, fishing, tossing his cigarette butts in the water, then throwing more of his garbage in. Mostly it’s a book of play, words dancing and pirouetting and bowing and scraping across the page.

Works & Days

Who am I to judge poetry? And yet, that’s what do with each entry here. I liked this collection less than Scarlet Tanager, it felt like an exercise in filling up some pages to get paid, moaning about not having money, being poor, Phil having to go to his job and the car being broken. Including bits of Jumble words as filler. Entries like spasmodic journaling. I did learn that Monsanto has a building in the St. Louis botanical gardens named after it, though. And I did like this poem called “Walking Like A Robin”:

take 3 or 4 steps then stop/look smell taste touch & hear/is there anything to eat?/oh look, there’s some caviar/it must be my birthday, thanks/i must be very old, like seventy/i guess i’m falling apart, i’ll just/sew myself back together but will it last?/please take a piece of me back home, each piece/is anti-war and don’t pay your rent, in fact/remember: property is robbery, give everybody/everything, other birds walk this way too

Scarlet Tanager

After I read Bernadette Mayer’s poem, Politician (“It seems to us you convert your farts into speeches”), I immediately headed to the library to pick up the collection of her poetry that includes that one. Oh wonderful Dewey Decimal system, I parked in the 811.54s and went to town, greedily grabbing all of her work and snooping to see what else looked good.

I have a love/hate relationship with poetry and it’s mostly been hate for some reason (Muriel Rukeyser has some thoughts about that if I ever get around to finishing her book and posting it). But it’s the perfect form for today’s attention deficit. Have 60 seconds? Read a short poem instead of 10 tweets. Such as Grow Up, which has some great advice for poets:

i don’t know what to do next, this/is not how anyone should feel, most/bad poetry is badly thought through, it’s/terrible because it’s chaotic, whenever/you read it you feel full, actually/you should feel hungry when you read poetry, it’s like/an amuse-bouche at best, someday/you will have the main course, but/if the poem’s short & excellent, probably/you won’t need it, this/poem will drag on forever, rendering/you full as a whale’s brain, full/as the stupid future, however/you may take a shortcut, hit/on some beauty, maybe, probably/just homework, drudgery/making you feel the sink is full, you/have nothing to eat, why/don’t you just watch goldfinches?

The Helens of Troy, New York

I love this idea! Bernadette Mayer wraps her poetry skills around an investigation of all the women named Helen who live in Troy, NY. She interviews them, photographs them, then writes their poems. Some are hardcore sestinas or villanelles, others merely meander.

My favorite was that of Helen Crandall Whalen, a looping villanelle. What’s that, you ask? Officially it’s a French poem highly structured with five three-line stanzas and a final quatrain, with the first and third lines of the first stanza repeating alternately in the following stanzas. Bernadette flexes it up a bit.

Helen Crandall Whalen Villanelle

everybody died
i’m learning to control my temper
i took off, it was fun, i loved it

there were cameras in the store
i don’t have to look
everybody died

one helen’s enough, trust me
i love reading books
i took off, it was fun, i loved it

people think i’m stupid
i went to proctor’s theater
everybody died

there’s nothing more to say
my hair’s braided like a family
i took off, it was fun, i loved it

if you did something wrong, they punished you
one helen is enough, trust me
i don’t have to look

she was mean
she didn’t like any of the crandalls
one helen is enough, trust me

i had to clean other people’s houses
for a dollar a day
my hair’s braided like a family

if you did something wrong, they punished you
one helen is enough, trust me
i don’t have to look

she was mean
she didn’t like any of the crandalls
one helen is enough, trust me

i had to clean other people’s houses
for a dollar a day
my hair’s braided like a family

i’m 66 & smart as a whip
they’d call me the orphan-brat
i took off, it was fun, i loved it

when you’re an orphan you do anything
i went to proctor’s theater
i’m learning to control my temper

it’s been rough
my favorite color’s maybe yellow
everybody died
i took off, it was fun, i loved it