October 16th, 2010
Link • Poems • Leave a Comment
Ken Meisel
STRIP CLUBS, TAMPA
Everyone has a story,
even the woman dancing here
in front of me fully undressed,
and waving herself like a palm tree
in front of my face
at a strip club in Tampa,
way back in 1983
while the music thundered
through the booths like a flood.
Can you believe it?
So I asked her to quit the lap dance,
and not to do anything else,
but simply to tell me
how it came to be this—
if there was an answer, it fell
into reasons
that have more to do with
the economics of love,
and how and where it is lost
or found in the eyes
of say her father, or her brother,
or her first time lover,
and less to do with money
for college, or for the trip to LA,
although she didn’t want
me to know this,
and, besides, it was for cash.
And for the black eye
she once earned for speaking up.
And it was for the aggression
that she felt in her belly
when she saw the men squirm,
and want her,
and pay for her time
like she was the Goddess Shiva,
dancing here on Nevada Avenue
in Tampa Bay, Florida.
And, if all this wasn’t reason
enough, there was also her
younger sister, who was raped,
and pregnant,
and there was also the reason
she gave which had less
to do with sociology,
or broken dreams,
or psychology and all of its
subterranean motives,
but more to do, she figured,
with passing the time
before the lights of the bay
dropped to their hard core,
and, alone in her silence,
she could wonder how it is
dreams get lost in the crab traps
of our small unraveled lives,
and end up here,
on another lit stage,
in the limelight of men’s lust
or misbegotten affections,
or mishandled attention,
and then finally end here with me,
a guy asking her questions
that she said everyone asked her.
And, whose answers,
like a handful of raw oysters
get misplaced somewhere
under the water,
perhaps in a bed of fish hooks
or collapsed in pilings,
and so she could never
really answer why.
It doesn’t matter to anyone,
is all she could say.
Some nights, afterwards,
you’d see them gathering
in a circle, giggling,
as if they were school girls,
before the pressure to dance
consumed them.
And you’d wonder
what kind of young girls
they were before the thongs
and the wine coolers,
and the hot little panties
stuffed with wads of cash
filled their personalities up.
Way back in the days
before the silver nipples
and the nightly ritual
of rubbing ice on them
cooled their breasts,
and also their hopes for true love.
And you’d wonder what
it was they’d once
wished for in their beds,
before the stripping naked
for us
chilled their sweet hearts.
–from Rattle #24, Winter 2005
October 15th, 2010
Link • E-Reviews • Leave a Comment
Review by James Benedict PhD
ASPENS IN THE WIND
by Clifton Snider
Chiron Review Press
522 E. South Ave
St. John, KS 67576-2212
ISBN 0943795850
2009, 72 pp., $12.00
www.chironreview.com
Clifton Snider’s ninth volume of poetry Aspens in the Wind comes after nearly a decade, where he has focused on fiction, writing the autobiographical novel Angels with Bloody Faces, a sequel to Wrestling with Angels (2001). He has also written an historical novel, The Plymouth Papers, featured in the poem “Plimoth Plantation,” a catalogue of family members from the seventeenth century, as well as indirectly in other poems about ancestors and relatives. While the new collection of poetry Aspens in the Wind is not as comprehensive as the previous Alchemy of Opposites (2000), it represents an interesting sequence of poetic reflections on subjects ranging from the native peoples of the Americas, writers, lovers, family (notably the death of his mother in the poem “Scrapbook”), friends, turning sixty, the wars in Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan, places in New Mexico, hate crimes, political activism, and pets/animals.
True to Clifton Snider’s historical conscience, the collection opens with two poems on the native peoples of the Americas, the Zoé of Brazil, and the Hopi of the Southwest. In the poem “Pueblo of Hopi” Snider describes a visit to Oraibi, the oldest town on the American continent. Paying homage to the Hopi foundation icons of adobe architecture, kachinas, chili bread, and oral traditions, Snider emphasizes the social conscience in which the collection is grounded. The link to the present is provided by a comparison of the traditional Hopi buns with Princess Leia’s variation on this hairstyle in Star Wars, stressing the hybridity of the postmodern US society. The obligation to support Native American cultures is stressed, when the author in the final stanza describes a purchase of art and bread, thereby making a contribution to the impoverished Hopi household. While poor in material things, the spiritual dimensions of Hopi culture are stressed by measures to protect the numinous realms against spirit thievery with camera lenses. Unrestricted access is appropriately denied the unknown tourist, accentuating the poetic justice of reserving the secret cognitive layers of Hopi culture for the initiates.
Continuing the theme of restricted areas in life, the poem “You Can’t Always Get what You Want” reflects on the realms of the possible and the withheld, and the (unmentioned) following verse in the Jagger/Richards song of the same title: “But if you try … you might get what you need.” Claude Levi-Strauss claimed that the characteristic of human consciousness is that it deceives itself, especially in terms of the difference between want and need. The logical conclusion is that while our hopes and dreams often remain ungratified, we should learn to appreciate what we have. Snider’s poems share this approach and continue the strain from Alchemy of Opposites, where many of the poems focus on the fact that solutions, as well as enlightening experiences, can be found in prosaic everyday life, if only we care to look. The poem ends with such an exercise, celebrating Snider’s decade-long relationship with a younger male lover and muse. The eponymous Rolling Stones hit was also the theme song of the 1985 Lawrence Kasdan movie The Big Chill, chronicling the process of a group of ex-hippies of Snider’s generation who settle into maturity, careers, and real time scenarios far from Woodstock, radical agendas, and psychedelic culture. In many subtle ways Snider’s collection is related to The Big Chill in that it deals with, for example, the legacy of the Vietnam War (the poem ”Vietnam Veterans Memorial, Angel Fire, NM”), queer politics, hate crimes and other issues facilitating falls from innocence into experience in the tradition of American Modernism.
Honoring his roots in the 1968 revolution, Snider’s political and social awareness is alive and well. The poem “A Lexicon of Florida” ends with a focus on the stolen votes in the 2000 election, and there is an activist edge to many of the poems. The final poem “So We Marched” links the watershed 1969 Stonewall March and the 1987 March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights to the 2008 march against the passing of proposition eight against non-heterosexual marriage–a focus area accentuated by the unfair laws for same sex partners in terms of civil rights, inheritance, pension schemes, etc. The two poems frame the collection, stressing Snider’s ever astute political engagement.
Snider’s love for New Mexico, where he did his PhD, is celebrated in the poem “Voices in the Wind”, describing a sojourn in Taos, where he recently completed his new novel The Plymouth Papers. The central poem is a tribute to his lover and it also celebrates the occasionally necessary solitude of the artist, especially when completing a major project. The peace and quiet of Taos far from the madding crowd is illustrated by the view from his studio, where the leaves of three aspens “twitter in the Taos wind.” The image relates to the alchemical project involved in any creative process, where integration of unconscious layers into consciousness takes place. In alchemical lore the time-honored symbol of this process is the tree, often outlined as a diagram from the first difficult nigredo stage to the crowning achievement of the lapis, the philosophical stone. The metaphor establishes a link to the poem “Binsey Poplars” by Gerard Manley Hopkins, where trees perform a similar transformative function: “My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled/ Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun…” Harnessing unconscious energy for poetic inspiration is Hopkins’s and Snider’s imperative, in Snider’s case adding a focus on the indispensible male muse, Snider’s younger lover. Snider’s poem concludes with a focus on the mature gay relationship that was denied Gerard Manley Hopkins.
Snider’s intertextual nod to Gerard Manley Hopkins emphasizes the queer tradition which both poets share. In the sonnet “Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844-1889” Snider emphasizes that in Hopkins’ day and age it was imperative for a man in his position (“poet, priest, professor, mage”) to sublimate a problematic non-mainstream sexuality. The reward was “greater glory” in the form of world-wide posthumous recognition. Even so, the poet’s “black lines on paper whispered more than told” in palimpsests chronicling the split between gratifying your libido and celebrating sublimation as a goal in itself. The post-Freud reader will inevitably decode Hopkins’ impulse as an expression of sexuality repressed for religious and political reasons.
Historical records of genocides of GLBTQ people, as well as present-day hate crimes, are shadow texts to the sonnet on Gerard Manley Hopkins. The theme is further explored in the poem “Dancer from the Dance” about the murder of the young cross dresser Lawrence King (1993-2008). The title is lifted from Yeats’ poem “Among Schoolchildren”: “O body swayed to music, O brightening glance, / How can we know the dancer from the dance?”, stressing that Larry King and his killer were school kids, that the killer was probably unaware of his own unconscious gay feelings, and hence unable to decode the dance. The poem “30 Years” mentions the unsolved murder of Snider’s older gay brother and many other poems in his oeuvre are to greater or lesser extent founded on the themes of GLBTQ discrimination, one of the major issues that has shaped Snider’s poetry and political consciousness.
Other gay authors such as Oscar Wilde (“Desert Sand”), Mishima (“Seppuku”), Auden (“Poem at Sixty”)–the latter also mentions Edward Field and Allen Ginsberg–celebrate the gay canon now taught at CSULB, where Clifton Snider was a faculty member for a number of years. Multiple echoes of Emily Dickenson, Kafka, Coleridge, Yeats, Bukowski, Annie Proulx, Jung, and others proliferate in the poems, providing readers, students, and teachers alike with plenty of learned intertextuality of all persuasions to ponder.
My favorite poem in the collection is “Visiting the Cave of Pech-Merle”. The cave’s function as alchemical crucible, via the metaphor of the oyster producing a pearl from a grain of dirt, creates a rich atmosphere that encourages the reader to share the numinous experience of the art from the Upper Paleolithic period in the caves in the South of France. The stunning prehistoric images from the Gravettian stone age culture 25.000 years ago are of course readily available on the Internet, but Snider’s inspired description will no doubt motivate many readers to include the caves in their next holiday itinerary. The poem emphasizes our links to a distant past as hunter-gatherers who via shaman-painters attempted to control causality with sympathetic magic – painting the desired animal of prey in order to attract and slay it. The creative impulse was then as now an effort to transcend into “the spirit realm… to see what’s on the other side,” and thus associated with the poet’s craft.
The archetype of the poet-magi is present throughout Snider’s oeuvre. In Aspens in the Wind, like in his previous collections, there is a sustained focus on exploring the sacred through its manifestations in a profane quotidian. Alchemy, Christian mysticism, Zen, Zuni/Hopi shamanism, and Jungian paradigms, often paired with a political awareness, are the central vehicles inspiring Snider’s maps of the contemporary psyche. Snider’s poems carry on the shamanic tradition in a postmodern Western context, offering us directions by pointing to central values in our culture: family, relationship, friendship, loving-kindness, nurture, respect for sexual and cultural alterity, and a view to the continuity of the human predicament, particularly via artistic expression. In Clifton Snider’s recent poems, each of these constitute a temenos, a magic circle where we may find respite and alchemical individuation in stressful times.
____________
James Benedict is the author of the poetry collections Distillations I, II, and III series as well as of a book on gym life: Gymnospheres. A sequel book with more stories from the gym is forthcoming. James Benedict has also written two long poems on transgender issues: Trans Verse 108 Hearth and Trans Verse 117 The Baghdad Carpenter. His collected Trans Verse is going to press autumn 2010. His website can be found at www.jamesbenedict.vpweb.dk.
October 14th, 2010
Link • Poems • Leave a Comment
Michael Medrano
VISITATION
At the rosary my grandmother is at the casket having a conversation with the
container that once kept my grandfather’s soul. At this moment she does not
know about the role of the mortician that prepared my grandfather’s body
after his unexpected death. She is not aware of the slippage of unpaid bills,
bills she will never pay, because she never learned to read, not even in the
Spanish of this out-loud dream. She has blocked out of her memory the time
Tata cheated on her, with her own sister, and the birth of my uncle Johnny.
Still, she is cleansing my grandfather’s frozen face with the holy water blessed
by the priest from the catholic church down the street. She is wiping the water
into the cold flesh, around the hands, fingernails, and then the mouth. Avre en
la boca, she says, open your mouth and drink.
–from Rattle #24, Winter 2005
October 13th, 2010
Link • Poems • Leave a Comment
Marissa McNamara
TENDING THE GRASS
When my husband goes out to water the lawn
cigarette dangling from his mouth and shirtless
I’m afraid that the police will show up
and arrest him since the only white guys I see
caught on “Cops” are tattooed (like my husband)
although usually they have homemade tattoos
which have to be fuzzed out
because they say things like fuck you which,
of course, is too many letters for one hand, one letter
per finger, so you might as well write fuck
on one forearm and you on the other so when
you stand with your hands at your sides,
you can relay a message and this
usually under the name Shirley or Tina
with a heart and maybe a crooked
arrow and shirtless, like I said, or at the very least
wearing a white tank top otherwise known as
a wifebeater, which my husband is not, but nonetheless
they, the cops, might drive by and see that he is
watering even though there is a ban during the summer
because of the drought and then throw him, shirtless,
over the side of the car while he yells something stupid
like “Please just don’t look in that small box
in my living room the one stacked on top of my
Grateful Dead tapes, just please don’t look there.”
At which point they would have to come in and look
and with my luck I’d be braless and barefoot drinking
a can of Schlitz and have to tell the cops that my husband
wasn’t doing anything wrong, I swear, there’s no box
in the living room, but if there was,
it’s our right to have it anyway.
–from Rattle #24, Winter 2005
October 12th, 2010
Link • Poems • Leave a Comment
Michael P. McManus
AS FIRE, MY FATHER
My father as fire melts December snow
with each step he takes through a Pennsylvania field.
But there is no field there is no snow,
only a mud-rutted road where my father walks
as fire under a sky filled with molten geese,
which now know the horror of too much heat.
My father as fire sits in a flat-bottomed boat.
He poles across the water, looking down into it
,
where he sees a glowing town a city & pillows,
on which ashes shape themselves into children’s faces,
& friends & former lovers & joyful leaps from remembered pets.
My father as fire believes in string theory & chaos,
convenience stores & muscle cars & the fly rod
abandoned to the cellar because fire & water no longer mix.
Some days the old rivers run through his eyes.
Some days his old eyes run through the rivers
like facets on a diamond like fangs on a snake,
like seven white horses drinking from a flaming trough.
My father as fire at seventy believes in the laying of hands,
an act which brings him both pleasure and pain,
the moment the father sees the son
close his eyes & begin to burn.
–from Rattle #24, Winter 2005
