May 30, 2012

Review by Todd DavisTravel/Untravel by Neil Shepard

(T)RAVEL/UN(T)RAVEL
by Neil Shepard

Mid-List Press
4324 12th Avenue
South Minneapolis, MN 55407
ISBN 978-0-922811-88-5
2011, 96 pp., $13.00
www.midlist.org

In American letters there has long been a tension between the idea of writing grounded in one’s local experience–a notion often associated with a rallying cry for an authenticity founded upon a daily and long-lived relationship with a place–and art that grows from the catalyst of travel, from one’s immersion in cultures and regions radically different from the accustomed security of the writer’s homeground.

Any person who has journeyed away from home knows the sense of wonder (or sometimes its pejorative equal) in being confronted with a new language and customs, a new climate and its accompanying flora and fauna, a new diet for both the body and the soul. Such dislocations can be disconcerting, even mind-altering, forcing upon the traveler a weltanschauung in metamorphosis.

Neil Shepard is an American poet whose new book portrays physical and spiritual journeys into distinctly different landscapes while suggesting the material and philosophical conundrums such travel creates. In richly textured language and arresting narratives, he underscores the porousness of borders, the artifice of the security we long for, and the pleasures of engaging the physical, elemental world that sustains us.

In (T)ravel / Un(t)ravel, Shepard’s fourth collection, the poet establishes with the title poem the unraveling dislocation of “travelers half- / returned from afar,” the “vertigo” as “the other world / spins into view.” It is in this moment, when the tangible immediacy of the present collides with the constructed world of memory, that “a white flash of surrender” comes upon the sojourner, reminding him that experience cannot be cordoned off, set aside to be forgotten, like photos in a dusty album.

Rather each of the book’s five sections literally thrusts us into new territory, immersing the reader in radically different landscapes, as diverse as Paris and Corfu, Bali and Hampstead Heath.

Dislocations of all kinds characterize Shepard’s dazzling and thickly layered poems, and the poet’s encounter in “Monkey Forest Road” is representative of such disruptions:

Pinned under mesh netting, I awake
to mosquitoes and geckoes, brash anjing
howling outside, fighting cocks bruising

the air. The market’s squawk is a block off,
where women smelling of raw fish, their breasts
burst from their shirts, and men hawking

and emptying their nostrils on the sidewalks,
shout Mister, mister! This morning I can
roll over and refuse it . . .

But, of course, he cannot actually refuse this new place, try as he may. As the poem moves forward, the poet continues to protest his journey into the displacement on Monkey Forest Road, saying again and again that he “can refuse it all—the toothless woman / / who drapes her stained sarong around my waist / and hisses sixty rupiah, the scarred guard /blocking entrance to Monkey Forest. . . . // even the holy men // of the island who subsist on sunlight and quiet, teaching the body bathed in sensation that being blinds us, // distracts us from the world behind the world.” And within the melee of this swirling commotion, dizzying both to the newly landed traveler and the reader, is the question carved from his protestation: “will I always arrive scarred and fearful, // my meditations unraveling?”

While (T)ravel / Un(t)ravel is not a book-length narrative of a singular physical journey, it may well be read as a philosophical narrative in response to the questions of how we might arrive and to where ultimately we may be traveling. Halfway through the book we find ourselves in North Wales, considering on Snowdon, the highest mountain in this region, our own worth in relation to other objects:

Count me one object among many
as I stop to strap on a hood
and jacket, cover a pack, and bend
again into misting rain. An object
passing objects probable as sheep
or stone, possible as gravel fill
or wooden rail, definite as nettle
or thistle…

Notice the way Shepard carefully crafts the sound of these words around the physicality of the objects themselves, nesting one within another, and in doing so emphasizing ultimate questions to be articulated as the poem closes:

…if one wanders
beyond what is sensibly revealed—
if not palpable as an object,
then a piercing sound from a high
invisible place, not quite object,
not void, not song, not human
word, but human made, for certain,
and recorded in the human mind.

And those questions continue to surface in Shepard’s textured vocalizations in such poems as “Lush Life,” “The World Goes Away,” and “If I Have to Die, and I Have To–.” Through the artifice of poem-making, and the artifice of the landscapes represented in the poems themselves, Shepard illuminates these vital questions without suggesting any final answers. As he says at the conclusion of “Biographers,” set in the Borderlands of Northumbria,

the romantic excess that drifts away
in mist, rinse the chapters of character-
making in a bracing solvent, distill all
rosy gaiety and gray sobriety, all terror
and aspiration, into a single equation
of longing on earth…

In (T)ravel / Un(t)ravel, Shepard has crafted a book of great beauty, comprised of poems of spiritual and physical longing and seeking. Here is art that recognizes its debt to the earth and to all that toil and create upon it, an art of exploration, of travel that will lead its readers away from any false sense of security their homeground might provide, leaving them forever changed.

_____________

Todd Davis teaches creative writing and environmental studies at Penn State University’s Altoona College. He is the author of four books of poems, most recently The Least of These (Michigan State University Press, 2010) and Household of Water, Moon, and Snow: The Thoreau Poems (Seven Kitchens Press, 2010). He also edited Fast Break to Line Break: Poets on the Art of Basketball (Michigan State University Press, 2012) and co-edited Making Poems: Forty Poems with Commentary by the Poets (State University of New York Press, 2010). His poetry has appeared widely in such places as Poetry Daily, Gettysburg Review, Shenandoah, North American Review, and Iowa Review. When he’s not working on poems or reading other people’s poems, he’s deep in the 31,000 acres of gamelands above his house, tracking bobcat and bear, turkey and grouse, and taking photos of the wildflowers he seeks out all spring, summer, and fall.

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January 10, 2011

Review by Karen WeyantMaknig Poems: Forty Poems with Commentary by the Poets

MAKING POEMS: FORTY POEMS WITH COMMENTARY BY THE POETS
by Eds. Todd Davis and Erin Murphy

State University of New York Press
22 Corporate Woods Boulevard, 3rd Floor
Albany, NY 12211-2504
ISBN 978-1-4384-3176-5
2010, 218 pp., $23.95
www.sunypress.edu

As a writer, I know that inspiration for a poem often doesn’t come like a bright “ta da!” moment. There’s no glowing lightbulb that appears over a writer’s head. Instead, writing is often tedious, sometimes more of a chore than an interesting activity. The muse is elusive and sometimes even a bit of a tease. As someone who teaches creative writing, this concept is a hard idea to sell to my students, whose own work often eludes them because they believe “I wasn’t inspired.” This is where Making Poems: Forty Poems with Commentary edited by Todd Davis and Erin Murphy comes in as a handy tool for the creative writing classroom. Making Poems offers a selection of poems by contemporary poets who write brief essays explaining how their works came into being. As one can imagine, some poets are frank and honest, detailing their revision strategies while discussing real life roots of poems. Other poets, however, drift into more scholarly writing, explaining the influence of literary theories and histories. Whatever the birth of each poem, this anthology offers ideas for why the world of contemporary poetry is as varied as each published collection.

Some scholars believe that American poetry is often rooted in place, and thus, it should come as no surprise that many poets discuss sense of place in their individual works. Jim Daniels, for example, discusses his poem, “Factory Jungle” in the context of a job he once held at Ford Sterling Axle Plant. According to Daniels, “In a strange way, the whole landscape resembled the thick underbrush of a jungle.” This landscape is what represents the root of inspiration for his poem, and Daniels goes on to discuss his individual revision process, focusing on his exploration of the jungle as poetic metaphor. Another poet, Patricia Jabbeh Wesley, uses place as a source of loss and displacement in her poem, “Leaving.” This work, says Wesley, was “like many other poems I have written, was inspired by the feeling of displacement, dislocation, and the search for home after the loss of one’s original homeland.” She then explains:

It is a poem taken out of real life, inspired, of course, by my son,
Gee, who was not excited about moving away to a new town
just after he settled in the small town of Indiana, Pennsylvania.
He was beginning to connect, but the immigrants that we are,
we were still seeking a place where we would settle down as a family
having moved around for many years during the Liberian civil war
and after we arrived here in the United States.

It is apparent that Wesley does not find sense of place as a comfort in the turmoil of her life. The end of “Leaving” concludes “Someone once asked me why people like us/move around so much; why can’t be balance our feet between// the hills and the sloping crevasses of this new life, between/these old cliffs and valleys, and I say, ‘I don’t know.’”

Besides the exploration of place in poetry, memory and the idea of memory is another popular point of inspiration in much of today’s poetry. Julia Spicher Kasdorf wrestles with the tricky relationship between what an individual remembers and the written word. Her poem, “Double the Digits,” takes the reader to rural Pennsylvania, where the persona tells the story of a group of girls exploring both the open road and life. Her poem, Kasdorf explains, was based on real life antics of the past, of risks she and some friends took while driving the back roads. Yet, Kasdorf is not ready to say that the poem is 100 percent true; instead, explaining with original drafts, “I didn’t want to analyze or think too hard about if beforehand.” In her essay, “Memory and the Problem of What Really Happened” Kasdorf explains the following:

If you think about it, real life is not all that interesting,
filled as it is with tedious and pointless parts of routine;
even the details that may personally satisfying often carry
little meaning for anyone else. Most real life consists of
one dull thing or small thing after another, no narrative rise
and fall, no symbolic resonance or unity of effect. Life is not
literature.

Such words must especially hit home for those of us facing classes of teenagers who believe that they don’t have lives that are interesting enough for possible subject matter for their poetry.

Other poets take their cues from traumatic events that have happened in the world around us. For instance, Ann Hostetler explains that “Sonnets for the Amish Girls of Nickel Mines” comes from the Amish shooting tragedy on October 2, 2006. “My husband and I both have deep Amish roots,” explains Hostetler, “His family lives in Lancaster County and his parents helped found the Mennonite Church in Bart, Pennsylvania, which they still attend.” Hostetler goes on to explain that her sonnets were based mostly on the information she obtained from mass media, an ironic fact considering that Amish traditionally shun the public eye. Still, this poet knows this world and was able to write based on her knowledge of the intimate world of the shooting victims and their families.

Finally, some poets cite the importance of research in their work. In Greg Rappleye’s poem “Orpheus, Gathering the Trees” the poet explains that the genesis of his poem began with the general knowledge that most people know the story of Orpheus and his attempt to bring Eurydice back from the underworld. However, little has been said about what Orpheus’s life was like after this failed attempt. Rappleye searched scholarly literature, as well as field guides for his poem, in order to help search for the emotions of Orpheus. In many ways, the genesis for this poem is found in both research and Rappleye’s own observations of both life and nature. He explains that as he researched, he made lists of elements from the natural world: “As I winnowed my list, stopping now and again to leave my desk to look into the undergrowth, I saw that there were dead and empty places among the trees.” This observation is found in Rappleye’s poem which ends like this:

From the air he called the sparrows
and the varieties of wrens.
Then he sang for a bit of pestilence –
for the green caterpillars,
for the leaf worms and bark bettles.
Food to suit the flickers and the crows.
So that in the woodlot
there would always be empty places.
So he would still know loss.

What is most impressive about this anthology is the wide range of poetic works, both in theme and form. Furthermore, the writing process is varied–in their essays, some poets share drafts, some don’t. Some poets show the messiness of writing; others explain that sometimes inspiration does come in a quick, short burst, with little or no revision for a poem. All in all, this anthology is more about the process than the product, more about the messiness of writing than the clean hard copies we all read in print.

____________

Karen J. Weyant’s chapbook Stealing Dust was published in 2009 by Finishing Line Press. Her most recent work can be seen in 5 AM, The Barn Owl Review, Copper Nickel, Harpur Palate, and Lake Effect. She lives in western Pennsylvania but teaches at Jamestown Community College in Jamestown, New York. She blogs at www.thescrapperpoet.wordpress.com

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