Twelve days of Lax-mas

3PictureLaxWide

This month, our school hosted a Progoff Intensive Journal Workshop. One workshop exercise involved writing a dialog between each participant and someone who has influenced him. I chose Bob Lax, who gave up and moved to Patmos to wait and write.

Instead of writing a dialog, however, I found myself writing a dozen poem-like things. I may be in the same place as I was eight years ago when I wrote a few Lax-inspired pieces.

This week, in a different kind of meeting, I tooled around with my newest Lax-inspired things, making lots of revisions. Some people with artistic training get through meetings in a similar way with doodles, of course, engaging their eye to egg on their ear.

Lax, though, missed all memos, made no meetings, and (maybe as a consequence) made few revisions to his own poems. They came out of him after long waits, and whole as eggs.

Poet Dave Bonta came up with “poem-like things” to describe some of his own work. I haven’t written poems, much less poem-like things, in years. Dave also occasionally compares writing poems to having bowel movements. Perhaps, then, I should call these my Laxatives.

I’ve posted my first four; the rest will come in December.

Enjambed

DearMeFrontCover“Enjambed” sounds like “jammed,” as when I jam my toe. And there is the feeling, in enjambment, of a sentence smashed into verse, scrunched against an arbitrary margin, particularly if that margin, as in much free verse, has no rhyme scheme or meter to make itself more visible or justifiable.

But enjambment can bring to sight other sounds concealed in a sentence. It can spot consonance and assonance hunched behind a rhyme’s garish robes. It can hear some rhythms that don’t want to make it to meter.

And enjambment stretches as much as it squeezes.

I’ve had, lately, in the back of my mind, something I wrote a dozen years ago, a paragraph from a short devotional that helped me get through an identity crisis. I wrote it out in longhand again this morning. Then I slowed it down some more by writing it as verse.

You had a mental
image of God
in a storage room, looking
for a vessel.
He found you
in a corner, piled up
with a lot of other
stuff, and you

were covered
with moss and grime.
God said, “How
about this one? He
has always wanted me
to use him.” And he

began to clean
you for his
service. You became
thankful.

I found parallel participial phrases, one beginning with “looking” and the other with “piled.” Enjambment’s part and parcel is the premium real estate available just before a line break. At some level, a line’s last word gets the last word.

That last word is where enjambment’s pull counters its push. Consider the split I made in the noun phrase “other stuff.” For a hair second, “other” becomes a noun, a more philosophical, metaphysical being. And, further down, “became,” for a moment, becomes its own object. But we read on because our ears can’t believe their eyes. “Other” resolves into an adjective again, “became” into a linking verb again. But “became” — the unlinked “became” — was the point of my book, and of my identity crisis, too.

We read on also because our elementary teachers told us not to pause at enjambments, but to read for syntax only. And I suppose that’s good advice. But just as ears have eyes, so eyes have ears, big as an elephant’s, that never forget those hair seconds.

Herbert, Pound, Lax

I can’t breathe
.can’t breathe
…..breathe
…….can’t
……….I
…….can’t
…..breathe
.can’t breathe
I can’t breathe

I can’t breathe
.can’t breathe
…..breathe
…….can’t
……….I
…….can’t
…..breathe
.can’t breathe
I can’t breathe

 

° ° °

 

……………….I can’t breathe I can’t breathe?
…………I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I:
…………can’t breathe, “I can’t breathe” I can’t breathe,
I can’t? breathe, I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t breathe
……………………………I can’t breathe I can’t
B.       R.       E.      A.      T.      H.      E.

 

° ° °

 

I can’t
bre
at
he

I can’t
bre
at
he

 

I can’t
bre
at
h

e

Hymn

Somewhere this room
a gizmo chirps not
twice an hour, maybe,
someone calling him
who’s not here. Or not
a call, but a notification
by someone a group
he joined once, someone
not thinking him, exactly,
and he not thinking the group
neither now nor as long as he’s
not been here, the gizmo
not making as much of it
as I am here.

In This Place: Tom Montag’s spare, sweeping retrospective

3PictureBookMontagInThisPlaceA week before I visited the National Gallery’s new Andrew Wyeth retrospective, I had gotten my hands on Tom Montag’s new In This Place: Selected Poems 1982 – 2013. In This Place is a retrospective of sorts, too, though by a man who is sometimes called a “minor regional poet.” Montag’s regionalism, though, is like Wyeth’s – a particular window on human conditions and feelings. I thought of Montag’s poetry often while walking through the show.

Andrew Wyeth: Looking Out, Looking In concentrates on Wyeth’s windows, and most of the show’s studies and paintings are of windows from only two houses, the Kuerner Farm in Pennsylvania and the Olson House in Maine. The inexhaustible subject matter Wyeth finds in two houses reminded me of the cover photograph of In This Place: the front of “the big red house” where Montag and his wife Mary have lived for upwards of forty years in their Wisconsin farming village. Like Wyeth, Montag finds unlimited inspiration from a handful of things within a fixed geographic radius. He has written over a thousand pages of observations, for instance, for his blog, The Middlewesterner, just from things he observed during his daily drives to and from work.

Five years after Wyeth’s death, the NGA show asks, have we begun to see beyond his realism and beyond his insistence on a limited, regional subject matter? Part of the narrative of Wyeth’s show is the universalism in his regionalism as well as the renewed critical appreciation for the “detachment and nonbeing” undergirding Wyeth’s realism, as Charles Brock puts it his essay “Through a Glass: Windows in the Art of Wyeth, Sheeler, and Hopper” appearing in the show’s catalog (66). I hope In This Place generates a similar appreciation for the universalism and detachment in the corpus of Montag’s poetry.

The partly negative connotation of “regional” persists, of course, and Wyeth would have sympathized with Montag becoming known as a regional poet. In her essay “Wind from the Sea: Painting Truth beneath the Facts,” also published in the show’s catalog, Nancy K. Anderson quotes Wyeth as saying, “People like to say Robert Frost is a bucolic poet. Just as people say I’m a painter of rustic scenes – that has nothing to do with it!” (26). Wyeth and Frost were great artists, Anderson contends, not because they were regionalists, though they were, but because they effectively used the natural world to suggest significant feelings and thoughts that moved their audiences. Explaining the name of the Wyeth retrospective, Anderson writes that, as “a keen observer of the natural world, [Frost, like Wyeth,] used exterior prompts for interior purposes – looking out triggered looking in.” The same is true of Montag. Continue reading