Friday, February 23, 2007
The End of Rude Handles by Jen Tynes
Red Morning Press, 2006
Reviewed by Marc McKee
Appended to the opening four part cycle of Jen Tynes’ debut, The End of Rude Handles, is a lyrically essayistic meander set off by the heading “Ways of Contrariness” and further subheadings like "To improvise is to pull out of thick air" and "All the italics are mine." Whereas it may have been customary for regular readers of poetry to assume that poems teach us how to read them, these sections do not leave that sort of decoding strictly in our hands. Though superlatively engaging in the ways that artists revealing their practices and intentions can be, the risk in including such an appendage in the same book as the work it describes (or in Tynes’ case, refers to in slant-wise fashion) can be the limits it sets for the reader. This might have been more of a problem if it didn’t feel quite so much like the appending is itself a fold-out, a map that is more a part of the cycle and thus a facet of the work, rather than just the recommended 3-D glasses. In fact, it is difficult not to see it as the culmination of the cycle.
To begin at the beginning, however, The End of Rude Handles makes its way as a kaleidoscopic collage in four parts, each constructed of declaratives, exchanges and interchanges which are figured over time on or against an overdetermined ground. Put more simply, the poem makes material in language the process of making itself. In the prefatory segment of the poem preceding part I, the speaker reveals that “when I speak of you some object is / also formed in the light of that. // I enfold the brimming object to you.” While this in some way seems to disclose a speaker addressing a “you,” it instead indicates, as the successive passages will show us, that the effort to address this “you” becomes its own object which the speaker can only ever offer “brimming.” Hence, the effort to address is given shape rather than the speaker or the “you,” and instead of the performance of a message delivered in a communally agreed upon lexicon, the reader is presented with evidence of an inquiry of the space between the reader and the speaker. This is further informed (and complicated) by Tynes’ use of other material, especially from (one presumes) the book to which she doffs her hat in her acknowledgments, Handicrafts of the Southern Highlands, and further ordered by her use of capitalization, italics, and white space. The first section sets up the system, beginning after the Roman numeral I with:
I took care
of small business: shining
blue eggs, fighting with a glass
The opposing page finds italicized phrases scattered across the white space, also in italics, presumably lifted from the Handicrafts’ appendix: Zion Rose Single // Chariot Wheel Ocean // Wave Acres of Diamonds. The following page is set off by the semblance of a title in all caps: THE UNIVERSAL LOVE OF COLOR. This pattern is repeated throughout the first two sections before in the third and fourth sections all caps phrase fragments are added to the facing pages on the right side. The effect which is produced is of a process that is scrupulously made and scrupulously self-reflexive in the process of being made. In the second section the self-awareness seems to proceed nearly from the text itself. In the opening segment of part II comes the question “Do you think this // is sound.” A few pages later, we are told that “[a] figure / is a popular thrill.” These small, assertive thunderclaps of revelation—the duality of sound as logical and/or musical, the desire even in the most abstracted deserts of the Real for a recognizable object or subject—rise from a mostly perplexing anti-conversation conversation. To wit:
THE KEEN UNPASSIONED BEAUTY OF THE GREAT MACHINE
Propelled by hand
and eventually back
home to me. A figure
is a popular thrill.
The three of them
at me til gone: a follicle,
of my kin again.
the natural horns
the face. The rosy
Your ornery biddy
By deploying flat declaratives that are completely devoid of rhetorical swagger, a passage like this encourages the reader to feel its associative logic as inevitable, even after we read it a couple of times and realize that it can only be inevitable to one particularly temporal self. Nevertheless, this is not a solipsistic personal history recollected in tranquility; the mere appearance of the possessive pronoun “your” presumes an other. Depending on whether or not this sort of thing is your bag, Tynes has demonstrated here the ways in which language figures the speaker and the reader, since surely in our desire to be in this loop or to make any kind of sense here, we begin to orient ourselves toward the way the text is, in her phrase, “caught in the act of emphasizing.”
As the sections progress, the language and poetics seem to relax. It becomes apparent that the recurrent word “animal” is a figure for other, whether sentient or constructed, and the deployment of italicized fragments and all caps titles which imply the ongoing extension of lyric segments begin to feel familiar and give rise to a sense of historical location both in a personal and public sense. While some might find the technique and realization of such poems estranging, what is actually happening is an arrangement of the estranged world that commends itself to us as worthy of habitation and consideration. Once and again, too, there is the shock of realization to keep us going: “I am a harness // I use to keep myself / collected”; or “To call a snake a garden // variety and duck / into these handicrafts / for the evening is a gash / in me, I cannot pronounce an end / to naming it.” It is by surfaced assertions like these that the surrounding materials are galvanized. Perhaps it is a problem of our age; it may be that in a perfect world, the materiality of poetic inquiry might be enough, but nowadays we want to see not only the strings being pulled and how, but the sorry and exhilarated puppet master. Then again, maybe it’s just because we don’t wish to see ourselves as the puppets.
The final segment of part IV, which bears the title of the book, finds the speaker admitting that she “burn[s] [her] own / mark into each animal / long after thinking it,” and this is the last motion we get before the appending essayistic sections mentioned above. These sections are far more chatty than the poem cycle that comes before, even as they contain recurrences from the cycle itself; even the heading “Ways of Contrariness” has already appeared in the poem. If one were to suggest a weakness in this book, one might point to this section, but simply because it addresses us with more familiarity and wears its verve and sass on its sleeve; even as it deploys and unveils its strategies as a crafty intelligence, it proves ultimately more interesting (if only to this reader) than the admittedly assured and skillful (and sometimes breath-taking) poem that precedes it. Perhaps this is why it is at the end: Tynes has built and figured a landscape, she has mattered language, and it is ways of contrariness, between she and us, that now animates it.
That said, there are more than enough fascinations and gifts to recommend this collection, though it may address itself by need to selective tribes on the poetryscape. Those readers who like their books peopled with clear equations and traditionally acceptable relationships between this, that and the other may want to steer clear. If, on the other hand, you ever over-poured your coffee cup while wondering what it would be like for C.D. Wright to cover Tender Buttons, then The End of Rude Handles will suit your taste for the outer limns.
Jen Tynes edits horse less press and is the author of The End of Rude Handles (Red Morning Press, 2006), See Also Electric Light (Dancing Girl Press, 2007) and, with Erika Howsare, The Ohio System (Octopus Books, 2007). Her writing has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Lit, Denver Quarterly, Typo, Melancholia's Tremulous Dreadlocks and The Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel: Second Floor.
Mark McKee has an MFA from the University of Houston, and is currently pursuing a PhD at the University of Missouri in Columbia, where he lives with his wife, Camellia. Recent work appears in Backwards City Review, LIT, Pleiades, The Journal, and is forthcoming from Forklift, Ohio.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Exiliana by Mariela Griffor
Luna Publications, 2006
Reviewed by Anca Vlasopolos
Exiliana—-the resonant, mellifluous title announces the heart of this first poetry book by Mariela Griffor. Its very foreignness extends, like the tall grasses of the evocative cover painting, into seemingly endless space. The poems in this book cluster around Griffor’s enduring theme: the personal is political, and, in this book, the political, too, is so personal as to invade the core of mind and body. One could call this collection a series of elegies, for the violently murdered lover, father of the child whose birth he does not live to see, for the body of the beloved country, especially its capital, Santiago, for the friends of childhood and youth whom the poet does not get to see grow older.
Griffor speaks with the voice of the world’s many exiles; her lament is the exile’s universal lament. In describing the mother tongue, she writes, “It comes sweet and strong/ with syllables I recognize,/ its delicious sounds,” and she acknowledges her somewhat unwilling thrall to those sounds. As other exiles, in the moods of weather of foreign places the poet is constantly reminded of home, existing in a halved awareness of the here being but a distorted replica of the there, the lost home: “The sound of the rain in Michigan/ reminds me of the rugged winters in my old country:/ the cold feet in old shoes,/ the fast sound of the water hitting the ground/ the smell of eucalyptus in the air.”
Ultimately, however, Griffor with this book of poetry returns us to the beginnings of the lyric: these are love poems, mostly for a lost young love that survives the death of the lover to go on haunting the living with excruciating longing, as in “Heartland”:
I wish I could put my heart
under the faucet in the sink
and with the running water
wash away the thumping
thoughts you evoke.
After years of draining
the arteries of my
heart, they come full
again every morning as our first encounter,
insisting on the memory of you.
Despite the cri de coeur in this poem as in the overtly political ones, where the poet becomes the accuser—“What kind of country is this/that falls in love with death/ every time freedom disappears/ from its core?/ What kind of country is this/ that kills its own sons and daughters?”, the song of love is heard from within the bitterness and loss. In a tradition that is, alas, not common to many women poets writing in English, Griffor explores the erotic in the context of fierce love: “I remember your lukewarm hands/ between the pleats of my beige skirt . . . . despite the passing of years,/ I still feel your hand/ between the pleats of my skirt.”
Yet, unlike many exiles who long only for the lost homeland, Griffor turns her creative energies to describing the places she has inhabited since, “Along the Cold Streets of Scandinavia,” as well as along the mean streets of Detroit, and her take on these new landscapes is generous and large. She enjoins Detroit to “Leave your vinegar grief behind.” In Uppsala, she sings of the spring of a second love: “In a mantle of spring/ you approach slowly”; “Love that has been asleep . . . / turns from the colors of grey . . . to the red of living sap.”
But turning a generous eye toward one’s refuge does not mean abandoning the burden of remembrance, of witnessing the horrors of deaths, disappearances, and tortures in the homeland or the various wounds and amputations of exile, and Griffor best summarizes the desolation in a short poem, “How Chaos Begins,” perhaps the most powerful of the collection: “A butterfly flying in the streets/ of Santiago on a September day.”
Mariela Griffor was born in the city of Concepcion in southern Chile. She attended the University of Santiago and the Catholic University of Rio de Janiero. Griffor left Chile for an involuntary exile in Sweden until 1985. She and her American husband returned to the United States in 1998 with their two daughters. They live in Grosse Pointe Park, Michigan. She is co-founder of The Institute for Creative Writers at Wayne State University and Publisher of Marick Press. Her work has appeared in periodicals across Latin America and the United States. Griffor holds a BA in Journalism and an MA in Communications from Wayne State University. Exiliana is her first book. For more information visit
Anca Vlasopolos' publications include Penguins in a Warming World (poetry; Ragged Sky Press, 2007) and No Return Address: A Memoir of Displacement (Columbia University Press, 2000), which was awarded the YMCA Writer’s Voice Grant for Creative Non-Fiction in 2001, the Wayne State University Board of Governors Award and the Arts Achievement Award in 2002. Forthcoming publications include the historical novel The New Bedford Samurai (Twilight Times Books, 2007); the poetry chapbooks, Through the Straits, at Large and The Evidence of Spring; and a detective novel, Missing Members. Vlasopolos, a 2006 Pushcart Prize nominee, has also published poems and short stories work in literary magazines such as The Rambler, Porcupine, Typo, Perigee, Poetry International, Barrow Street, Adagio, Avatar, Terrain, Nidus,, Short Story, Natural Bridge, Center, Evansville Review, Santa Barbara Review, River Styx, Spoon River Poetry Quarterly, Weber Review, among others.
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