A seemingly vast number of the literary magazines in this country seem to have the purpose of introducing bright young students to poetry, give them a chance to be editors, to experience the process, to feel a part of something larger than themselves. I’m making this up from my own assumptions, of course, since I have never participated in this world — didn’t take an English major nor any of the modern spin-offs. In the current issue of The Journal, Ohio State’s mag, I notice one of the contributors is going off to seek a Ph.D. in poetry. At least that rhymes. ;->
One seeming result of this slant is how stuffed these magazines are with young work — poets who have mastered the ins and outs of examining a trope: Christopher Howell in “Falling” has images of flight, including an excellent opening – “You fall in love // and the sparrows fly back // to their small trees like a god // in fragments.” Then lessons on the laws of flight, Baron Von Richthofen, a park with swans, all sorts of interesting images, but somehow not very relevant to the seeming theme of falling in love, and not very cohesive. (Also an excellent ending). Then I go and look at Howell’s biography, and he has 10 books out, from Milkweed among others, he teaches poetry, he’s an editor at a small press… Oh well. Something tells me my stuff would not find a natural home at that house!
But I’m holding to my position by and large: for me, it is lack of focus that dooms many of these poems to the swift waters of Lethe (sorry, couldn’t help myself; I can feel the gravitas growing by the moment). When the poets do stick to their theme like concrete (Somerset Maugham) wonderful things often result. Catherine Pierce’s “The Dog Greets the Tornado.” “Hello, one-not-like-me.” and for that matter, her “The Aftermath” about how a tornado regrets all that it did not destroy. Kind of an evil-fun poem. “A score of sunlit days will hush // the town back to its regular breathing.” What a great line.
Lurking amid the other poets here, like a tiger trying to hide amid kittens, is J. Allyn Rosser, with “Beeline Eclogue,” another poem that declares what it is about – “I felt it falter onto my bare foot, // and flicked without swatting, // so the bee did not attack.” – tends to its business – “The bee was determined to get somewhere…driving its body onward…” — to the first magnificent turn: “this must be how it feels when prayers // stop coming.” Wow — and then more turns — “So why the haste? Why…squander the last drops of life-force // on this exhausting trek?” She surmises the bee has some important message to return to the hive before its impending death. “I try to think what I would do, if I knew.” With a great summation and ending, which I won’t of course give away here. Go buy her next book. ;->
Let me not get away without mentioning Amorak Huey’s “How To Avoid Becoming A Victim Of Opportunity,” a wryly funny work, with great insights.
And maybe that’s it. Huey and Rosser are using the form to reach for insights, which are hard to find in so many other poems. Now many of these poets are still looking for MFAs and obviously just starting out on their careers, so maybe it’s not fair to expect deep insights from them. Certainly I had few accurate ones at that age. So a magazine like this may be best experienced as a promise of things to come — a playground where folks can work out the tricks of the form, get a feel for their own voices, and deliver a few (and often more than a few) amazing lines.
Peace in poetry,
P M F Johnson