The Fall issue of Plainsongs opens with a Plainsongs Award poem by Karen Douglass, “Nineteen Sixty-Eight,” which lists dates of that year, what was happening personally to the narrator, and what large happening occurred on that date. “January 2 // My first child is born…Christian Barnard performs // the first…heart transplant.” The confluence of events gives the poem resonance. One of the cool things about Plainsongs Awards is the editor that chose the poem discusses what worked for her (in this case) about the poem. She mentions the younger set thinking of Woodstock when they think of the Sixties, while 1968, when so much happened, was a year before Woodstock. ’68 for me revolved around Robert Kennedy and Humphrey running for President. For me, btw, the golden heart of the Sixties was a year earlier than that — the Summer of Love. That was the first year I remember listening to pop radio with a fierce intensity, trying to absorb everything going on. The year I first remember hippies. By 1969 it was all riots and fear, for me (I grant you Watts was in 65, and the fear of riots ran all through those summers — this is just impressions). But the Sixties were about love, and so the year that mattered was the one with Monterey, Janis, the Doors… Totally off the subject, I grant you, but a poem that draws all that out.
There are a number of homage poems in this issue, Nancy Cox delivering the first, “1923 Edition, The Harp Weaver and Other Poems Edna St. Vincent Millay.” I like these poems. This one has a nice line, “See the spine’s title worn off // by the span of a lithe hand…” And it references back not only to Millay, but also to the anonymous person who loved this book, and cherished it. Well done.
William Meyer, Jr. gives us “Yellow Cat Lives: In Remembrance of Robert Frost.” “When I came somewhat forlorn // to the winter woods…” Some poems have a good feel to them, if you know what I mean, a comfortability. We are going somewhere we want to be. This is one of those. Honestly, though, these last two poems bring out a funny little fear I have as a poet, of writing titles that are so long, there won’t be room on the page for the poem itself. (And therefore the editor will reject them). Obviously foolish, as evidenced by these two poems and countless others, but a little nervous tic in my writer’s soul all the same.
George Held tries his hand at a Dickinsonian poem, “I Know My Life Is Wasted.” Poetry Society of America sponsors a poetry contest for poems inspired by Dickinson, which this would have been good for — maybe the poet has others he can try. Or you, dear reader, could check the contest out as well. This was good stuff, though. “I know my life is wasted // amid the tyrant days…”
It’s getting late, so the last poem I will mention was my favorite in the issue, “Hell,” by Joseph Voth. Doubtless the fact that it is an amusing poem biased me in its favor. “At least one high school English teacher // is there, or will be…” Working in Williams’ Red Wheelbarrow for good measure. A delightful work.
Peace in poetry,
P M F Johnson
My eBook of poems, Against The Night, a sweet, rueful look at love in a long marriage, is available on Amazon, and at other fine e-retailers.
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