Wednesday, August 31, 2005
These are the living
This, from the poem "4A, Brooklyn" in The Stone of Language:
Why is she here, this street, this number,Passionately human poems of encounter with the psyches and textures of city life in the modern world, and of life in the greater world. Throughout Achtenberg's poetry runs a stubborn insistence on telling the truth, no matter how terrible. From the poem "Questions of War" (subtitled "1991"):
between seagulls and the roar of trash?
How far can she pedal, can she run,
before her breath, extinguished, rises
to her throat and will not go down
to the cave where it flowers?
What marked the spot, built her into
the brick, another piece that fit,
arm caught in a slot,
leg caught behind her, always
stepping back, the perfect dance
away from the ledge?
This time is all surgical, BaghdadWith a quiet lyrical intensity, Anya Achtenberg's poem draw out and illuminate the essential experience of what it is to be a human being trying to know deeply, and be known by, other human beings, an other and others, through the frantic and explosive interference of late 20th and early 21st century life.
is a hotel room with two or three frightened voices
whispering in Standard American English
what they hear through the floor,
what they see through the window.
There is no tall uniform blowing the brains out
of a thin Vietnamese peasant
who kneels on the screen until he flies away
from the bursting stream of his brains,
there is no screaming mother running
with her burnt and burning child in her arms
away from the village which is renamed napalm.
(From the poem "Elegy.")
We are lying together and you are
the one who is searching inside me,
you are the one I am eating and drinking,
the one whose hands hold me up,
whose breath keeps me alive,
whose body works against me until it loses its fury,
whose throat lies in honey,
whose limbs are sculpted in the journey,
whose aching forehead falls into song only once
or twice, then into fever,
then into the ancient cave of shadow.
The early 1980's in Minneapolis was a thriving place for poetry, particularly for poetry written from a politically conscious outlook. Among the remarkable poets and writers and publishers who lived and passed through here during those years (some of whom still live here) were Anya Achtenberg, Ruben Medina, Teresa Anderson, Roy McBride, Kevin O'Rourke, Ivory Giles; Jim Dochniak (poet, and publisher of Sez Magazine and Shadow Press); Meridel LeSueur, Tom McGrath, Timothy Young; John Crawford (publisher of West End Press), Kevin Fitzpatrick (poet and publisher of Lake Street Review), poet Bob Edwards who a few years later would begin publishing the great poetry magazine Pemmican; Jim Perlman (publisher of Holy Cow! Press), Dale Jacobson coming down periodically from East Grand Forks; Mike Hazard who was starting to produce and distribute videos about poets through his Center for International Education; Johnny Hazard, publishing his free handout 'zine of lethal political satire and commentary, the Heathen Science Monitor...
Among the highlights of those years was the annual Great Midwest Bookshow, a lively and audacious gathering of poets and writers and small press publishers, from the midwest and anywhere else they made the trek from. (I specifically recall Place of Herons Press from Texas, Copper Canyon Press from Port Townsend, Washington -- in those days they were still essentially a "small" press -- and a consortium of small press publishers from Maine. Among the featured poets reading at the first Bookshow I attended (in 1982) were Carolyn Forche (shortly after publication of The Country Between Us), Sharon Doubiago (shortly before publication of her epic poem Hard Country by West End Press, and Tom McGrath (McGrath and Doubiago did a reading together on the third day of the Bookshow). There was also a good panel discussion on People's Culture featuring (among others) Jim Dochniak, Fred Whitehead, and Meridel LeSueur as panelists.
It was during those times and in this place that I first met Anya Achtenberg and read, and heard, her poetry. From the poem "the women" in her first book, I Know What the Small Girl Knew (published 1983 by Holy Cow! Press, and still listed available in the publisher's backlist):
the women who bear children aloneThe poem, written in three parts, shifts direction in the second section:
the women who were never children
the women alone at the bus stop
the women on the night shift
the women pulled into cars
the women who die in childbirth
the women whose children die
the women who listen to sirens
the women who wait at windows
the women with men in prison
the women who must hide [...]
the women in the suburbsShifting again in the third section toward a living and defiant conclusion:
the women in the sauna
the women at the salon
the women at the spa
the women are swimming
the women are tanning
the women playing tennis
the women [...]
the women who are not slavesI like to spend time with books of poems. With the best ones, the books and the poems that reach me the most profoundly, that speak with the greatest truth and clarity about the beauty and sorrow and tenderness and struggle of life in the real world, I'll carry the books with me, day after day, week after week, reading slowly, letting the poems work on me, letting them grow within me and shape the world around me. Much of the greatest poetry works best taken slowly, even when the message is urgent and compelling. After I started reading The Stone of Language last year, I carried the book with me for months.
the women who led slaves to freedom [...]
the women who fight in the river
the women who do not serve
the women who can speak
the women who can love
O! the women
I run after,(From the poem " 'They are there, their song is there' " in The Stone of Language.)
shouting whispering or singing.
I can never tell it
at the university or office,
but in the middle of long nights,
in my dreams of the carnival,
the breathless meals of lips and flesh,
the chase and the final death,
the prophecies that plague me,
they are there, their song is there.
In my empty palms
they twist around my lifeline, my heartline,
through the numbers of my marriages and children,
and in the dry empty space where my pulse beats,
volcanic, under threats of fire, flood, avalanche
and ferocious winds that keep the earth turning.
--that is a quality in a poet I can't live without.
As always, infirmative and enjoyable essay.
and i like that quality--I tend to enjoy the poets who have it.
I came in search of some links to journals that cater to "political" poems - a request from a friend - and stayed awhile to enjoy your thoughts & reviews.
Did you notice how very similar in pattern and topic and diction the excepts by the poet Anna (sorry didn't remember her last name) are to Judy Grahn's, "A Woman Is Talking To Death"? I did.