above/ground press, 2020
The epigraph: “Start with a baseball diamond high / In
the Runcible Mountain wilderness” from Jack Spicer’s Book of Magazine Verse provides the clearest entry and touchstone —
though not without its accompanying mystery and wonder — into this playful and deceptively
astute poetry chapbook, which I believe (while not directly stated) is a genial
homage to Jack.
rob’s chapbook title becomes an obvious reference to
Jack’s own, with this difference: Jack wrote his poems for magazines he knew
would never publish them, whereas rob has been fortunate enough to find homes
for a portion of his, the remainder being (like Jack’s) persona non grata. What else? The epigraph comes from the “Seven
Poems for the Vancouver Festival” section. rob compiled his chapbook for his
reading in Vancouver, at SFU, high atop Burnaby Mountain. Jack gave lectures at
SFU in the 1960’s. Both writers are practitioners of the “open field” style of
writing, following Edward Dahlberg’s (via Charles Olson’s manifesto, Projective Verse) dictum that “one
perception must immediately and directly lead to a further perception,” as well
as the use of space and silence, and particular attention paid to the object-in-and-of-itself as a means of
allowing the reader to enter the workings of the poem, be part of the process,
in order to be an active participant in the creation of meaning. “Get rid of
the lyrical interference of the individual as ego, of the ‘subject’ and the
‘soul,’ for we are all objects,” writes Olson. “Keep all of yourself that is
possible out of the poem,” says Spicer. Olson further argues against a lazy
reliance on simile and description, which can drain a poem of energy.
In this collection, and indeed, in all of rob’s work,
he pursues these literary notions with his own sense of curiosity, whimsy, and
humour, focusing on everyday objects and actions, in order to create landscapes
that an inquisitive and open-minded reader might step into and explore. And
what mystery and wonder is waiting?
Echoing Jack’s, “Start with a baseball diamond high /
In the Runcible Mountain wilderness,” rob writes in “Four Poems for Emmanuel
Hocquard”: “A word at the heart of it, Runcible Valley deep.” Being a west
coast lad — once-upon-a-time-&-long-ago
— myself, I can declare unequivocally that there is neither a Runcible Mountain
nor a Runcible Valley near Vancouver, or anywhere else. The term ‘runcible’ is
a nonsense word created by the humourist Edward Lear in reference to a number
of different objects, the most popular being a spoon with serrated edges around
the bowl, what we today might refer to as a ‘spork.’ Yet, for Lear, the word’s
definition is high, wide, deep and open to interpretation, much like many or
most words (or poems), which are often dependent upon context, meaning: what
exactly is a Runcible Mountain or Valley? What does it look like? Where is it
situated? What is it composed of? How much does it weigh? Where does it go at
night to enjoy a good time?
Nothing is explained.
In “Four Poems for Kathleen Fraser,” we read: “Echo,
across / these crystalline structures. Poem // as carved diamond.” SFU can be readily
regarded as a diamond in the rough, being an institution of higher learning
sitting high atop a mountain surrounded by trees, shrubbery, rocks, biting
insects, and wildlife. Of course, as a university offering a sports program, it
also contains a baseball diamond, from which (as Jack writes), the city is
built “backwards from each baseline.” Here is that mix of wilderness and
civilization that acts to initiate the forces of creation and [inevitably]
destruction; the putting together, tearing apart, and investigating [investing]
of a poem. Speaking of which, in “Four poems for Kathleen Fraser” there are
only three poems, not four. What the hell is up with that? What does it mean? Why
is it missing? Does it have anything to do with the fact that her last name is
Fraser, a river that flows through Vancouver? Or was it a simple matter of a mistake in production or a computer glitch?
Jack tells us to start with a baseball diamond. rob
starts his “Four Poems for Parentheses”
with: “I shall begin with slush, and the bone cold prominence / of icy
blacktop.” Can we make the rather cheap theatrical leap that ‘ice’ is street
parlance for ‘diamonds’? Well, why not? At least we can make the quick
connection and see where it leads, if anywhere. I think this is what I
appreciate and enjoy most in rob’s writing: the way his mind wanders, picks up,
and deposits images in a manner that invites examination (wasn’t it Socrates
who noted that the unexamined life is not worth living?). The ‘I’ here is observant
and largely impersonal; undefined, undescribed, anonymous, and ambiguous,
another pronoun among pronouns. The opening lines suggest winter or at least a
wintry somewhere. We come across: “An
Alta Vista flock” whereupon we’re given a two-line break in which to ponder,
Alta Vista sounding very ‘California’ or ‘Mexico’ to me, ‘alta’ meaning high in
Spanish, ‘vista’ meaning view — bringing us back to that goddamn runcible
mountain, yes? — though these places don’t fit with the icy profile. Of course,
later in the poem rob talks of “Barcelonian tides,” the inclusion of which only
becomes apparent if one is privy to the fact that the magazine Parentheses [listed in the
Acknowledgement page, so not really a stretch] is situated in Barcelona, and,
hence, Spanish. Cute. Also learn [now checking the back cover of the chapbook]
that it was published at 2423 Alta Vista Drive, in Ottawa. So, another mystery
solved.
Meanwhile, ‘the flock’ (a term generally suggestive of
groups of birds or sheep) turns out to be a line “of stopped, stalled cars.”
Things are obviously a bit of a mess, weather-wise, traffic-wise, meaning-wise.
Through a bureaucratic document we learn that school
has been closed due to the weather conditions, and that buses are cancelled.
The poem postulates: “A more / prosaic field. Having fallen from the sky,” Does
this refer to the document? The unfortunate news? The snow? The nasty weather
conditions in general, or? Allowing another two-line break for the reader to
consider the possibilities, rob shifts gears and moves from the prosaic to the
poetic [and the whimsical], juxtaposing “Having fallen from the sky,” with
“remaining children skate haiku / over playground inclines: one line, / one
line, // stop.”
Lovely, and gently funny: remaining children having
fallen from the sky.
In “Four Poems for Lunch Poems at SFU” rob gives
further tips-of-the-hat to: “Sly Bowering, who referenced / Vancouver the
home,” and to “Keats’s metred beats,” and again to “Spicer: the source
// of the chill.” Spicer, long gone, who flickers and burns, appears and
disappears, a low-ghost, throughout the text(s). Also references to Rita Wong,
Dionne Brand, Fred Wah…a clear sign that the poet reads other poets, has
studied the history and craft of poetry, and is not afraid to admit it, in
fact, to celebrate it; someone who is comfortable in the skin of poetry.
Of course, this is just my opinion, my take, bringing
my baggage to bear on a text that, thanks to rob’s skill and self-assuredness,
leaves itself open to approach and interpretation. J Michael Yates (one of a
handful of hell-raising, experimental, west coast poets, recently dead) wrote:
“Ideally, fifteen intelligent readers will make fifteen different (and fifteen
equally justifiable) poems from a poem I have written.” An optimistic and
generous proposition.
I don’t claim to be particularly intelligent, only relatively
curious. Close enough [I hope] for horseshoes and hand grenades. We try our
best — You are going south looking for a
drinking fountain / I am going north looking for the source of the chill in my
bones.
Poems for Lunch Poems at SFU, a fun, evocative
read, and a trip definitely worth taking.
Stan Rogal's natural habitat
is the wilds of Toronto where he exists mainly on a diet of roots, berries and
red wine. His work has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies
throughout the known (and lesser known) world. He is the author of 26 books,
the most recent being a novel, titled The Comic (Guernica Editions), not
so funny given its arrival coincides with the "Age of Isolation and
Physical Distancing," a Kafka-esque sort of humour.