Green Squall
poems by, Jay Hopler

Review by Mary

Rarely are collection’s titles’ so aptly used. Immediately, we are swept away by an incredible green gust—green, the color of foliation—and dropped in the center of a vivacious garden. We are not even given a moment to push the wind blown hair from our faces before everything surrounding us is once again a buzz:

And the sky!
Nooned with steadfast blue enthusiasm
Of an empty nursery.

Crooked lizards grassed in yellow shade.

The grass was lizarding,
Green and on a rampage.

Shade tenacious in the crook of a bent stem.

Noon. This noon—
Skyed, blue and full of hum, full of bloom.
The grass was lizarding.

It is not often that poems feel as alive as they do in Jay Hopler’s collection, Green Squall, which was selected by Louis Glück in 2005 as the winner of the Yale Younger Poets Prize. The poems emit an exuberance and energy, both shocking and alluring.
Hopler’s poems are intimately bound to the tropical environment of Southern Florida. Despite the abundance of trees, flowers, and birds Hopler’s poetry is not an introspection into nature. His poems are so embedded in this landscape and the landscape in the poem (and the poet) that details like “a pair of African parakeets lands in the backyard” seems as mundane as, say “a car passed by the window.” However, place specifics are few and far between, often all Hopler allows is “in the backyard;’ “the courtyard;” or even more mysteriously “from somewhere deep/Within the squall of all those big/And sloppy blossom/.” He invites his reader to be as familiar with his landscape as he is. This is not the Edenic tropical paradise sought by snowbirds and romanticized or longed for by other cold-climate natives, and Hopler is quick to dispel with this inclination to romanticize his home. The second poem in the collection reads:

There is a black fly drowning in that glass of beer
There is a black fly drowning in that glass of beer.

How can no one notice it,
That black fly?

Black as a zero is useless.
Black as grammar school.

The man with the beer is a fisherman,
Small and gigantic

In his white rubber boots.
How sick we are, the three of us,

Of Paradise.

Whatever notions you had of paradise will not be found here. This is a vibrant place of perpetual unrest—a place where, in a clever twist of formal inventiveness, even nouns are sent into action:

Let spiders suck the light from me
And silk it into corners!

And “verbing” nouns is not the poet’s only trick. Repetition is also often used to surprise the reader:

Father Sunflower, forgive me—. I have been so preoccupied with
my backaches and my headaches,
With my sore back and my headaches and my beat-skipping heart,

The “beat-skipping heart” is an unexpected figurative jump away from the expected pattern. This sort of repetition with variation is threaded throughout the entire book. For instance, the diction, although often unique, is not expansive. The same words pop up again and again—often reworked into a playful pun. It is as though the poet limited himself to only what he could find in his tropical garden.

1
Like fireworks, those wildflowers.
Fireflowers. Wildflowers. The light

Shining out like heat
From their yellow heads—, mind-

Blowing! Their petals, like sparks, falling,
Blowing through the field, setting

The grass on fire—

And a similar thing happens in the title poem when the poet asks “What’s the sugar, Hurricane?” and then “What’s the hurry, sugarcane,” and concludes “This is the sugar./This is the hurry.” The entire collection is studded with this sort of roundabout wordplay, and often seem like a record of the poet’s delight in the discovery of his own word’s acrobatic potential. The recycling of lines and words also enacts the swirling of a tropical storm, and rather than pushing the poems forward, keeps them wrapped up in the present. There is a stasis at the center of all this howling.

Playful inventiveness notwithstanding, the poems in Green Squall are extremely aware of that which has proceeded them in English and American poetry. There are acknowledgements several different techniques and trends that extend from John Donne’s aubades, to the Modernist’s economic use of language. A reader is hard pressed not to hear Walt Whitman’s “I sing the body electric” in the line “a pounce of sky electric.” And there is a touch of Frank O’Hara’s whimsy in “How delightful it would be to lie in bed and think of nothing/But how cool the sheets are and how hot it must be outdoors.”

And yet always stirring beneath these poems that pop like mini-fireworks is the sense they, despite their enthusiasm, are uncomfortable with their own huzzah. Like fireworks their exuberance is only fleeting, and one is correct in sensing an extreme isolation in these pages. The list in “Firecracker Catalogue” is a colorful innocuous burst of ebullience right up to the final line: “Blessèd Family Firebomb”—the joyous display ends here.
Never boring, and never stuck too long in devastation or elation, Green Squall is a mini-storm of its own creation, and I am eager to be swept away by it again.

We cannot love the world as it is,
Because the world, as it is, is impossible to love.

We have only to lust for it—
To lust for each other in it—

And, somehow, to make that suffice.

Francis Ponge

Francis Ponge: Selected Poems, Edited by Margaret Guiton, Translated by Margaret Guiton, John Montague, and C.K. Williams.

Francis Ponge’s prose poems can be as difficult or as easy as you want to make them. They are simple to read, but seem to have almost inexhaustible depth. The depth is not metaphorical, but instead literally like digging in the dirt – Ponge digs down into the history of objects and finds associative potential. Things are based in other things and humans, who usually ask things to stand in for their inner life through metaphor, are along for the ride. Humans do not rule the roost, they are objects just like rocks or water.

Take The Suitcase. In the poem, Ponge starts “My suitcase accompanies me to the Vanoise mountains,” and in typical metaphorical poetry, you would immediately expect a description of the mountains and the journey up to the height and that both descriptions would quickly stand in for the mood and mental state of the poet. However, for Ponge, the suitcase becomes the wonder, “its nickelplate shines and its thick leather exhales.” And again the expectation is that the breathing and shining should apply to us, but again Ponge shifts, “I caress its back, its neckline and flat surface.” Ponge threads a chain of associations -- a suitcase that is also a horse that is also a book that is also a chest -- all things that take us and carry us places. The objects are what matter to Ponge.

There is a great deal of object talk going on in Ponge’s poetry. For instance, in speaking of past, he wants the “past, not as memory or idea, but as matter,” echoing William Carlos William’s “No ideas but in things.” You might expect Ponge to throw his book away and just pick up a pile of dirt if he wants history. This is where Ponge might be different from someone like Williams. To Williams, metaphor attempts “reconcile the people and the rocks” while Ponge seems to find that idea wishful thinking. He’d rather avoid turning objects into people and just observe both people and objects side by side, both in their mutual totality, both potentially acting on it other but with their secular distance maintained.

Ponge’s focus is how we describe objects and how those descriptions act to keep us from the very objects we describe. For Ponge, a poem is a trap – the thing we most want to know (the object) is alienated from us by our acts of intellection, by our words. At their heart, Ponge’s poems start with a simple premise – basically that we should return to objects in our dealing with the world, we should let objects speak about us instead speaking about objects. For instance, most of the time in poetry, we move from the human theater (our emotions, experiences, situations) into passages of description that use objects as metaphors for us. Ponge addresses a world that exists with us, alongside us, and joins us in our own creation.

When I heard that Ponge's work was the darling of philosophers like Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Jean Paul Sarte, and Jacques Derrida, I was scared at first that Ponge’s poems would just be impossible, overly rhetorical and more focused on clever arguments than the lyric passages. Surely, Ponge must be out of my league.

However, I should have known better because, like for Merleau-Ponty and Derrida, what is at stake in Ponge is how we view and write about objects and how those objects act on us. A love and admiration of objects is the stuff of poetry, and it does not necessarily follow that a person with a clear philosophical outlook on objects must also be full of rhetoric.

Don’t get me wrong, you’ll find dry arguments in Ponge, but you will also find clear eyed, shocking, and revelatory passages – how can I feel anything but impressed by a person that sees a stack of coal and notices the pile has “the same noble timidity as stars.” I’ve tried to account for coal, but never noticed the matte but luminous glint the lumps have when they hit the light.

In the poem, Earth, Ponge exclaims, using the fullness of a pun, “If speaking of earth like this makes me a miner poet, an earth tiller, that’s what I want to be!” In my mind, Ponge is a miner and there is much to admire in his digging.

Kim Addonizio

WHAT IS THIS THING CALLED LOVE
Poems by Kim Addonizio

I can’t get over “What is This Thing Called Love.” It’s the first thing I want to read when I get up, and the last thing I want to read before I fall asleep. Frequently, and much to my delight, it stays with me in my bed all night. And not since Lunch Poems have I, so dearly, reveled in knowing that a glossy paperback is in a pocket of my purse.

Addonizio’s poems are sexy, that’s clear. So often are you faced with the flesh and raw human form, even the least demure will turn and blush.

I am going to let him stretch out on my bed
so I can take the heavy richness of him in
and in, I am going to have it back the only way I can.

But Addonizio’s poems are sexy and alluring for more than their content. She skillfully slides her reader through long sinuous sentences that mount with detail and weave through personal history and memories. She creates an incredible and unique suspense. These are poems with pulses. They beat in time and also quiver.

Certainly, the tempo—not surprising for a blues lover, a poet who claims that in an alternate universe she would have been an “old black man sitting on the porch playing blues harmonica all day long” and has a poem titled Blues for Robert Johnson—is one of the poems’ most carefully crafted elements. It would be impossible to hurry through one of her poems, the way it is impossible to hurry through singing the blues.

The book, which is divided into five sections, works hard to answer the question posed in its title. Addonizio explores the strange quietness and wildness of this all-consuming emotion as it applies to (just naming a few) romantic love, love of friends, country, parents, self, children, travel, politics, and siblings.

One of the greatest delights of this book is its range of provocations. From acknowledging the ease with which she’ll harm her lover to the eerie desire for scenes of dead girls in film, to why the word “Fuck” is clearly a topic most unsuited for poetry, there seem few topics she won’t touch. And although the over all tone packs and punch—there’s no doubt Ms. Kim is one tough cookie—there are times when the speaker seems less confident, less certain of how to maneuver through this thing called love. These are the poems that stand out.

My absolute favorite poem in the book is Dear Reader. I love it for the dinner of cookies and vodka, and for the shattering glass outside, for its unabashed astonishment, and because it reminds me that even when you’re all alone love is still there to torment and comfort.

.....................................................................................

Addonizio, Kim. What is this Thing Called Love. New York, New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. 2004.

Author’s website: www.kimaddonizio.com