Review of Mansion of Memory, poems by Helen Losse

Mansion of Memory, poems by Helen Losse. Rank Stranger Press, 2012. $11

This is an expanded (by about a third) and reissued chapbook of poems, the proceeds of which will go to the Joplin Bright Futures Tornado Recovery program. As Losse, explains in the preface, the tornado hit her hometown in May, 2011. The ‘mansion of memory’, Losse’s mother’s house, was spared, but a great deal of damage was done to much of Joplin. The poems are set in Joplin, and, in Losse’s words, “showcase a few of the reasons Joplin is worth rebuilding.”

Losse begins with a brief poem, “Before Definition,” which paints a vivid portrait of a young girl bathing, “I love to twirl my wash cloth,//make it slow-dance/across deep, soapy water, content in/the claw-footed tub, my mother singing.” (lines 2-6). Losse’s language is clear and purposeful. The memories she shares are compelling. “At Roaring River” describes a pastoral scene of a trout hatchery, a still pond, “yet there are/ripples beneath lily pads,/and all the better, if one views them/with the kind of eyes that find the genuine/in the mythic” (1-5). Likewise, there is a mythic quality in the genuineness of Losse’s language and scenes, and there are ripples beneath the surface which betray deeper meaning than simple scenes of the natural world.

One of my favorite poems is “The Cabin,” which describes a family vacation cabin. Losse begins with a description of their boat, kept “in the gully/between the Cabin/and the crude outhouse” (1-3). She continues, “Likely the heavy green boat was/worthless, except to us. Someone/stole it, anyhow.” (6-8). Losse explains that her father built it and named it after the kids; “I wonder if the thief loved that boar/as much as we did.” (15-16). It’s a subtle admonishment. She describes Fourth of July firecrackers and childhood memories. She concludes by jumping into the future, after someone has burned the Cabin down. “I wonder why some fool thought/a mere stranger could destroy/the Cabin/by setting it ablaze.” (page 2, 12-15). The poem becomes a portrait of the inhumanities of strangers, and yet, the purity of treasured memories survives. A similar theme is explored in “The Trouble Behind Us Is a House,” which is a lament against humanity encroaching on nature. In section 2, she lays it out, “The house behind us seems too close,” (1). The memories Losse holds remain, though the changes of the present push these memories further and further away from reality.

There’s something immensely appealing about a poet whose name evokes 'Loss'. But her poems are the antithesis of maudlin. Losse has captured a wonderful memory book of growing up in Joplin. There is, of course, horror right outside the door, but the little girl in these poems is mostly unaware. She’s too concerned with the flowers that grow on the railroad track, the beauty of the world, as children should be. Losse’s poems are intimate and accessible, but profound and full of hidden depths. I’ve enjoyed her full-length collections (Seriously Dangerous and Better with Friends) and I’m pleased as punch to have a chance to see this expanded chapbook – which frankly resonates with the life of a full-length collection.

-Reviewed by CL Bledsoe

Review of Howie Good's Pornocopia

Pornocopia, poems by Howie Good. Gold Wake Press, 2011.

Good sets the tone for this collection with a contradiction in the title poem,

It’s fashionable
to die young
and be pessimistic.

I myself prefer
a Vicodin
to the present,

until later,
when we’re anointing
the bed,

your breasts
floating above me

like the pink and green sunsets

found only
in Ireland.

He acknowledges the nihilism prevalent in modern arts, while simultaneously mocking it with the subtle opening line, but he goes on to dispel the veracity of this nihilism with two images of beauty and life. The present is unbearable, but in the future, when sex and intimacy happen, life will be wonderful. It’s the absence of this that seems to make the narrator’s life unbearable in the present. In a vulgar sense, it’s almost as though he’s advising these ‘fashionable’ nihilists to get out and get laid.

In “The Fires of Evening,” Good continues the themes of sex and beauty, “I like how your legs/wrap around me/like the last beautiful evening,” (lines 1-3). There’s a sense of tension in this scene because of the idea of it being ‘the last…evening’; perhaps part of the power of the experience comes from this inevitable end. “The Kiss” is a kind of haiku:

Your tongue, a rising storm,
finds me. I wish I were a tree
so my branches could shake.

Good’s language is vivid and sexy, visceral and natural. His is a world in ruins, at times, difficult and troubled, but resounding with animal beauty. In section 3 of “What Love is This,” Good’s narrator states, “…when I fill you, you’re Atlanta, smoldering and in ruins, and I’m a cart loaded with the groaning wounded, we’re twelve grains of gunpowder floating mightily through the air, a new kind of pearl-handled combustion, and the only patch of snow to endure to evening on our quiet street.” There is something of a lost world, in this. The implication is of Atlanta invaded by the Union forces, something beautiful and doomed in a terrible world; that beauty is fleeting like the patch of snow.

Howie Good is an incredibly prolific poet, writer, and publisher. He’s a solid presence in the writing world, and this collection reinforces why that is so. He’s a talented poet cementing a place for himself. It’s always a treat to see Good’s work in journals because of his playful sensibilities, his powerful grasp of language, and his strong visuals. We’re lucky to have him.

-Reviewed by CL Bledsoe

Review of Shannon McKeehen's Barbra in Shadow.

Barbra in Shadow, poems by Shannon McKeehen.

McKeehen begins with a quote from the film Double Indemnity, and then a found poem pastiche from the films Double Indemnity; The Maltese Falcon; Murder, My Sweet; and Out of the Past. Right away, McKeehen establishes a playful tone harkening back to the tough Noir language and tense relationships of these films, but also critiquing their chauvinist mentality in a tongue-in-cheek way. Several images reoccur: ‘the other woman’, scenes of murder and betrayal, relationships gone awry because of poor communication, “The book on the shelf is hollowed/ out to accommodate a pistol” (lines 1-2) she states in one poem, and one could easily imagine that it is this book, and the ‘pistol’ is contained within these poems.

McKeehen’s poems are untitled, so that they imply sections in an ongoing series chronicling a failing relationship. McKeehen’s poems are visceral, tough: “My dear phantom,” one begins, “there is fire/where my skin/should be sleeping./I swallow; there’s burning.” (1-5). The narrator is ‘haunted’ by memories. “My dear phantom,” she states, later, “the skin remembers/ what is missing,/ a life amputated,/dreams outlined in chalk.” (l9-23). There is loss, anger, and deep regret in these lines.

The narrator of these poems is disillusioned, desperate for love and meaningful interaction. “Maybe you never cared about me…but I still tried” she says in one poem (11-13). She tries to make sense of this world ‘in shadow’ in which the truth of things is never fully revealed. “Does anyone call a random number/ just to have someone to talk to?” (23-24) She asks in another, nakedly honest.

McKeehen manages to create a powerful, layered portrait of ‘Barbra’ in this collection. The Noir conceit is refreshing and clever. She handles it well, without slipping into the realm of cliché. McKeehen is adept at reigning in what could be melodramatic moments while remaining true to the world of these films, and yet, these poems feel real and not contrived. It's a strong collection that resonates well beyond the page.

-Reviewed by CL Bledsoe