12
May
19

Introduction for Allan Peterson Reading

A version of this review (and a better edited version) may appear in a future issue of Redactions: Poetry & Poetics.

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From Introduction to Allan Peterson’s Reading

at The University of Southern Mississippi on Friday, April 26, 2019

Allan Peterson This Luminous: New and Selected PoemsThe first time I encountered Allan Peterson was early in my first semester at The University of Southern Mississippi in August 2012, where I was beginning the doctorate program for creative writing. I barely knew anyone yet, but I knew there was a poetry reading and I went to it. And there was Allan Peterson. I would like to give you an impression of me hearing Peterson for the first time. [jaw drops. eyes pop out of face. uses index finger to close jaw.] As that happened, I thought, “Who is this guy? Why don’t I know about him? I’ve missed so much. So many of these uniquely detailed images.” Here is an example: “trains threw oars of light from their windows. / In endless black you could see them rowing through Kansas.” The image is so original. It’s like someone who sees the world without the lens of language getting in the way. In other words, he sees things fresh, inimitable. Here’s another: “The ocean seems endless when two dolphins divide it. / Epistemology follows.”  The image alone is breathless, but that turn on the line break to “Epistemology follows.” I was knocked out by how he could mix an image with a philosophical abstraction. I love these leaping and seemingly inconceivable connections. I was hooked right then and there.

But I continued to listen to his reading. I listened to how, as W.B. Yeats said of a good poem, his poems “click shut like a well-made box.” And I imagine Mary Poppins listening to him, and thinking “My supercalifragilisticexpialidocious ain’t got nothing on him,” because he uses words that I’ve never heard before, but they are so fun to read and say, like “cotyledons,” which is an embryonic leaf in a seed-bearing light; or “coelenterates,” which is an aquatic invertebrate animal; or “carnelian,” a shade of red; or “alizarin,” a dye used to make a shade of red. The last two words are probably familiar to artists, and Peterson is also a visual artist, which is probably why he sees the world so uniquely. Or as the critic Stephanie Burt says (and if Stephanie Burt is writing about your poetry, you must be doing something amazing), “No other poet [. . .] focuses so fully on the inward effects of apparently inconsequential observations; no other poet makes them speak so well. [. . .] Peterson almost never describes scenes literally and at length; poets who do so can lose a lopsided contest against the resources of visual art, as Peterson must know [. . .]. Instead, Peterson uses what he sees as a starting point for effects of inwardness, of ratiocination, above all of analogy.”

I feel I could go on and on, but I won’t. I’ll just say two more things. First, Peterson is the author of six full-length books of poetry, most recently: This Luminous: New and Selected Poems (Panhandler Books, 2019); Precarious (42 Miles Press, 2014), which was a finalist for The Lascaux Prize and chosen as one of the four best books of poetry in 2014 by The Chicago Tribune; my personal favorite, Fragile Acts (McSweeney’s Poetry Series, 2012), which was a finalist for both the National Book Critics Circle Award and the Oregon Book Award; and Susceptible (forthcoming from Salmon Press in 2020). And he is the author of eight chapbooks, most recently: Other Than They Seem (Tupelo Press, 2014), which won the Snowbound Chapbook Prize; and Omnivore (Bateau Press, 2009), which won the Third Annual Boom Chapbook Prize. He has also received fellowships from the National Endowments for the Arts and from The State of Florida.

The last thing I would like to say is: Tonight, listen with your eyes.

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Works Cited

“About.” Allan Peterson, www.allanpeterson.net. Accessed 17 Apr. 2019.

Burt, Stephanie. “In the Details: Looking Closely with Allan Peterson.” Boston Review, 1 July 2011, bostonreview.net/poetry/stephen-burt-allan-peterson-as-much-as. Accessed 17 Apr. 2019.

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12
Mar
19

On Keetje Kuipers’ All Its Charms

A version of this review (and a better edited version) may appear in a future issue of Redactions: Poetry & Poetics.

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Keetje Kuipers All Its CharmsAll Its Charms (BOA Editions, 2019) is Keetje Kuipers’ third full-length collection of poems. There is much to admire in this book, but what catches most of my attention are the steady, evolving tones paralleling a woman becoming a mother.

The book begins with poems of a speaker confronted with the morality of killing creatures. The opening poem, “Becoming,” recalls William Stafford’s “Traveling Through the Dark,” where Stafford has to decide what to do with the dead pregnant doe with a living fawn inside her. Stafford “thought hard for all of us – my only swerving –, / then pushed her over the edge into the river.” Kuipers’ similar incident is “When I saw that early spring / meadowlark – one-winged, flapping into the road – / I pressed my heal to its chest, to the earth” (9). She, like Stafford, provides mercy. In the following poem, “Landscape with Sage and the Names of My Children,” she held a “dead / buck by his antlers and dragged him through the sage” (10). In the next poem, “The elk my father shot,” she witnesses her father’s respect for an elk he just shot with a bow and arrow, as he is “quiet / so as not to scare away the grazing // ghost he’s made” (11). The tone of these opening poems is one of conflicted compassion. A tone not dissimilar to Stafford’s thinking “hard for all of us.”

After these opening poems, the tone shifts to joy, reverence, and awe. What’s remarkable is how long Kuipers sustains the tone, which is for about half the book. And this tone is inspired by a pregnant mother awaiting her new life and trying to create the joyful atmosphere for her soon-to-arrive child. The tone affects the poems’ attitude and me, as I felt uplifted. In “Migration Instinct,” she compares her earlier life of a late-night partier and a careless spender who maxes out her credit card to her present life. The joyful tone asserts itself in the final lines (which is where it often happens), when she writes of her current situation:

     But I’ve got dishes to wash, tiny sock after sock
     to fold. Sadness is so much work. Angry takes too much 

     time. And there’s my own daughter, mouth to my breast
     as she winks in the lamplight, sucking it all right out me.   (23)

After reminiscing, she is faced with chores, but then is swept away in the adorable cuteness of baby socks, and pendulums back to her youthful, unfulfilling feelings, then swings back to a winking baby enabling her to experience a new type of love. She finds hope and awe, as if she has blossomed into a new and meaningful life.

This delightful tone continues into the second half of the book, too, but on occasion, it is interrupted by the worries a mother (I assume) tends to have. The tonal demarcation isn’t clear cut, but it starts somewhere around the poem “Outside the Refugium.” In this poem, Kuipers watches a magpie eat a dead sparrow and swallow its heart. Then the magpie speaks to her, “Yes, the world has always been this fragile” (37), before the worry of protecting and caring for a child sets in. In the following poem, “Picking Huckleberries as the World Ends,” she worries about how she’ll “shelter” her child. Following that in “Landscape with Children,” she thinks to herself about her child:

                                          Your absence
     is impossible, unimaginable. 

     You can’t ever be gone from me – a prayer
     I hold under my tongue like a dark pill 

     I’m afraid to swallow.   (39)

I start to see what I think is the evolution of a mother. A single mother who had a baby via sperm donation and who is alone in the world with her child amid real and imagined concerns that are presenting themselves to her. Bravely, she learns to negotiate those feelings with a joyful tone, again, such as at the end of “Collaborators”:

                                                          ferries
     we drive our big cars onto because now

     we can go anywhere, ferries that took
     the people from the clear shore of their lives

     to the internment camps on the mainland
     because nothing could be more dangerous

     than living among each other where voices
     unnetted and rising in complaint

     are a flock of birds that can make no better
     song than the one which we sing together.  (52)

She realizes no matter what happens, they will make it, they will survive, and they will make joyful music.

While the tones evolve and oscillate, as they probably should or the book would be too sugary, Kuipers sees the world like a sparrow, whose “head [is] turned to the side / so one black eye can search the stippled sky / in ecstasy,” even as it is being eaten alive by a magpie. She rises out of her past life of soured relationships and experiences, and she finds joy and compassion in her new life as a mother, and therein lies the beauty of the book and all its charms.//

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Kuipers, Keetje. All Its Charms. BOA Editions, 2019.

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07
Mar
19

A List of Metrical Feet All in One Place

I grew tired of having to visit different websites to find various metrical feet. So I’m making this page so they are all in one spot.

I have listed some feet that have either have no stressed syllable or unstressed syllable. Except for pyrrhic and spondee, I think a foot should have one of both, but the history of poetics includes them, so I will too.

I’ll use conventional notation:

/=stressed syllable

u=unstressed syllable

Duple Feet

Notation Name and Notes
u / Iamb. The most common foot in English.
/ u Trochee.
u u Pyrrhic. Can be used as an iamb substitute. Often called a double-iamb because it is usually followed by two stresses. However, some say “double-iamb” should be reserved for back-to-back iambs. See “ionic minor” and “diamb” below.
/ / Spondee. A powerful foot.

Triple Feet

Notation Name and Notes
u u / Anapest. Can be used as an iamb substitute.
/ u u Dactyl.
u / u Amphibrach.
/ u / Amphimacer or cretic. Sometimes referred to as “paeon diagyios.” Can be used as a substitute in anapestic verse.
u / / Bacchius. Can be used as a substitute in anapestic verse.
/ / u Antibacchius
u u u Tribrach. Has no stressed syllable, but is still considered a foot.
/ / / Molossos. Has no unstressed syllable, but is still considered a foot.

Quadruple Feet

Notation Name and Notes
/ u u u First paeon.
u / u u Second paeon.
u u / u Third paeon.
u u u / Fourth paeon.
u / / / First epitrite.
/ u / / Second epitrite.
/ / u / Third epitrite.
/ / / u Fourth epitrite.
u u / / Ionic minor or ionic a minore or double iamb. Can be used as replacement for two iambic feet. See “pryyhic” above.
/ / u u Ionic major or ionic a majore or double trochee.
u / u / Diamb. Though I think it is better labelled as “double iamb,” as it is back-to-back iambs.
u / / u Antispast. An iamb followed by a trochee.
/ u u / Choriamb. A trochee followed by an iamb.
u u u u Proceleus maticus or proceleusmaticus or tetrabrach. Has no stressed syllable, but it is still considered a foot.
/ / / / Dispondee. Has no unstressed syllable, but is still considered a foot.

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18
Feb
19

On Katie Ford’s If You Have to Go

A version of this review (and a better edited version) may appear in a future issue of Redactions: Poetry & Poetics.

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Katie Ford’s fourth collection of poetry (and fourth with Graywolf Press), If You Have to Go, revolves around a break up with her partner of many years. The book consists of four sections, with section “II: The Addresses” comprising the bulk of the poems. In this section, there is a prefatory four-line poem that is followed by 39 sonnet-shaped poems that behave as a crown of sonnets. That is, each poem has three four-line stanzas and a couplet, which occasionally rhymes, and some aspect from the couplet is included in the following sonnet’s opening line. Sometimes the repeated aspect from the couplet is a line or phrase, an altered version of a line or a phrase, or a word from within the couplet. For example, the end of sonnet 34 ends, “Yet, lighting candles – / it’s how I went on,” and sonnet 35 begins, “By candlelight the house went down.” This type of linking not only aids in thematic flow of the section and book, but aids in the associative thinking of the speaker. The direction of thought shifts but with the same repeated aspect. For instance, while sonnets 34 and 35 share images of light and home, sonnet 34 is concerned with whether to burn the home down (where the “home” is also symbol for the writer’s body, as established in the book’s opening poem “In the Hearth”), and what to do with its ashes, but sonnet 35 turns the focus on how to deal with the ghost of the departed husband. This associative linking and thinking are vital as section II is a monologue, and to me, it appears to be an internal monologue of the writer sorting out her new life, or filling in the emptiness of lost love. This internal monologue also at times leads to abstract language, some contorted syntax, and multiple internal voices.

The opening lines of If You Have to Go are, “Of life’s abundant confusions / this does not partake” (“In the Hearth”). This is a perilous start, as the reader has nothing concrete to attach to and the “this” is ambiguous. However, it situates the reader with the abstractions we commonly use when thinking, especially during a break up with a lover. The reader, however, will later learn that “this” refers to all that surrounds her break up and the empty feeling that accompanies it. This abstract language also seemingly conjures past religious poets, like John Donne, who might use phrases like “abundant confusions” or use the word “partake.” The antiquated language of forlornness, however, is contrasted with images from the physical world.

Because of the contrasting languages of the internal and external, the images appear more evocative. Consider the opening of the first sonnet-shaped poem in section II:

     Empty with me, though here I am, I saw
     some soul set my meal with dream, then leave

It’s a challenge to visualize what it is happening at first because there is nothing really concrete. If the first line included “I am” before “Empty,” the reader gets a better sense of what is happening, but still the lines are a bit vague. Though the reader catches on to the fact that the narrator is talking to herself, and she represents herself with both the objective and subjective first-person pronouns, “me” and “I.” She is acted on and acts, to some extent. She “saw / some soul,” but is it a metaphysical soul or a person? And why “some” instead of someone more specific? Perhaps it’s because she’s in deep depression. But then this happens in lines 3-8:

     a gift for me: a ten-toothed comb to rake what’s dead
     from me until the comb’s carved medieval scene 

     where bend two horses, water-consoled,
     adds to me the hope of that number.
     My own comb’s a lime-shined prairie
     with the grass of plastic acres. 

The comb with all of its details brings her out of her internal despair and gives her a form of external hope. A hope she can physically hold on to, and a comb of hope that will accrue more meaning, as it is often referenced throughout section II. The image resolves what the abstract cannot portray.

The point I am trying to get at is risk. Ford risks using antiquated words and syntax, as well as abstraction. These uses are what every creative writing teacher (and composition teacher) tells his or her students not to do. Teachers stress writing in today’s language and with images to engage the reader. Ford’s risks, however, pay off as she fully renders one human’s broken-hearted condition by balancing the inexpressible internal with the sensual external, and as she tries to find stability through a resolvable regularity of abstraction and image. In addition, by bringing in the antiquated language, she speaks to the past and reminds the reader that writing of loss is timeless and universal. In If You Have to Go, Katie Ford creates a language and poetics for vulnerability. //

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Ford, Katie. If You Have to Go. Graywolf Press, 2018.//

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08
Nov
18

Redactions: Poetry & Poetics 2018 Pushcart Nominations

Redactions: Poetry & Poetics has made its nominations for the 2017 Pushcart Prize. In the order of appearance in issue 22 are:

  1. Megan Wildhood’s “Oral History” (page 8).
  2. Bill Tremblay’s “To One Who Fears Cameras” (page 18).
  3. Caleb Tankersley’s “Fish Bones” (page 23).
  4. Kelly Russell Agodon’s “Temporary Cathedral” (page 34)
  5. Lauren Camp’s “Hush, Then” (page 36)
  6. Steve Coughlin’s “The Idea of North” (page 39)

To read these poems, stories, and more, order a copy of issue 21 from here: http://www.etsy.com/shop/redactionspoetry.

You can also read the Pushcart Prize nominated poems here: http://www.redactions.com/pushcart-poems.asp.

31
May
18

Happy Birthday Walt Whitman

Walt WhitmanToday is Walt Whitman’s 199th birthday. Yay!

Redactions will celebrate his 200th next year at this time.

Please send us your poems inspired by or relating to Walt Whitman and/or short essays (1000 words or fewer, preferably around 500) about Walt Whitman, such as his influence on you or what he means to you or an interesting or personal insight about him and his work. When submitting. Please be sure to include “Whitman” in the subject line of the email, as well as in the cover letter.

Deadline is December 31, 2018.

For more information: http://redactions.com/submission-and-ordering.asp

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06
Apr
18

Notes on The New Lyric Poem and the Lyric “You”

Notes on The New Lyric Poem and the Lyric “You”

for the “A Discussion of Current American Poetry” panel

at the 2018 Gulf Coast Association of Creative Writing Teachers Conference

            When I was earning my Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees in English in the 1990s and MFA in the early 2000s, I was taught there were five poetry genres – lyric, narrative, meditative, dramatic, and epic – with the most frequently used genres being lyric and narrative. In this new millennium, I continue to see lyric and narrative poems. However, for a while, it also seemed the narrative poem was the most prevalent genre and there were not many lyric poems. In fact, I thought the lyric poem had essentially disappeared, except in experimental poems. It seemed so rare to me that I devoted an issue of Redactions: Poetry & Poetics to it. In that issue, poets responded to whether they thought the lyric had died or not. Initially, today’s panel discussion was to be about that, but as I more closely examined and researched poems, especially in the recent The Best American Poetry 2017, I realized the lyric hadn’t disappeared. It evolved. In this new millennium, there’s been a change to the lyric poem. The new lyric is more temporally flexible than the lyric poem I learned about, and it now includes a lyric “you” that is replacing the traditional lyric “I.”

For most of the 20th century, from around the 1920s or so until the 1970s, poetry was the lyric. It was the place of the speaking self that used the lyric “I” in a repeatable now moment. It was not outwardly mimetic, but at times was inwardly mimetic, especially in meditative poems, which I consider a sub-genre of the lyric poem, as it is a lyrical but with a focus of religious self-examination. The 20th century lyric poem was lyrical from first line to last line. Its use of the lyric “I” asked the reader to embody the speaker and asked the reader to walk a mile in the speaker’s spiritual and mental shoes. Then in the The Language Book (Poetics of the New)1970s with the arrival of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry, the lyric “I” was dismissed, as L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poets thought it had become too egotistical and that the intervention of the egoed “I” hindered experimentation and the undermining of capitalism through language. The L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poets also shunned the narrative poem for its inability to be innovative and inability to provide a “materialist critique of language” (Harris 808), and because as Steve McCaffery says, narrative is “the paradigm art form of the capitalist system” (Harris 808).

Then writers and L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poets in the LGBTQ+ community reacted that without the “I,” they had no voice. The lack of “I” privileged white cis-heterosexuals. These writers created the New Narrative in response. They claimed the narrative could be political and it was better for telling their stories of sexuality and their bodies. This new narrative was not the traditional narrative, though. It was experimental. It combined “narrative content and innovative form” (Harris 807). For instance, according to Robert Glück, with “‘text-metatext’: a story keeps a running commentary on itself from the present” – so it’s a story told in two times, past and present. Glück adds:

The commentary, taking a form of meditation or a second story, supplies a succession of frames. That is, the more you fragment a story, the more it becomes an example of narration itself – narration displaying its device – while at the same time […] the metatext “asks questions, asks for critical response, makes claims on the reader, elicits comments. In any case, text-metatext takes its form from the dialectical cleft between real life and life as it wants to be.”

From then on until this millennium, the narrative poem appeared to be the dominant genre of poetry. I’m not sure if it is because of the New Narrative movement, but what is happening in the new lyric has some parallels.

Jericho BrownThe new lyric is a hybrid of lyric and narrative, a story told in two times. We are probably all familiar with the poem that starts off in a narrative, turns to lyric as the speaker gains some insight about him/herself, and then returns and concludes in the narrative story. There are other blendings, too. The first one to really catch my attention was Jericho Brown’s “As a Human Being,” winner of the Poetry Society of America’s Lyric Poetry Award in 2017 (https://www.poetrysociety.org/psa/awards/annual/winners/2017/award_5/). Here’s the poem in full:

     As a Human Being

     There is the happiness you have
     And the happiness you deserve.
     They sit apart from one another
     The way you and your mother
     Sat on opposite ends of the sofa
     After an ambulance came to take
     Your father away. Some good
     Doctor will stitch him up, and
     Soon an aunt will arrive to drive
     Your mother to the hospital
     Where she will settle next to him
     Forever, as promised. She holds
     The arm of her seat as if she could
     Fall, as if it is the only sturdy thing,
     And it is since you've done what
     You always wanted. You fought
     Your father and won, marred him.
     He'll have a scar he can see all
     Because of you. And your mother,
     The only woman you ever cried for,
     Must tend to it as a bride tends
     To her vows, forsaking all others
     No matter how sore the injury.
     No matter how sore the injury
     Has left you, you sit understanding
     Yourself as a human being finally
     Free now that nobody's got to love you.
                                                                         [Bold text added for emphasis]

When I first read this, I thought it was a terrific poem, but I didn’t think it was lyric. I wondered why the judge chose such a heavily narrative poem as the winner. The poem begins in lyric, though with a lyric “you” (which I’ll expand on in a moment), but from line 3 to 23, which is the vast majority of the poem, it is narrative. The poem moves forward with the narrative expectation of what will happen next. It then concludes in the last four lines in a type of lyric epiphany. The poem seems aware of this, too. As the first two lines are one lyrical sentence, and the last four lines are one lyrical sentence. By yoking the two genres together, the speaker reveals his inner experiences in those lyrical lines, while the outer story-telling provides an emotional context for his inner experiences and epiphany. The poem grafts an inner and outer mimesis, as it blurs the lines of time and mimesis. It is a poem that exists in the narrative past and lyrical now, as well as the mimetic outer world and mimetic inner world.

Terrance HayesThe new lyric’s poem blend of narrative and lyric and the blend of moving through time with moments of timelessness, manifests in other ways, too, such as in the new poetic form pecha kucha. Over the last few years, the pecha kucha quickly became a popular new poetic form. The pecha kucha is a form poem developed by Terrance Hayes, and it is based on a PowerPoint “presentation format [that] was devised by Astrid Klein and Mark Dytham” (“Frequently Asked Questions”). The poem has a title, is followed by 20 four- to five-line poems, and each has its own title. Each little poem parallels a PowerPoint slide, and each little poem is also expected to take about 20 seconds to read. The little poems tend to be lyrical, but the overall thrust of the poem as a whole is narrative, as underlying each lyrical moment is a subtext story (a type of text-metatext) pushing the poem forward. The fragments make a whole and the appearance of moving through time.

Another way the new lyric poem manifests is similar to Glück’s fragmented story. In Joyce Carol Oates’ poem “To Marlon Brando in Hell,” which appears in The Best American Poetry 2017, there are a series of anaphoric lines that begin with “Because,” and each line is end stopped with a period. Each line is a lyric moment, but the accumulation of lyric lines sketches a narrative story of Brando and his sexual harassments. It too blurs the lines of temporality, as it exists in lyrical now moments but also moves through time. While it often uses the second-person “you,” it’s an accusative “you” pointed at Brando. Oates’ “you,” which addresses another person, is not the same as the new lyrical “you” that I mentioned earlier and that appears in Brown’s poem.

The new lyrical “you” references the speaker of the poem, as if bending second-person into first person. Brown’s poem, as noted, uses “you” instead of “I.” I’ve been noticing this use of “you” replacing the traditional lyrical “I” in poetry over the last few years. At first, I was confused, because as I tell my composition students, “Don’t use ‘you’ in your essay, as it is presumptuous, as you, the student, are assuming what I, the reader, am feeling or knowing.” Still I wondered why so many poets were using “you,” when the poet is clearly referring to him/herself, which requires an “I.” I’ve also seen this type of “you” in Facebook memes, such as “the feeling when you” or “TFWY.” This “you” is a way to reachThe Feeling When You out and connect with other people. Now I speculate that when the lyric “you” appears in the new lyric poem, the poem’s speaker assumes the reader has had similar experiences or has been close enough to those experience to understand the feeling attached to whatever follows “the feeling when you.” As a result, the lyric “you” is intersubjective. It yokes speaker and reader together as one by direct address. The speaker assumes a commonality. In the least, a bridge is made. While the traditional lyric “I” asked the reader to walk a mile in the speaker’s shoes, the new lyric “you” assumes the reader and speaker wear different shoes, but they probably wear the same brand and model. It subverts the otherizing of “you,” which is usually the silent reader. The “you” gives voice to the other. It is we. It is communal. I think there is even more to it than that.

I think the “you” is also a way to project or displace feelings. If an emotion is too much to bear on its own, it’s better to disperse it, so it’s less intense, so it can be manageable. We can sense this in Brown’s poem as the speaker confronts the issues of life and death, being alone, and as it, according to judge Rachel Eliza Griffiths, “unfurls in its articulation of blame, grief, awareness, (in)fidelity, and violence.” It’s as if the speaker can’t even admit to the feelings or embrace them. As if the speaker even wonders if he experienced those feelings. As if the speaker is watching from beyond and calling himself out. To use “I” would be too overwhelming and would admit too much. So the lyrical “you” is a protective shielding, while drawing the reader into the experience in second-person but really expressing a first-hand experience.

These are my beginning notes to what I observe in the new lyric poems and the use of the lyric “you.” The new lyric is flexible in its modes of mimesis and experiences of time, and it often uses “you” to bridge a connection to the reader, as if inviting the reader into the experience and/or as way to deal with overwhelming emotions by projecting them onto the reader. Evidence of this, especially the play in time, exists in most of the poems in The Best American Poetry 2017, perhaps that is why they were chosen. The traditional lyric poem from beginning to end, or a narrative poem from beginning to end, are still the most prevalent genres, but maybe we are at a turning point and we will soon more and more of the new lyric poem. //

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Special thanks to Les Kay for helpful feedback.//

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Works Cited

Brown, Jericho. “As a Human Being.” Poetry Society of America, 2017. poetrysociety.org/psa/awards/annual/winners/2017/award_5/.

“Frequently Asked Questions.” Pecha Kucha 20×20, n.d., pechakucha.org/faq.

Glück, Robert. “Writing Must Explore Its Relation to Power.” Literary Hub, 27 June 2016. lithub.com/writing-must-explore-its-relation-to-power/.

Griffiths, Rachel Eliza. “On Jericho Brown.” Poetry Society of America, 2017. poetrysociety.org/psa/awards/annual/winners/2017/award_5/.

Harris, Kaplan Page. “New Narrative and the Making of Language Poetry.” American Literature, vol. 81, no. 4, Dec. 2009. read.dukeupress.edu/american-literature/article-pdf/81/4/805/392349/AL081-04-06HarrisFpp.pdf.



																



The Cave (Winner of The Bitter Oleander Press Library of Poetry Book Award for 2013.)

The Cave

Poems for an Empty Church

Poems for an Empty Church

The Oldest Stone in the World

The Oldest Stone in the Wolrd

Henri, Sophie, & The Hieratic Head of Ezra Pound: Poems Blasted from the Vortex

Henri, Sophie, & The Hieratic Head of Ezra Pound: Poems Blasted from the Vortex

Pre-Dew Poems

Pre-Dew Poems

Negative Time

Negative Time

After Malagueña

After Malagueña

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