Ed Skoog’s ‘mister skylight’

This is a review written for Read Write Poem’s Virtual Book Tour. Ed Skoog’s new collection, Mister Skylight, from Copper Canyon Press, is a major achievement.
Skoog’s use of language is disorientating, vivid and surprising, all the things I love about great poetry. In a recent interview with Dave Jarecki, Skoog said “The people in the poems are real people, the family and friends, but they become imaginary through the process of poetry.” One of the wonderful things this book does is give us insight into this process and in doing so, into the primacy of the poetic imagination even in spite of, or hand-in-hand with a skepticism about this primacy.
The ability of poetic language to surprise is evident on every page. Take this image from “Home at Thirty”

Even low clouds’ dark stucco seems
applied by the drowsiest journeyman.

The poem’s slow movement of hesitant return, the connotations of the household, of covering implied by “stucco” so much is communicated here.
Often the poems explore loss or the inability to communicate while at the same time communicating this through incredible imagery. As the speaker in “Recent Changes at Canter’s Deli” states

Who I am
and what I feel are irrelevant enough to be central
to the project of Contemporary American Poetry.

Here the poet and by extension the process of poetry, is caught between importance and marginalization. The tension of this position is captured by wild imagery, by imagery of wildness caught, as these lines from the same poem

Up in the haze some undiscovered animal
watches us, its plan mapped out, fire
swinging up the canyons, unfolding
until flame may flicker tip of sabertooth fang
in the museum where rare finds are hidden.
I, too, am a dinosaur.

The image is wild with movement and beautiful sound as the power of the poem to perceive the unnoticed threat is coupled at the same time with a sense of futility in communicating that threat. There is, throughout the book this exploration of the tension between of a kind of Wordsworthian idea of the power of poetry and the poet and the undercutting of this power.
One of my favorite poems in Mister Skylight, “Memory Loss,” offers a kind of object lesson on poetic language. There are a series of moments in which the speaker offers up an instance of poetic language and then provides a kind of explanation, as in

So when I write “starved tigers devour us
with an uncomfortable vitality”
I am thinking about all the people I’ve lost,
those torn, shredded, fouled, and swallowed
by the eagerness of car crash, cancer, stroke, old age, youth,
    money, anger, love,
distance, madness.

Here you get the origin of poetic language and a view of its status an an attempt — an attempt to encapsulate in language what can’t be fully said. The loss is circled over and over until what we see is the importance of the attempt. The poem in a sense can never say it all yet the attempt is of utmost importance. This is the work and power of the imagination.
The next scheduled stop on the book tour is Jill Crammond Wickham on Nov. 8.

Take a look at this

Dave Bonta has posted something I wrote with Dana Guthrie Martin at his blog, Via Negativa. It’s called “Poetry-Blogging, a Primer.” Take a look when you get a minute.

A sample from Mutating the Signature

Today is a collection of commemorative plates. The hours today are engraved pewter and painted enamel to dangle on wooden racks or be displayed on glass shelves. For this reason, those who take a moment to pause over the careful arrangement of minutes will want to number them in awe. This way, “collectors” will be able to savor their encounter with time. You have a date with a clock. You may need to protect yourself from the minute hand. This afternoon there is a buffet of schedules and a platter of appointments. Enjoy the sensation of waiting in line. In the rush of traffic think of each second’s hot touch. Use an egg timer and imagine the pleasure you might have. This is a day to fondle your chronology.

*

Today is a business suit made of stone. My pants today are granite, carved to resemble office buildings. For this reason, I take an hour to walk to the fax machine. My clients will be able to stare at my legs with impunity. Slacks have a crucial role to play in financial agreements. Casual trousers may need to be replaced by something stronger. This afternoon there are reports to be filed and pleats to be polished. I enjoy maintaining the gleam of a marble crotch. What could I wear through all my negotiations that could be more architecturally protective? I use a flashlight and stepladder in the morning. At night I might have to sleep in my coat.

* * *
Process Notes
These were made from a skeleton Dana Guthrie Martin posted on Mutating the Signature, the new online journal we started. We’re acting as curators of the first issue — a kind of test run.

We’re making things!

I’ve been busy curating the first issue of Mutating the Signature with Dana Guthrie Martin. You just have to see what she’s doing over there — it’s fantastic work.

We’re trying something new!

Dana Guthrie Martin and I have transformed our collaborative blog into a creative workspace and online journal. Take a look at the new Mutating the Signature. It promises to be an interesting experiment.

What We’re Watching Now

1.
A camera catches an act of theft. A hand
slides into a purse. A purse is held under
a slot machine. Someone wants a machine
to protect commercial interests. Someone
lies frozen on the couch during a commercial.
Frozen hope leads to lapsed expectations.
Lapsed logic gets lost in a file. A lost voice
won’t return. The senator is screaming
about the return of the steam engine.
The street steams: we need antennae to find
our hotel. Our ancient antennae are useless.
We just stare at each other.

2.
For details on corporate corruption we milk
the book. For us, books are bricks, though some argue
flames or wings. Under the wing of a 747 our house
looks tiny. This house is full of anger over the point
-count of antlers. The senator points to the birth
rate as a sign of his decline. We aren’t convinced.
Convinced our obsolete machines are suicidal,
his followers push typewriters from bridges.
The bridge buckles as an acrobat balances on a wire
above an earthquake. During the ground-breaking
the senator kisses a constituent’s neck.
We aren’t having fun.

* * *

This is the beginning of what I hope will be a series of poems.

Test

I haven’t studied
and how to wear pants in the classroom
baffles me. Conditioned air eerily raises
hairs I didn’t have time to shave. Drama class
saves me. I’ll hide among the painted cardboard
rocks. Either I’ll act my way out of this scene or the writing
will kill me. Great. Now the instructor eyes me suspiciously.
I return the glare with an upturned eyebrow and dig furiously
for a number two pencil. My desk is a patchwork of fossils.
When I need a pointed response, the answer is always missing.
There’s never a hole dark enough to crawl in. Now it’s ten minutes
too late and I’ve accidentally erased everything on the page.
I stare blankly at the flat brown door, the fire alarm’s red pull.

* * *

This is a revision of a poem written line by line with members of the Poetry Collaborative Group at Read Write Poem. If You haven’t been to Read Write Poem yet, I encourage you to stop by. It’s where all the hot poetry action is happening.

Two Poems

Not Yet Asleep

He contemplates the fate of all the plastic
in the Pacific, pictures the hand of a hip
scofflaw tossing a cigarette on the front
lawn from a speeding car. Each pittance
shares the same destination. A new continent
extends from Japan to California, the husk
of the last century, the dead the dollar made.
Under the blanket, his body is a comma then
a question mark. “There’s no remedy for
the multitude” he thinks and kicks the covers
from his feet. “Pacific trash vortex” – the phrase
towers in the limelight of his obsession.
He remembers: a thumbnail scratches the waxy
surface of a store-bought plum. Garbage bags,
pill bottles, cups, action figures, sunglasses,
a landscape bleached the color of a clover
flower where the ground conforms to every
step and the air is a rancid confection.

*

Suddenly Awake

He remembers the need to push the trash
container to the curb. Someone left the television
on. He extends an arm toward the chaos and the room
goes dark. Outside, the air smells like rotten plums.
With a grimace he shoves the bin with his hip
and rolls it balanced on its back wheels. Now
the garbage sits in the limelight under the lamppost.
It resembles a memorial. Clutching his back, he
contemplates the scofflaw life, letting clover
and dandelions invade the lawn, allowing waste
to mound up at the corner – first a small hill
then a rotting tower, city for the maggot multitude,
fantasy confection for flies. He curses the neighbors
who never conform, even to common sense.
An abandoned bonfire burns behind their house.
Staring at the glow, he thinks “there’s no remedy.”
As he curls back into a husk of sheets, a pittance
of sleep, the crickets cheer his absence.

* * *
This is my entry for Read Write Poem prompt #92. The idea is to use the following words: remedy, multitude, hip, scofflaw, husk, extend, plum, conform, limelight, clover, pittance, confection and sleep.

I wanted to write two poems and see how much I could link them according to style, tone, content and language.

* * *
Dana pointed out that these would read better as prose poems. They started out that way and I’m not sure why I thought they had to have wide margins. Here is her suggestion for how they might look — thanks Dana!

Not Yet Asleep

He contemplates the fate of all the plastic in the Pacific, pictures the hand of a hip scofflaw tossing a cigarette on the front lawn from a speeding car. Each pittance shares the same destination. A new continent extends from Japan to California, the husk of the last century, the dead the dollar made. Under the blanket, his body is a comma then a question mark. “There’s no remedy for the multitude” he thinks and kicks the covers from his feet. “Pacific trash vortex” – the phrase towers in the limelight of his obsession. He remembers: a thumbnail scratches the waxy surface of a store-bought plum. Garbage bags, pill bottles, cups, action figures, sunglasses, a landscape bleached the color of a clover flower where the ground conforms to every step and the air is a rancid confection.

*

Suddenly Awake

He remembers the need to push the trash container to the curb. Someone left the television on. He extends an arm toward the chaos and the room goes dark. Outside, the air smells like rotten plums. With a grimace he shoves the bin with his hip and rolls it balanced on its back wheels. Now the garbage sits in the limelight under the lamppost. It resembles a memorial. Clutching his back, he contemplates the scofflaw life, letting clover and dandelions invade the lawn, allowing waste to mound up at the corner – first a small hill then a rotting tower, city for the maggot multitude, fantasy confection for flies. He curses the neighbors who never conform, even to common sense. An abandoned bonfire burns behind their house. Staring at the glow, he thinks “there’s no remedy.” As he curls back into a husk of sheets, a pittance of sleep, the crickets cheer his absence.

Late Night Television

Recall our project: to retell history in the second person.

We have the leader’s ear.
He has several channels.

When we took the palace, our hands met themselves in the altar’s chrome.
Tie it to a truck. Wait – couple the knot first.

Later, our thumbs beat buttons on controllers:
we were soldiers on other planets.
We murdered zombies in the farmhouse.

Are the cameras on? Commander, stand up and make us sing.

Marriage: A User’s Guide

Final Draft (with Carolee Sherwood)

Remember the cat and the burning popcorn. Don’t assume your spouse is the source of all bad odors.

You come home with strange photos on your iPhone. It’s awkward to pass them around at breakfast.

How much time is spent finding a reliable source of food? Shouldn’t you know your spouse is a vegetarian?

Mumbling sarcastically “I think I see Jesus” is not the best way to say “good morning.”

Do you bend for hours with your face in the fish tank? It’s time to rethink how you pass the evening.

For a fun birthday surprise, find embarrassing photos of your spouse and hang them from the ceiling like party streamers.

To establish solid lines of communication is key. Stealing your spouse’s clothes and locking them out of the house is almost never necessary.

That the utility pole in the backyard looks like a cross is not an invitation to a crucifixion.

If, instead of kissing you in the rain, your spouse blames you for bad weather, be flattered at their belief in your omnipotence.

If your spouse buys the wrong toilet paper just to start a fight, then stop using toilet paper.

To open your parachute, pull your own cord.

The best time to arm wrestle is in the morning before coffee.

If you must offer your spouse a correction, do so with an unwavering elegance, the way worms hang strands of silk and mucous.

As with cave dwellers, the biggest challenge facing modern couples is each other.

* * *

(First Draft)
To set shoes on fire is one thing, but in fairness they should contain no feet.

Remember: folding a thousand socks is not the key to recognition.

Don’t forget: each of you hides your own twisted helix.

“Darling” sounds so much better through a clenched jaw.

To entertain guests is admirable, but to hide in the closet and watch? Seedy.

Study the way textiles frame the window then ask “Which would make the best hood?”

Make friends with the word “perpetual.”

If you tend to dominate conversation, occasionally ask to be excused for private moments of self-punishment.

Even, no especially, when bound with nylon rope, it’s important to maintain your “public” face.

Remain silent while driving — don’t waste insults on strangers.

Everything is alleged.

Each day, savor your allotment of affection.

Given that scenario in the kitchen, whose ghost would you conjure?

Look in the mirror and smile as you practice the refrain: “Here’s your shirt!”

* * *

This is the result of a collaboration with Carolee Sherwood. I’ll talk about my process (which is slightly different than hers because I’m easily confused and I mucked up a few steps). Please go read her excellent poem and process notes here.

This is what I did: First, I gathered a random list of 14 words from the American Hybrid poetry anthology. (This wasn’t part of the official process, but is a standard way for me to begin a poem.)

Then, I wrote a sentence using each word under the title Marriage: A User’s Guide. Those sentences are above, titled “First Draft.”

I chose seven of those sentences, split them in half, mixed them up and emailed the mixture to Carolee. Again, go see the amazing work she did with those fragments.

Carolee mailed me 15 of her own fragments which I used to make the 14 lines above (titled “final draft”).

Thank you Carolee! This was a great time!