The Rochester, NY, Poetry Scene

The Familiar Stranger

Today, April 6, 2015, Ann Putnam, the mother of one of my former students at SUNY Oswego, Laura Putnam, sent this to me:

 

Ann Putnam

Dear Lew,

I'm semi-rising from slugdom, and want to tell you about the two groups that I talked to about your books.

The first group turned into a three-hour event and was more animated and engaged than usual, especially given the state many of the members were in -- one whose husband had died suddenly in February, from the flu, at age 61, one who had to leave the table occasionally to wrestle with her cough, and one who was having post-chemo therapy for breast cancer.  Etc.  But it is a tenacious group.

We focus on one book a month, and I chose The Familiar Stranger, poems by Lewis Turco. I read a bio of you that I had put together, then (wildly breaking with tradition) passed out copies of “Brontophobia” from another book [Fearful Pleasures]:

 

BRONTOPHOBIA: The Fear of Thunder

 

The first time she could remember hearing thunder

she’d been sitting on her grandma’s lap

in the formal parlor of the big old house where she

was visiting. She flinched and shuddered. “What’s that,

grandma?” She’d asked. “That is the voice of God,”

 

the old woman said, and then they heard it again

rolling out of the clouds, across the sky

and into the formal parlor hung with drapes

where the portrait of her dead grandfather hung above

the mantel and stared at her

 

as though with the eyes of God. She blanched and shuddered,

and had been shuddering ever since, whenever

the great dark clouds rolled over the deep blue sky,

shutting all the earth into a parlor

hung with mists and rain, where a dead old man

 

stared down at them out of the roaring heavens

and told them what he thought without a word,

with only the sound of warning, the sound of dread,

the clap resounding out of admonition

and into the parlor in which they were entombed.

 

I then read and discussed “Trinity.”  (I'm tempted to say it went over with a bang.) 

 

TRINITY

 

I. The Big Bang

 

          •

 

 

 

II. The Big Blink

 

 Is it a butterfly or a wasp? No matter,

      catch it in our net – don’t let it get away:

When life blinks out, that’s it: Nothing existed, ever.

      The Big Blink takes place. There’s nothing to regret,

 

   no one to regret it. There will be no darkness —

       darkness so deep we are of it, no silence

so vast one can hear oneself think, nothing to wish for,

      nothing to want, no one to think or wish for,

 

   no darkness or silence so vast and deep that we

      are the silence, nor so deep and vast we are of

it, nor in it, nothing to want, no self to wish

      or wish for, no being to become, to Be.

 

 

III. The Big Blank

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One member chose “The Skater,” one chose “A Song,” others read “The Stone,” “Mon Coeur” and “Aubade to Say The Least,” and each one was discussed at length. 

Whenever I saw an opening, I tried sneak attacks of poems from other books – “Dorothy,” “Burning the News,” “The Cat,” touting the amazing range of your books. 

We also discussed form poetry, all of us realizing you are the authority, and most of us also realizing we are sadly undereducated in form poetry. [The Book of Forms: A Handbook of Poetics, Including Odd and Invented Forms, Revised and Expanded Edition].

What was amazing was how deeply everyone got into your poems.  They especially liked your word choices, how brilliant the words were, how layered, how perfect for the poem.  As for the collection, some felt it may not have been as cohesive as your other books.  I believe you said the poems were mostly ones that didn't fit in other collections. 

 This was one of the most interesting meetings I've been to in seven years with the group.  Sadly, two members were missing -- one with scheduling conflicts, one with agoraphobia.  (Both of them men, leaving us with a 5 - 1 female/male ratio for the day.)  Poets are such an interesting bunch. 

Then last Thursday, at a group that allows a 15-min. presentation before critiquing poetry we have written for the meeting, I did a brief bio and then read several poems –“Trinity,” “Brontophobia,” “The Stranger,” “The Stockyard,” “The Trees” and one that absolutely wowed everyone –“Lovers.”  In fact several members asked for copies, which I'll send them if it is ok with you.  The members range in age from mid-50's up to me, and “Lovers” seemed to really hit home.  Very powerful.

 

Listen to Lewis Turco read his poem "Lovers" 

 

LOVERS

How many decrepit, hoary, harsh, writhen, bursten-bellied, crooked, toothless, bald, blear-eyed, impotent, rotten, old men shall you see flickering still in every place! — Burton.

 

              The bed frames them.  Their eyes

tell little of the story.  Some old passion

has been eroded.  Rivulets of time have

       eaten their cheeks until their faces

 

              lie flat against linen

landscapes — or against each other in a dark

room, on a night empty even of owlcries.

       Their flesh is a sophistry of shadow:

 

              nothing is hidden.  They

must therefore film their eyes in order not to

notice there is nothing there to see.  They sang

       songs once, to each other, in moon light.

 

              Now, not even night hawks

call out to the lovers in their still stead.  Not

even sleep lifts the veils from their sight, returns

       each other's image for an hour's dream.

              And if the world wheel, what then?

       The grim creature of the mind stunned

by the spaces of stars hung silently

       among the dumb regions where death dwells

in an old house, watching from twin windows,

 

              snuttering among pebbles

       like a hag made of pimples and

sacks.  She will stow her hours in odd chinks,

       fondle each old thing on her ticking

as night whines beneath the bed and her roof

 

              trembles with light.  Then, at last,

when least she needs his flesh — when least

       they know each other in their age, the stars

will smash their windows, their roof vanish,

       and the world come burning while they make love.

 

[From Fearful Pleasures: The Complete Poems of Lewis Turco 1959-2007, Scottsdale, AZ: www.StarCloudPress.com, 2007.  Available in a Kindle edition.]

They were all very impressed, and I flashed Fearful Pleasures, The Familiar Stranger and The Shifting Web around, letting them see what's available but not, of course, letting them borrow anything that might not come back to me.

Wesli Court's Epitaphs for the Poets went home with Donna Marbach after the first meeting, as she was loving it and can be trusted to bring it back.  And as far as Satan's Scourge goes, my son Jim thinks his wife let her cousin borrow it.  So I just up and ordered a new copy, instead of waiting to track it down.

Donna Marbach, one of the group members, writes a monthly newsletter, Pencil Marks.  She asked me to contact you about interviewing you for one of the up-coming issues.  So if you are interested in that, I'll let her know.  She also sponsors a chapbook contest every couple of years, and I am one of the first readers. 

Well, gosh, I suppose I should do something else today besides chat. It's possible you also would like to do something besides listen to me.  And thanks for writing so much for me to appreciate.

 

Regards,

 

Ann

 

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