Bar Book: Poems and Otherwise

By Julie Sheehan
W. W. Norton

Julie Sheehan’s third collection brims with a jumble of lyric verse, snippets of conversation, and wry prose reflection. The pieces take their titles from the outlandishly suggestive names of drinks: “Brandy Stinger,” for example, the opening poem, features the voice of an older woman boozily bemused by the plight of the modern (divorcing) woman: “All right one more, and that’s final. I don’t envy you/ your loose fits, your quick change.” The bartender, tracking the ebb and flow of the bar through the course of her day (sections are “Lunch Shift,” “Swing Shift,” and “Night Shift”), also tracks the course of a marriage through its grisly demise. One of the great delights of the collection is “On Pouring a Good Stout,” the book’s last piece, which should not be missed.

While the premise might strike the reader as initially cloying (“How to Make a Shirley Temple,” “Whiskey Sour,” “Jägermeister, Double Shot,” really?) I was immediately drawn in by the raw emotional timbre that sustained a lively chorus of competing voices in their shades of irony, passion, and indifference. The bartender’s increasing bitterness and vitriol is not given a solo stage, but is crowded, challenged, and occasionally ignored by a roomful of onlookers: friends, quirky patrons, husband and daughter all get to have their own say.

I am convinced, at the book’s end, that the metaphor of the bar is in fact brilliant. In the seemingly simple analogy, numerous facets of this woman’s experience are illuminated: she works, she mothers, she serves, she fights for and against a marriage. The metaphor suggests also both fuzzy intimacy of social bonding and the dangerous potential of overindulgence, the violence and vomit that spoils intimacy. Apt for teasing out a relationship gone awry.

What is perhaps most compelling about the collection—and the metaphor of the bar—is that it keenly appreciates the troubled role of traditional institutions. Marriage, the Church, Writing, as well as the ancient art of Mixing Drinks are all arenas in which the woman finds herself in a perplexing bind between loyalty and revolt. Some of the most compelling poems in the collection reflect on motherhood (“Malted Barley” juxtaposed with “Progress Report from Tiny Neglected Dears Day Care Center” is gorgeous); Shirley Temple is compared with the subversive prayer of Mary’s Magnificat, in which the privileged of the world topple; Religion is “Old Fashioned,” but the poems are both framed as, and interspersed by, prayers (the section “Prayers for the People” subverts church with realism and wit without losing affection for intercession); and the tradition of writing itself is emulated by the self-presenting poet, and subverted, as particularly in the scene in which famous poems are wrenched apart and used as ammunition in a confused and magical fight between the woman and her husband. In all these cases, the writer gracefully combines sober critique with affectionate appreciation.

The reader will cheerfully forgive some campy punning (“the mind of a bartender stays fluid”) for the delight of this biting, sophisticated, intoxicating book.

Review by Elaine James

Saints & Cannibals

By Christine Hamm
Plain View Press

If I were to list my favorite poets, the count would be long and span a modest range of styles, but several rise clearly to the top. These poets—Sharon Olds, Carolyn Forché, Sylvia Plath, and Audre Lorde, to name a few—in no way shy away from subject matter women are traditionally taught to suppress or deny: the shocking, shadowy, and infinitely juicy reality of our lives. These poets instead dive face first into the truth—especially when it hurts—and in doing so shed light on the beauty to be found glimmering quietly in the fertile mud of actual experience.

Christine Hamm is one such poet and needless to say, my list of favorites has grown after having (repeatedly) read Saints & Cannibals, Hamm’s second full-length collection. According to the poet’s website, “this book follows the story of three generations of women in America” and is told from the point of view of “historical and mythical saints and cannibals, including the Donner party, Hansel and Gretel, and a whole host of medieval female saints.”

Among the historical and mythical are more contemporary voices, all of whose stories are told in clean, vibrant free-verse. Fertility, corn, straw, cats, horses, and other animals figure prominently in the landscape of this collection. After reading each poem I was compelled to set the book down and let the precise and novel imagery sink in.

Beginning with “Up From the Root Cellar”: “Ruby plucks up a tomato, jams it against her teeth, tasting snow and rust” before shaking out her skirt, rinsing her hands and going to assist her mother as she “sprawls in the furrows... stockings dark with a wet rush” in labor with yet another baby. Ruby is dutiful but seems defined more by her internal experience than by her station or obligation in life.

Another character, whose story is told throughout the collection, is Claire, who in the poem “The Family Practice” doesn’t want to disappoint and so undergoes dentistry without Novocain. Yet “Claire was turning thirteen the way milk turns, becomes thicker, more complicated, fragrant;” will she continue to submit to what is expected of her?

We also find Joan of Arc working at the Gap, Oliver with his “urchin shirt/ rusty shoes, hat full/ of night and spiders,” and a suburban angel “with wings made of safety pins/ used tampons and bottlecaps.”

I found Saints & Cannibals to be deeply feminist as it speaks with an authentic and unapologetic honesty, telling stories that have the power to provoke an embrace of and ultimately sovereignty in our own experience.

Review by Matsya Siosal

Find the Girl: Poems

By Lightsey Darst
Coffee House Press

Lightsey Darst’s first book of poetry, Find the Girl, offers a haunting look into the world of womanhood. She explores the missing and the murdered, the tragic (Helen of Troy, Atlantis), and the everyday girl who is discovering herself.

A number of Darst’s poems contain a true-crime slant, which I thoroughly enjoyed. In “Mary, Annie, Liz, Kate, Mary”—which are the names of Jack the Ripper’s victims—we are left to wonder “Whatever / became of the others.” The poem opens with “You left us nothing but names and dead faces, / the names men called you, faces / twisting away.” This stanza reveals how the victims in the Ripper case are usually treated—as unfortunate unknowns. But Darst gives us visuals of these women beyond the gruesome and grainy crime-scene photos. She describes their attire (“blue-trimmed coat” and “jay-feather hat”), and the fateful moments that led to their murders—“You followed a red trail to a narrow door.”

“JonBenet” not only explores the infamous unsolved case, but also relates back to the book’s title. “You didn’t want to be the girl anymore, wanted / to grow up, be what comes next, the lion” and “A girl is a woman / is a rack to be hung with gashed sky” are two examples of this quest for finding the girl—literally and figuratively—and understanding what it means to be female.

Find the Girl also examines sexuality, especially in its early, blossoming form. “A few things I learned about sex ed,” explores the puberty years: “Some girls had come in busty and without a chance. / We all had cravings, fingers, throbbing to music. / Then I didn’t know it was sex, would deny / when boyfriends asked me.” In “what’s the worst that can happen,” a girl grapples with sexuality and being called a slut, while in “House” a girl tries to understand rape. The girl asks “why / is it my part to allow / to have it in me / & open that store to others.”

Darst experiments with atypical forms in her poems, which sometimes adds ambiguity and causes disconnect. This detachment generally strengthens her poems and gives certain themes a more haunting quality. For instance, in “Didn’t you hear,” the reader gathers bits of information about a girl who went missing and her unknown abductor. We learn “in his cellar, above blackberry jelly, the highest jars / are flush with shorn-off women’s hair. (‘he eats them’).”

Overall, Find the Girl is a unique and dynamic collection of poetry. As we try to understand what it means to be female, we get to peer into the world of other girls, be them famous or average.

Review by Michelle Tooker

I Was the Jukebox

By Sandra Beasley
W.W. Norton

As a poet myself, it’s inspiring to come across a writer like Sandra Beasley. Not only is she highly talented, but she’s also a young, female poet who has already published two book-length collections and received national recognition and awards. In her latest collection, I Was the Jukebox, it’s easy to see why she’s so successful. From the first page to the ninetieth page Beasley blends refreshing imagery with unique diction. She mixes myth and modernity. She creates lines that float from the pages and haunt your thoughts.

“You Were You,” which features the title line, is a primary example of Beasley’s mastery. From “I wanted to dance. I wanted a scotch. / I wanted you to take your hands off her” to “I played Aretha, Marvin, the Reverend Al” you can hear the rhythm in her poetry and you can clearly visualize the speaker’s life as a jukebox.

In “I Don’t Fear Death,” Beasley examines what’s behind nature and life from a female perspective: “what I really believe is that / we keep growing: infinite corn, / husk yielding to green husk. / I look back on the miles / connecting me to Earth, think / I’d have never worn those shoes.”

“Japanese Water Bomb” explores a relationship from both a male and female point of view. The subject of fragility is paired with Beasley’s vivid descriptions and musings and culminates in an explosive ending. Lines like “How the difference between an igloo and a block / of ice is only the body sheltered beneath it” lead to the powerful last few lines “How the moment splits, / a mitosis of love and chronology: how he is / her present. How she has become his past.”

Unlike many poets, Beasley effectively gives her subjects a voice. I Was the Jukebox includes a series of poems that allow things like an eggplant, a platypus, and a piano to speak. These poems make you stop and think “Wow, music really does seem to ‘slide loose’ from a piano,” and “Why is it called a duckbilled platypus anyways?”

Poetry is supposed to accomplish all that Beasley’s poems accomplish—it should make you think of something in a new way, it should leave you breathless, and it should follow you long after you’re done reading.

Review by Michelle Tooker

The Wave-Maker: Poems

By Elizabeth Spires
W.W. Norton

If Elizabeth Spires' poetry collection, The Wave-Maker, presents a single image, it is something deceptively simple, like the flick of a blouse hanging on a clothesline. Difficult subject matter such as death, aging, and the meaning of life are examined by peering in to closely examine the minutiae. Here, life is made up of the smallest of things: the snowy hill, the snail's shell of a home, and how everyone needs a "a place to be quiet in."

Spires's poems are spare and airy. In "Story of a Soul," light enters a room where the "journal is deliberately cryptic." Like the windows the speaker wipes clean, this collection's poems are streamlined until they "everything is immaculate." The smallest of details are made mystical: the courage of a snail teaches something the speaker is not quite sure of, a white room suggests existence or lack thereof, and the tenacious bamboo in the midst of a thirsty backyard is in need of the speaker's hand. The Wave-Maker is bold because it asks what will happen once we leave. It is brave because it heeds to the present as much as it hints or recounts the past.

One of the best poems in the book focuses on the popular computer game The Sims. Spires retells the game as "explained by a child." Deceivingly simple statements make for a sharp poem full of meaning. Spires writes how "you design the people" and "adults don't have to have jobs they can cheat: / push the rosebud & money appears." Clear cut definitions of concepts like 'family' and 'love' shake readers into considering what is real or true. Spires writes, "a family is anyone who lives in the house with you," and "If you have Free Will you can starve or drown yourself / then you wander around as a ghost." Such details are chilling when considering the realities we form for ourselves.

Sadly, some of the lean lines seem brittle, as if the marrow has been sucked clean along with the flesh. All of the watching and observation sometimes results in a stagnant feeling. A line like "Foolish or true, the rose blooms only for you" seems too basic and loud for such a smart poet, and the poems' questions seem too obvious for such a subtle collection.

The Wave-Maker shows there is no beginning or end to the world. Instead, the wind comes or it does not. Meaning is brief and subjective. Spires's poems are careful waves that will wash over the reader, carrying him or her into poetry-centered meditation. We are all pallbearers, and we are all heroes. We can understand that we are all "a shell / a monument / a memory."

Review by Lisa Bower

Arc and Hue

By Tara Betts
Willow Books

It is deeply satisfying to encounter poetry like Tara Betts’. The widely published poet, author, and Rutgers University creative writing professor bears witness to the true grit of life, including poverty and appearance-based assumptions and experiences that categorize one as other, even among an already marginalized population. These experiences, and the enduring human spirit, are what give color and shape to each life, and it is this thematic material that Betts portrays in her debut collection, Arc & Hue.

Rich in vivid images and musicality, this collection is an authentic portal into the very pulse of life. With the use of repetitive forms like sestina and canzone and the smooth lyrical flow of her free verse, Betts’ poems are imbued with hope, strength, and beauty amid trauma, violence, and the isolation of otherness.

From the weight of death and violence to the vibrancy of moments both ordinary and momentous (lynching, hair care, Hurricane Katrina, lovemaking, pestilence in the slums), each poem is consistently resonant and haunting. Betts can be humorous and playful with form, yet still communicate something substantial, as she demonstrates in “A Survey on Enjoying Verse” and “Neruda’s Email to Slam Poets.” The anxiety and desire of an urban pulse throbs in the strong, sensual language of “Block Party Speculation” and the grief of domestic violence and miscarriage are washed with the power of loving someone new when the narrator stands in the shower with both loss and renewal in “When I First Listened to Billie.”

Arc & Hue crossing my path further fuels my hope that one can indeed maintain awareness of and connection to the world beyond ourselves through the work of poets and artists. A visit to the writer’s blog clued me in to her extensive publishing history—from erotica to live theater to an upcoming young adult novel and a second collection of poetry. Betts is also active in literacy and girls’ empowerment projects, and she has performed her work around the world.

Review by Matsya Siosal