Daytime and Starlight by James Applewhite

First of all, Daytime and Starlight by James Applewhite was in the North Carolina Collection at Wilson--which made me assume that there were a number of North Carolina connections and references in the volume. From what I have read of it so far, this is true. Not being from North Carolina, though, I am wondering if I am missing a good deal of the references, and consequently, if I am not getting the full impact or enjoyment of Applewhite's work.

For example--when I saw the poem titled "Replacements, Ltd." I immediately knew what it was referring to--a large warehouse somewhere around here where they have all sorts of discontinued china patterns that they buy from estate sales, etc. and then resell to the public. How do I know this? My mother has bought discontinued pieces that we have broken from them. Now, if my mother didn't just happen to put plates from Replacements, Ltd. on her Christmas list, would I have any idea what the title of the poem was referring to? Not at all. Which makes me wonder (1) what other title-references I completely missed because I’m not from North Carolina, and (2) how much our poetry should reference things that only a small portion of people recognize?

Here's the poem:

Replacements, Ltd.

On the fast food highway, lives are thrown away.
But a warehouse remembers our china. Gravy boats
navigate the breakups, bottoms virgin, to find

this harbor--if cracked imperceptibly in a rim, still
more whole than the marriage. Yet hopes can't all
be lost while hierarchies of women, seraph-watchful,

track one's pattern: the cups and saucers of Turquoise
poised to enter one's cabinet, long-lost sisters.
The pourings of coffee and tea assembled here

create a little heaven: this industrial-looking
haven for propriety beside the eighteen-wheelers.
A computer's nunnery-humming counts crystal glasses:

a lyric of addition and subtraction, the comings
together and apart, makings of generations--
those who'll receive their Wedgewood Wellesley from

Replacements, Ltd., if without other heritage. Here
glazes shoot their winsome glances, plates halo
the showroom with a preciousness not subject to decay.

A delicacy coalesces in the brilliant evening,
illuminating us as we exit. My wife and I feel
we've been married a thousand times, been ferried

over conceptions, miscarriages, trials of conscience,
tears and deliveries, on a boat of porcelain,
its fragile pallor enduring like the moon.

Would this poem be understandable without knowing what Replacements Ltd. is? Parts of it, yes. I suppose that you could infer what Replacements Ltd. is by the context, but a lot of the impact of the poem is lost without knowledge of the subject.

The lines in the first stanza--"lives are thrown away / but a warehouse remembers our china" are great because of the irony and inconsistencies that they propose: dishes are more enduring than people? This seems illogical, but in many families, the china endures far longer than relationships and even lives. The concept of Replacements, Ltd. is important here, because the company buys up china even after its original owners--and the family--do not care about its fate. In the third stanza, Applewhite continues to connect dishes and family when he writes "the cups and saucers of Turquoise, poised to enter one's cabinet, long-lost sisters." Personification suggests that dishes have more of a relationship than a lot of actual relatives.

Applewhite uses personification to make the dishes seem living, so that the reader finds their valued role believable :

"glazes shoot their winsome glances"
"plates halo the showroom"
"gravy boats navigate the breakups"

In the final stanza, Applewhite draws similarities between china and family relationships when he compares the speaker's relationship experiences with a "boat of porcelain." In this line, the reader feels assured that both china and relationships are fragile...and if china can endure, then relationships have the ability to as well.

Using Replacements, Ltd. as the subject of a poem--and as a means to discuss the longevity of family relationships--is creative and fresh. But the poem loses much of its impact if the reader does not know what Replacements, Ltd. is. Now, I know that Prof. White has said that it is the reader's responsibility to look up unfamiliar allusions, terms, etc.--but this is not something that can be found in the dictionary. Did Applewhite assume that his readers would all be familiar with the company? Did he think that the poem could be understood without familiarity? Obviously, if an author is limited only to subjects that all potential readers would understand, this is a severe handicap: creativity, by nature, involves things that are not so prosaic that every person has considered them. Therefore, I think that it's the poet's prerogative to include things that few people have heard of; those who either take the time to research the reference or those with the knowledge are rewarded.

A Good Balance

In earlier posts, I wrote about how Billy Collins was very accessible to non-poetry buffs, and how I thought that at times he was too accessible. This poem, “The Best Cigarette,” is one of his most well-known poems, and I think that it’s a good balance between clarity and insightfulness. Collins uses the “cigarette” as a metaphor for different seasons of his existence, and he connects the cigarette with other images and descriptive words—the locomotive, steam, vaporous, puffs, flame, lights, smoke, etc. This is not just a narrative poem where Collins describes events in a conversational tone, and I think that the poem draws in the reader with the highly descriptive (but concrete) language.


The Best Cigarette

There are many that I miss
having sent my last one out a car window
sparking along the road one night, years ago.

The heralded one, of course:
after sex, the two glowing tips
now the lights of a single ship;
at the end of a long dinner
with more wine to come
and a smoke ring coasting into the chandelier;
or on a white beach,
holding one with fingers still wet from a swim.

How bittersweet these punctuations
of flame and gesture;
but the best were on those mornings
when I would have a little something going
in the typewriter,
the sun bright in the windows,
maybe some Berlioz on in the background.
I would go into the kitchen for coffee
and on the way back to the page,
curled in its roller,
I would light one up and feel
its dry rush mix with the dark taste of coffee.

Then I would be my own locomotive,
trailing behind me as I returned to work
little puffs of smoke,
indicators of progress,
signs of industry and thought,
the signal that told the nineteenth century
it was moving forward.
That was the best cigarette,
when I would steam into the study
full of vaporous hope
and stand there,
the big headlamp of my face
pointed down at all the words in parallel lines.

Structure & Personification

Of all of the poetry volumes that I have read so far, Collins is easily the most accessible. The subjects that Collins addresses are typical of middle-class America, and I think that is what makes him a bestseller to the general public. Collins doesn’t really attempt anything avant guarde—he instead chooses to take ordinary, everyday occurrences and portray them in a creative manner that is not overly abstract or confusing.

A lot of people have memories of taking piano lessons either as a child or later in life, and Collins describes these experiences in "Piano Lessons."

Piano Lessons

1.

My teacher lies on the floor with a bad back
Off to the side of the piano.
I sit up straight on the stool.
He begins by telling me that every key
Is like a different room
And I am a blind man who must learn
To walk through all twelve of them
Without hitting the furniture.
I feel myself reach for the first doorknob.

2.

He tells me that every scale has a shape
And I have to learn how to hold
Each one in my hands.
At home I practice with my eyes closed.
C is an open book.
D is a vase with two handles.
G flat is a black boot.
E has the legs of a bird.

3.

He says the scale is the mother of the chords.
I can see her pacing the bedroom floor
Waiting for her children to come home.
They are our at nightclubs shading and lighting
All the songs while couples dance slowly
Or stare at one another across tables.
This is the way it must be. After all,
Just the right chord can bring you to tears
But no one listens to the scales,
No one listens to their mother.

4.

I am doing my scales,
The familiar anthems of childhood.
My fingers climb the ladder of notes
And come back down without turning around.
Anyone walking under this open window
Would picture a girl of about ten
Sitting at the keyboard with perfect posture,
No me slumped over in my bathrobe, disheveled,
Like a white Horace Silver.

5.

I am learning to play
“It Might As Well Be Spring”
But my left hand would rather be jingling
The change in the darkness of my pocket
Or taking a nap on an armrest.
I have to drag him into the music
Like a difficult and neglected child.
This is the revenge of one who never gets
To hold the pen or wave good-bye,
And now, who never gets to play the melody.

6.

Even when I am not playing, I think about the piano.
It is the largest, heaviest,
And most beautiful object in this house.
I pause in the doorway just to take it all in.
And late at night I picture it downstairs,
This hallucination standing on three legs,
This curious beast with its enormous moonlit smile.

In “Piano Lessons,” Collins divides the poem into the six sections, which are clearly labeled. The stanzas are of varying length, which lends to the sense that the speaker is casually remembering the piano lessons. The poem is a narrative poem…let’s consider what the first few stanzas would be like as prose:

My teacher lies on the floor with a bad back off to the side of the piano. I sit up straight on the stool. He begins by telling me that every key is like a different room and I am a blind man who must learn to walk through all twelve of them without hitting the furniture. I feel myself reach for the first doorknob.

He tells me that every scale has a shape and I have to learn how to hold each one in my hands. At home I practice with my eyes closed. C is an open book. D is a vase with two handles. G is flat black boot. E has the legs of a bird.

Not really all that different, is it? In this poem—and in many others—Collins plays the role of a storyteller, with imagery to liven up the story. The heavy use of enjambment creates the meandering tone of a memory. One of Collins’ strengths is his ability to provide the reader with structure, yet still have a spur-of-the-moment, unpremeditated feel.

“Piano Lessons” contains some of Collins’ most original, insightful figurative language. First, he compares the piano keys to different rooms and himself to “a blind man who must learn to walk through them” without hitting the furniture. The reader can easily draw a parallel—playing the wrong notes on a piano creates the same racket (and an observer’s cringing) as a blind man bumping into a room’s furniture.

Next, Collins describes the scale as the mother of chords. Here, he uses extended personification—not only is the “scale” pacing the floor while her children (chords) are out…but then Collins likens his personification to something that the reader can connect with: just like no one listens to the scales, no one listens to their mother. Suddenly, the reader has empathy for the distraught scale.

In the fifth stanza, Collins creates an interesting image when he separates the left hand from the body in general. Usually, we don’t describe paired physical features (eyes, feet, hands, etc.) separately. Also, we seldom give “orders” to a body part like Collins does:

“I have to drag him into the music
Like a difficult and neglected child.
This is the revenge of the one who never gets
To hold the pen or wave good-bye,
And now, who never gets to play the melody.”

By the end of this stanza, Collins has actually created a sympathetic tone—the reader feels bad for the left hand that does not get to play the melody! Collins’ personification is so effective that the “left hand” has actually turned into something with emotion and feelings.

In the final stanza, there is another example of personification. Collins describes the piano as a “curious beast with its enormous moonlit smile.” Essentially, throughout the poem Collins has personified different elements of the piano—the keys, the scales, the chords, even the hand that plays these chords—and the result is a clever poem with personification carefully woven in.

Close Relationship to the Reader

Collins' volume is divided into four sections, and I think that each section gets progressively more indepth. The title--"The Art of Drowning"--suggests sinking deeper and deeper into a state of introspection, into the subconscious, and the overall structure of his volume follows this. The speaker in the poems becomes less of a casual observer of life's events and more of an active analizer. I feel that Collins, as the volume progresses, invites the reader deeper into his mental psyche as well. How does he do this? In the beginning of the volume, Collins stuck with describing concrete things in lay terms. As the volume draws to a close, Collins still uses concrete imagery, but instead focuses on describing his desires and feelings with these images. For example, look at "Medium," where Collins is describing his desires for poetry writing.

Medium

The way I like to lay it down sometimes
there is too much traction on paper.
The ink soaks into the cloth of the page.
The words adhere like burrs to a woolen cuff.

I would rather behave on a surface of oil,
a young Renaissance painter in a frock
and a crushed, deep blue velvet hat,
moving the oleaginous colors into the face
of the Virgin or lightening the gray
of the sky behind the oval of her head.

I want to write with the least control,
one finger on the steering wheel,
to write like a watercolorist
whose brush persuades the liquids
to stay above the pull and run of gravity.

I want to hold the pen lightly
as you would touch the stilted, wooden
pointer on a ouija board,
letting it glide over the letters
until it comes to rest as a stone
thrown across a frozen mountain lake
will stop somewhere in the darkness
when the long insistence of friction
has its way and will not longer be overcome.

I would love to write on water
like the final words of Keats
so a current would carry the sentences away
and the sligthest breeze would ruffle
the glassy curves of their meaning.

I want to write on air
as in the rapid language of signs
or in the lighting of a cigarette,
both hands cupped near the mouth,
then one waving out the flame
and the long, silent exhalation of smoke,
the gate of the body swinging open.

Most of all,
I want to write on your skin
with the tip of my finger,
printing one capital letter at a time
on the sloping vellum of your back.
I want you to guess the message
being written on your flesh
as children do in summer at the beach,
to feel the shape of every letter
being traced upon your body--oh, ideal reader--
to read with your eyes shut tight,
kneeling in the sand, facing the open sea.

First of all, there are some great concrete images in this poem. As is typical, Collins uses specific images to describe his subject, poetry: "The words adhere like burrs to a woolen cuff" and "to write like a watercolorist whose brush persuades the liquids to stay above the pull and run of gravity." It's clear that he is very passionate about poetry from the vividness of the images. Another poetic technique that Collins uses is repetition of the first stanza lines. The beginning of each stanza is similar: I would..., I want..., I want..., I would..., I want.... Only the first and last stanza do not begin with either phrase. The second line of the last stanza is "I want" but Collins emphasizes it with "most of all" for the first line. The stanzas are of varying length, which lends to the "flow of consciousness" feel that Collins creates with the personal language. At the beginning of the poem, Collins is just listing things that he wants for himself. But by the last stanza, the poem is a direct address, where Collins is asking things of the reader. While he does not address the reader outright in most of the poems, this does not come as as a suprise, since it feels that Collins is attempting to convince a reluctant reader that poetry is worthwhile.

Words

In the reading for Tuesday's class, Kennedy & Gioia have the plum and icebox poem by William Carlos Williams that we read at the beginning of the semester in the chapter on words. Their commentary on "This Is Just to Say"--"Some readers distrust a poem so simple and candid. They think, 'What's wrong with me? There has to be more to it than this!' But poems seldom are puzzles in need of solutions. We can begin by accepting the poet's statements, without suspecting the poet of trying to hoodwink us." So far, I've had that reaction to some of Collins' poems. They are very straightforward and accessible...and I find myself asking, "Am I missing something?"

What makes Collins work so clear? In terms of syntax: he often writes in complete sentences that are enjambed; still, the poems read like prose. Collins uses standard punctuation, closes all his stanzas, and capitalizes with consistency. He frequently uses the pronoun "I," which makes many of his poems seem like they are journal entries that he jotted down without any obsession with including complex imagery or deep metaphors. In terms of diction, Collins uses everyday words. When he creates specific imagery, he uses colloquial (think "curlicued") rather than academic descriptive words. Collins seldom uses similes/metaphors/allusions in his poetry, and when he does allude to something, it is something commonplace (like a reference to the book "All the King's Men") not something overly academic or literary. Most of the titles of his poems are simple as well, focusing on everyday events: "On Turning Ten," "Tuesday, June 4, 1991," and "Monday Morning." It is clear that Collins' intention is to pen poetry that an average adult can read and enjoy.

Here's a poem-- "Thesaurus"--that I think exemplifies Collins general style. He takes something that is traditionally considered in the realm of the literary and turns it into a very concrete object that seems warm and friendly. While words like "astereognosis" might be in the poem, they appear as the oddity.

It could be the name of a prehistoric beast
that roamed the Paleozoic earth, rising up
on its hind legs to show off its large vocabulary,
or some lover in a myth who is metamorphosed into a book.

It means treasury, but it is just a place
where words congregate with their relatives,
a big park where hundreds of family reunions
are always being held,
house, home, abode, dwelling, lodgings, and digs,
all sharing the same picnic basket and thermos;
hairy, hirsute, woolly, furry, fleecy, and shaggy
all running a sack race or throwing horseshoes,
inert, static, motionless, fixed and immobile
standing and kneeling in rows for a group photograph.

Here father is next to sire and brother close
to sibling, separated only by fine shades of meaning.
And every group has its odd cousin, the one
who traveled the farthest to be here:
astereognosis, polydipsia, or some eleven
syllable, unpronounceable substitute for the word tool.
Even their own relatives have to squint at their name tags.

I can see my own copy up on a high shelf.
I rarely open it, because I know there is no
such thing as a synonym and because I get nervous
around people who always assemble with their own kind,
forming clubs and nailing signs to closed front doors
while others huddle alone in the dark streets.

I would rather see words out on their own, away
from their families and the warehouse of Roget,
wandering the world where they sometimes fall
in love with a completely different word.
Surely, you have seen pairs of them standing forever
next to each other on the same line inside a poem,
a small chapel where weddings like these,
between perfect strangers, can take place.

The lines in the second stanza that describe a thesaurus as "a place where words congregate with their relatives, a big park where hundreds of family reunions are always being held" demonstrates Collins' knack for giving something inanimate lively qualities...he turns a thesaurus into something friendly. Collins compares pairs of words to a bride and groom inside a chapel; this is a good example of his use of familiar, everyday imagery. Additionally, in the fourth stanza, Collins references himself--something that he does frequently. With the first-person reference, he creates a strong rapport with the reader. By saying that he seldom uses his copy of the thesaurus, Collins paints himself as a common man, not an erudite poet.

First Impressions of Billy Collins: "The Art of Drowning"

This week, I'm reading "The Art of Drowning" by Billy Collins. Billy Collins is a well-known poet even to those not well-acquainted with poetry. Collins' poetry is almost the antithesis of the poetry volume I read last week by McGuckian--while I felt that McGuckian made attempts to be purposefully vague and complicated, Collins goes out of his way to make his poetry clear and accessible to the reader. At times, I felt that Collins' poetry was almost too accessible to the lay reader: the themes/imagery are obvious, bordering on trite. For example, "Days":

Each one is a gift, no doubt,
mysteriously placed in your waking hand
or set upon your forehead
moments before you open your eyes.

It doesn't take a lot of analysis or deep, introspective thought to figure out what these four lines are saying: we should treat each individual day with care because there might not be another. Little things, like the italicized "is" seem too obvious: couldn't he have let the reader add that emphasis? Here's the whole poem:

Each one is a gift, no doubt,
mysteriously placed in your waking hand
or set upon your forehead
moments before you open your eyes.

Today begins cold and bright,
the ground heavy with snow
and the thick masonry of ice,
the sun glinting off the turrets of clouds.

Through the calm eye of the window
everything is in its place
but so precariously
this day might be resting somehow

on the one before it,
all the days of the past stacked high
like the impossible tower of dishes
entertainers used to build on stage.

No wonder you find yourself
perched on the top of a tall ladder
hoping to add one more.
Just another Wednesday

you whisper,
then holding your breath,
place this cup on yesterday's saucer
without the slightest clink.

Some of the imagery that Collins uses to describe the passage of time seems rather dull: sun, clouds, window, ladder, etc. None of these images jump out as really painting a fresh picture. Other images, like the one in the last stanza, are much more effective because they are a little less spelled out. In general, I think that poets need to strike a balance between spelling out their imagery for the reader and obscuring it--if it's not quite lucid (but will become so with some thought on behalf of the reader) then the poet has down his or her job: making the reader THINK.

Stephen Dunn, another poet, said about Collins: "We seem to always know where we are in a Billy Collins poem, but not necessarily where he is going. I love to arrive with him at his arrivals. He doesn't hide things from us, as I think lesser poets do. He allows us to overhear, clearly, what he himself has discovered." I think that this is an accurate read on Collins' poetry; however, at least from his poems that I have read so far, I feel that his occasion/intention/message in general are sometimes too clear on the first read-through. His poetry just doesn't provoke the meditation and deep thought that some of the other volumes that I've read do.

Domestic Personification

A lot of McGuckian's poems include references to common things in a woman's life--husbands, housekeeping, and children. She uses these familiar aspects to create unexpected imagery. Here's one of my favorites, from "The Return of Helen."

Being stored inside like someone's suffering,
Each piece of furniture now begins
To interpret every eye as sunlight.

This is a great example of personification--I get an immediate image of a dark room with the blinds drawn, and inside, carefully covered furniture wanting to escape. Normally, we write about the people IN the chairs...not the chairs themselves. By making the furniture seem like people, we get a new perspective.

McGuckian uses personification in a domestic context once again in "Another Son."

The sickly summer draped itself
Against the door like a yard child,
then climbed into me, pushing back
My sleep earlier than spring.

I'm not entirely sure what this means...what is a "yard child?" Still, though, I can picture "summer" kind of like the yellow fog in the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. The summer has taken a life of its own; usually, personification is for inanimate (but very tangible) objects, so it is unusual to use personification for a more abstract noun. McGuckian adds the image of the child, as well as the active verbs "climb" and "push" to offset the fact that it is difficult to quantify summer completely.

Here's a final example of the mixture of domestic themes and personification in "The Sitting":

In the kissed mouth I have given her,
As a woman's touch makes curtains blossom
Permanently in a house

Usually, the phrase is just "it has a woman's touch." McGuckian extends it, giving the curtains life as well. The personification takes a trite, boring phrase, and makes it interesting: since we think of curtains often having flowers, this line gives the image of them physically blossoming...I think that this is what we should do when writing poetry: take either an object, phrase, idea, etc. that the reader can certainly relate to--and then take it in a new direction that is surprising or thought-provoking.

Images with Motion & Location

One thing that McGuckian does effectively--she uses physical space and motion in her images. A lot of times, we think of imagery as being descriptive with colors, visual aspects, sound, and perhaps taste. But describing the physical location is less common, especially when repeated throughout the poem. This poem, "Confinement" has references to location and motion frequently:

Child in the centre of the dark parquet,
Sleepy, glassed-in child, my fair copy,
While you were sailing your boat in the bay,
I saw you pass along the terrace twice,
Flying in the same direction as the epidemic
Of leaves in the hall. Our half-unpeopled
Household, convalescent from the summer's leap,
That indiscreetly drew the damp from walls,
And coaxed our neighbor, the forest, into this
Sorority, how could I share with you, unpruned
And woebegone? A swan bearing your shape
Re-entered the river imagery of my arms.

McGuckian uses imagery that indicates physical location to underscore the the themes of separation. When I read the poem, I get an image of a young woman pacing a widow's walk on the top of a home overlooking the bay. Her husband is off at sea, and her young child sleeps inside the house. She's lonely, and societal standards of the time mean that she can't escape the house. The lines "I saw you pass along the terrace twice / Flying in the same direction as the epidemic / of leaves in the hall" create a distinct, poignant contrast--I can visualize the husband on his ship in the bay, while at the same time, the young child is making a mess of leaves in the front hall. These lines have a lot of motion, vivacity, to them--and this in turn contrasts with the next lines, which describe the quietness of the home without the entire family. By oscillating between motion/rest the reader gets a feeling for the wife's changing emotions. The final image is that of a swan mimicking the shape of arms--once again, McGuckian uses an image with a feel of motion, especially by choosing "re-entered" as the verb.

The imagery in "Confinement" is great--McGuckian uses words and images that create mental pictures of motion, travel, and a vivid life, and then she contrasts those with the solitude and quietness of the title and words like "woebegone." The poem has contrasting images--but it is never overly obvious. All of the images are woven together, giving the reader the impression of the emotional ups and downs of the subject.

Significance of Titles

When analyzing a poem, it's easy to jump straight to the text. The title, however, is important--the author has chosen a specific word or phrase to set off the rest of the poem. McGuckian uses brief, simple titles that indicate much more about the poem. Here's a good example:

Artemisia

For six months, one jasmine
Has perfumed my bed--in the morning
It is like the scent of friends, the society
Of roses! Yet I'm learning
How heart odours cling to any wrist
That has lingered over violets
Or immersed itself in musk four-fingers
Long, and spared no alcove
Of the body from its ample mist or rain.
When I accuse myself again of lacking
Water, or that subtle Greek custom
Of disfavoring my older, chosen sachet,
Wearing peachwood, or fenugreek, the artemisia
Offers me the formula of a flower still on stem,
Cupped to the last adulterous perfection.

What is "artemisia"?

The short answer is that it's a fern-like plant, with many herb varieties.

At first, we might think that the choice of "artemisia" as the title is no more than just choosing one of the plants mentioned in the poem. McGuckian has subtle references to it throughout the entire poem, though. She uses it as a framework for developing the other images--it ties together seemingly unrelated images into the larger picture of her intention.

In Russian culture, Artemisia species are commonly used in medicine. The bitter taste is seen as a symbol for the "bitter truth" that must be accepted by a deluded person. The final few lines, ending in "cupped to the last adulterous perfection," indicate that the artemisia provides the speaker with the ability to realize the deception (adultery).

Also, the reference to "greek." In Hellenistic culture, the goddess Artemis was associated with the herb "artemisia" and was the goddess of the hunt as well as the protector of the forest and children. The poem contains a lot of natural images--jasmine, roses, violets, musk, mist, rain, flower, peachwood, fenugreek. These natural images are not as perfect or unique as they appear: "heart odours cling to any wrist / that has lingered over violets." In fact, the "sweet" flowers are just a means of deception, a pleasant smell to cover the stench beneath.

Imagery

I've been thinking about what we discussed last class--why those two lines of poetry were considered to be such a good example of imagery. I think that one key is the lack of abstract words. We tend to think that using words like "passion, love, fear" etc. help create the "deeper" meaning. However, as we talked about, the most elusive (and sometimes the most rewarding) poetry lacks such abstract imagery. Paradoxically, more concrete imagery can be more difficult to figure out, because the author does not provide has with those abstract-word "clues."

This technique is certainly a characteristic of McGuckian's poems. Reading her poems, you'll be hard-pressed to find occasions where she uses abstract words. Her poems have a wide variety of images, and they are all very specific and concrete. For example, from "Apricot Ranch":

Dissolute leaves have become
the oath on my lips. In the mirror
Forming the backrest of my bed,
There is hardly a word that looks
Forward.

The last few lines of this stanza are especially interesting because of their juxtaposition. A mirror is the backrest of the bed. Usually, we think of a mirror as something that indicates reality, a reflection. Considering the fact that one reflects and processes while they sleep, I see the mirror headboard as a means of inner-reflection--hence the comment that the view is in the past, not the present.

Here is another image that I think is unusual(from "The Prince of Parallelograms"):

Light circled each side of the river
Like mouths into which grapes were pressed

It's a simile, but not a mundane one--how does McGukcian come up with these comparisons? They are so specific, so concrete--yet simultaneously abstract. They make her poems much more rich.

Abstraction

I've been having a hard time figuring out what, exactly, McGuckian is trying to say with her very lyrical poems. This excerpt from an interview from The Argotist was helpful, both to understand where McGuckian is coming from and for our own writing processes:

What's your writing process like? I'm wondering how often you write; under what circumstances; starting with a word, image or idea.

MM : My process. I don't see it as process. Sounds too recipe or technical. I want it or need it. Life gets disordered and choked with not saying to anyone as here only confusion words inadequate as tools of exploration. So, I clinically collect images, thoughts, ideas, series of words -- not single. Over a period. Then when I feel I have enough for a page of poetry. I sort them. I sift and shape. There is a dynamic between my state and the material. ... It is all up to the dance and play of the words. I just fold them into sentences like puff pastry layers.

What's your relationship to revision? Do you revise? If so, what toward? If not, why no?
MM: I hardly revise unless I was too tired when writing the thing and it was a mess. Then I cut and shear and sort but it is never a great success-- a B version. Peter my publisher says I write a cluster of poems around the same theme and only one is THE poem. If the moment of inspiration is right then it all happens properly or the poems curdle or set like a jelly or concrete. ...I tried once going back to a set of words I had and chose completely different ones and a different poem emerged. But not probably any better a one.

McGuckian "collect[s] images, thoughts, ideas, series of words" to create her poetry. The poetry certainly has a rhythmical feeling, and McGuckian does mix concrete objects with abstract ideas and feelings. McGuckian says that she writes poetry in one sitting (once she has the ideas), sort of a "hit or miss" concept with lots of emphasis on inspiration. Unlike Yeats, say, she does not begin with a clear intention and goal for what the reader should come away with--I get the feeling that even part of the way through a poem, the intention might shift (intentionally done, of course); her method of composition is so fluid and organic that I am intrigued (but also mystified).

This poem is a pretty typical example:

Felicia's Cafe

Darkness falls short by an hour
Of this summer's inhibitions:
Only the cold carpet
That owns a kind of flower
Feeds any farm or ocean
Around the bedroom's heart.

Each day of brown perfection
May be colour enough for bees:
The part of my eye
That is not golden sees.

First of all, I'm not exactly sure how the title relates to the poem--as far as I can see, typical "cafe" items don't particularly appear in the poem. There is some perky imagery ("flower," "golden," "colour") that fits with positive image that we normally associate with a cafe. The second part of the first stanza is especially nebulous: there are a lot of dissimilarr elements/objects that are put together: carpet, flower, farm, ocean, and bedroom. McGuckian also uses the color brown frequently as a motif--instead of our normal conception of brown as mundane,boring, etc., she uses it as an indication of interest and perfection. Here, it is as if bees are attracted to brown flowers. In the final line of the poem, McGuckian may be playing off of the identical sound of "sees" and "seas"--and the parallel of that to the line "feeds any farm or ocean." What is the significance of all of this? I'm not entirely sure. I feel that the author has almost painted such an abstract painting, that while aesthetic, I could not identify the subject.