Some months back I received a copy of a small limited edition book ["tree on the outside"] by one William Minor [Coracle: Ballybeg, Grange, Clonmel, Tipperary, Ireland, 2010*]. The book is a perfect bound paperback, about 4 1/2 x 6 inches, in dark green folding self-wrappers. It has no "title page" and all the copyright and printing information is on the last leaf of text. The "editorial design" is by Simon Cutts (a name I recognize from the backlist of Jargon Press some years back). The work is minimalist, and originally so, to my eye and ear--since I can't think of any antecedents that would fit. This is always a good sign, since the best fresh work usually best hides its influences, particularly if the writer is young. I've always had a fondness for work like Minor's, because it suggests a care and precision that is admirable, especially when it feels mysterious or sharp in its contrasts or wit. Traditional (Quietist) wit usually shows itself as overbrimming polymathic demonstration (a surfeit of invention), but I've always been drawn to clarity of reserve and insistent specificity. It's usually an indication, I like to think, of a sharp mind showing itself early. Actually, Minor may not even be a young man, and he might have been writing for 30 years. This is a problem, because I have no context to fall back on. Maybe that's alright.
Quotation is the shortest cut to explanation, so I'll drop a few breadcrumbs here--
I cut
the carrots
as I cut
the carrots
.
girl
girl in mirror
.
talking and liking talking and liking
.
back
front
door
front
.
night
at night
.
one night
in three windows
.
photograph bathing.
.
Anna
the front the back the
sides
.
French towns
seem natural
to the people
who live in them.
.
I am a woman and
the window is open and
the sun is shining and my
shadow is on the bed and I am
lost.
.
I ask you
to remain who you are
until morning.
.
woman in
the shape of
a woman in the
night in the shape
of a night.
.
look
how ugly
the inside of
a man is
.
St. Tropez
the woman
emerging from the sea
also reappears in language.
.
two figures
we sat down
next to each other
and ran out of stuff
to say
.
I blame spectacle.
.
someone else
smokes in my place
.
Outside on the tree.
The level of statement is specific, and clear. The less the speaker tries to reveal, the more he is revealed. This is one of the paradoxes of minimalism. You think that the less you say, the less elaboration you permit yourself, the more discrete (and conceptual) you make it, the less is relinquished. But it isn't. No one who writes a poem--no one who writes anything--can help but express exactly who they are. The emotional feeling of revelation is an illusion-- The more we want to say something, the harder we try to get the exact words in the correct places, the more elusive an objective reality becomes. Giving and receiving, accepting and attempting, running and standing perfectly still. The heart, meanwhile, keeps on beating automatically.
I quote you. You quote me. We quote each other. I'm getting to become familiar with William Minor's poetry, as each poem adds to my knowledge of how he thinks. Does he think such and such a poem "works" or does he simply stop when something happens. How he sees things is reflected in how he thinks to describe them. Description is a kind of failure. The degree of this failure is an aspect of language which appears to interest him. Or the degree to which we can control how we think about the world by altering the usual ways we think to say something about the world. Moving the pieces on the board, in different arrangements. Then comparing this to the model. Descriptive poetry is like modeling. A replica, a copy, a version, a specific use. Each use defines its limit. Each mind is limited by its capacity. All eyes see the same thing. What is it.
Who is William Minor.
____________
2 comments:
Proud
Post a Comment