Michael Lake reviews Roland Prevost’s Parapagus (2012) in Broken Pencil #69

Michael Lake reviews Roland Prevost’s Parapagus (2012) in Broken Pencil #69. Thanks so much! This is actually the first review of Prevost’s second last above/ground press chap (this one has appeared since).

“A backfield dig unearths two gleaming pre-human / Skulls.”

            So begins Roland Prevost’s suite of short poems about an encounter between some archaeologists and the remains of an ancient two-headed woman, the parapagus of the title. The woman’s story emerges delicately through meditations on the life of her anomalous body: “Female adult remains. Survival to maturity / Suggests an acceptance of strangeness.” We catch glimpses of her sex life and the struggle between her two selves, but rather than focus much on the particular deviances of this body, Prevost plays with notions of otherness, exploring how and why it is perpetuated: “Assorted reactions of gawkers, reverencers. / A notoriety: across families, tribes. Across to us, / Three species down evolution’s stream.”

            The perception of otherness goes both ways as Prevost imagines what the two-headed woman would think of us: “They wouldn’t recognize us as kin.” All of this unfolds succinctly in ten swift poems, the titles of which are, at first, frustratingly oblique – [ magical beliefs ] + { meats rendered } or [ passive aggressive ] + { bound } are two such title examples—but upon a second read, they become helpful thematic markers, like an archaeological site, if you will. Parapagus is a short read, but one that will reward an attentive audience.

Michael Lake reviews Gil McElroy’s Twentieth (2013) in Broken Pencil #69

Michael Lake reviews Gil McElroy’s Twentieth (2013) in Broken Pencil #69. Thanks so much! This is actually the first review of McElroy’s second last above/ground press chap (this one has appeared since). And, while we might think that the reviewer might need to read a bit more (why do so many reviewers from Broken Pencil say things like “I don’t get it, therefore the author needs to do more work”?), we very much appreciate his attention.

The eight poems in Gil McElroy’s latest chapbook are each a hazy snapshot of an early-twentieth century French poet or artist. We get Tzara, Picabia, Breton, Apollinaire, and some perhaps less familiar names like Desnos, Eluard, and Aragon. The poems’ titles indicate their subject, but any other reference [to] the artist’s life or work will likely have no entry point for the average reader.

            In “Aragon,” McElroy writes: “Wednesday it happened./ Cushy foreskins, suddenly./ Her breasts/ His marriage/ Broom broom”. Or from “Picabia”: “A dream/ should cure me, a sock in/ one’s pocket that turns/ into salmon outfits”. The writing is always vivid, but the specificity of McElroy’s allusions is lost without a larger conceptual framework in which to understand them. We are left without any indication as to where these poems are rooted: is it biography, interpretation of the artist’s work, or McElroy himself?

            Each poem is in two parts, the second of which is presented as footnotes of sorts. The writing in these sections have a feverish intensity gained through repetition and surreal imagery and is the most compelling part of the collection. From “Breton”: “In my sleep I see Breton in the trees./ Breton will be everything I’ve ever lost./ Breton will be drawing a crowd, Breton all alone./ Breton you notice./ Breton is passing by.”

            Twentieth could have benefitted from an author’s note to better position readers in this unfamiliar terrain. As it is, the handling of a very niche subject will leave many readers feeling on the outside of McElroy’s vision.

Michael Lake reviews Stephen Brockwell’s Images from Declassified Nuclear Test Films (2014) in Broken Pencil #68

Michael Lake was good enough to review Stephen Brockwell’s Images from Declassified Nuclear Test Films (2014) in Broken Pencil #68. Thanks so much! This is actually the second review of Brockwell's chapbook, after Rebecca Anne Banks reviewed such over at Subterranean Blue Poetry. As he writes:

Aside from the title and a dabbling of references to gamma rays, alpha particles and civil engineers, it is unclear what thematic connection, if any, this suite of poems has with nuclear test films. Many of the films are available to stream online, but they do not provide any clues as to what is at the heart of this collection.

            The first seven of nine poems reference specific films in their titles: “080071, 1964, Tonopah Test Range” or “0800035, 1968 & 1973, Project Plowshare.” The films themselves are a mix of propagandist fear-mongering voiceover footage of test blasts that feature some rather abstract and hypnotizing shots of explosions and floating lights. The corresponding poems pull a variety of images from the footage—images of dust, deserts, water, fire—but are strung together without any larger cohesion in either theme or form. A few standout lines—“The thought was / everything / could be delivered by cannon—” or “Anchor of the trunk / more membrane of flame / than memory of / wood, water”—land with dull thuds in the middle of poems that are otherwise so vague as to be about anything and nothing all at once.

            For the collection’s final two poems, Brockwell changes modes and strays even further from the already tenuous thematic thread. “Wednesday Morning, 3 AM” reads like an early draft of a finger-pointing manifesto. It repeats the phrase “Nothing is more silencing than…” with such offerings as “the law” or “wireless everything” or “the grave.” It reads as if it came from a different collection altogether. Ultimately, these poems do not add up to more than the sum of their disparate parts.

Michael Lake reviews Jason Christie’s Cursed Objects (2014) in Broken Pencil #68

Michael Lake was good enough to review Jason Christie’s Cursed Objects (2014) in Broken Pencil #68. Thanks so much! As he writes:

Jason Christie has a strange way of looking at the world. He sees objects as cursed, not in a supernatural way, but rather, as he explains in the author’s note, because the objects “have achieved an uncomfortable new role, namely that of reflecting our twisted sense of domination.” The poem “Bell, book and candle” might be the most straightforward example of this notion, where each object’s function is willed by the object itself, casting a dark shadow over the idea they are simply instruments of our own design.

            “Henge,” one of the best poems of the lot, employs a much wider stare to explore a similar idea. The creating of henges, in essence, is an ancient practice by which humans have externalized their primacy (over land, over people, over gods) using earth and stone. Christie looks to modern practices for equivalents and what he comes up with is rather bleak: “a voice alone / rises to say anything / begun today will fail.”

            In all of these poems, Christie seems to be telling us that the trust put into the objects we surround ourselves with is misguided; we’ve created a world of falsities where even “a stone road / lengthens my / journey.”

            Christie’s playful and inventive language is both a challenge and a delight to read. He is equally concerned with the limits of language in describing a challenging world, and the poems often devolve into fragments and deconstructions, with words breaking apart on the page to form new, invented terms. This is all done with an assured voice and an expert hand.