Jon Cone is a Canadian poet living in Iowa and, if the work in Against Perfectionism & Other Poems is anything to go by, influenced by the New York School, a thought that came to me as I encountered poem titles like ‘The Stationary Engineer at Rest Ponders the World as an Inscrutable Theology of Material Influence’ and ‘The Exile Alive to the Etching of an Hour’, so I was pleased to encounter ‘A Poem for Frank O’Hara’ almost halfway in. To my surprise, it is the shortest poem in the pamphlet:
A Poem for Frank O’HaraShort as it is, this poem captures the humour and the sense of luminous triviality that suffuses much of the work gathered here. And that humour can be self-deprecating, as in ‘A Poem for Mother and Dather (after Tomaž Šalamun)’:
For I shall drink a warm Coke at noon
and trace lovingly
the cracked egg of the world.
He’s ugly! His face is ugly! His body is ugly!This absurdist strain melds perfectly with what I called the luminous triviality at the heart of so much of the work here:
Ugly! Ugly! Ugly! Jonathan Cone is an awful poet
because he is an awful person and
when he goes for a sprightly march about
the compound of a summer’s dawn
mongrels will stand on hind legs to salute him
and feral cats will trail at acute angles behind.
A Caffeinated Dream of SpringThis is one of the things poetry does; it takes the ordinary things and makes them extraordinary, if only the poet is willing to take a chance on seeming mundane. Cone takes that leap with gusto. The pamphlet’s title poem consists in the main of a recipe for a simple meal, salad and dessert. The poem then ends:
The waitress brought us these beautiful white mugs.
They each had a single blue stripe just below the lip.
I mean the simplicity of that singular blue trail upon
that immaculate occasion of white. Then the waitress
poured lucidly from the coffee pot filling our mugs.
And the sound the coffee made was easy and so gentle.
Like the world was home and unsteady on our behalf.
I don’t know if this would win any culinary awards. OK I admitWhich strikes me as the perfect way to go about poetry in these insane times. Forget about the prizegivers, avoid the overly polished, make something that tastes good. And in these poems, Cone follows his own advice to perfect imperfection.
I know it would not. But I don’t care. It tastes good to me,
& that is ultimately what matters because the world
might come crashing down any second now,
we don’t have time to be perfectionists in all we attempt or do.
John Levy’s Vast Spaces is his second pamphlet from the prolific and always interesting Above/Ground Press. Like Cone, Levy has a fine eye for the everyday, but he is primarily a poet of community, and many of his poems are in the form of notes addressed to named friends and/or fellow poets, while others carry dedications. Here’s an example
SkyHere, as so often in Levy’s work, close observation of the world opens out to a kind of social sense of what it is to live in that world, a set of interactions between the thing seen, the observing poet, the dedicatee and the reader that is redolent with a quiet sense of illumination. This is conversation raised to the level of art.
for John Phillips
The turkey buzzard that circled above me twice this morning had
beautiful white on the underside of its black wings and a vividly red
beak and if it had been me up there I know I would have loved gliding
like that, not having to move my wings and not caring about the old
man below me looking up as if in the church without a roof that I’d
never enter.
Some of the interactions are with strangers, others involve pets, and there’s a thread that runs through several of the poems concerning Levy’s learning to play the piano in his 70s, as in this note to another poet:
Note to Robyn Scheienz (August 9, 2025)The almost casually conversational surface here serves to conceal the technical craft at work, the repetitions (barks and barks / over and over) enacting the practice, the forward propulsion created by line and stanza endings, the threads of assonance and alliteration that bind those same lines and stanzas together (read it aloud if you don’t believe me). All of which gently serves to convey the ‘meaning’, that to be human is to create, to make mistakes and learn from them, and create better, and that what we make well is as much a part of the world as a bird, rabbit or snake is.
Bunny, our excitable little rescue terrier, barks
and barks, apparently furious at me
for stopping playing over and over
“Claire de Lune,” practicing
the sustain pedal, making mistakes and
correcting them, all of which maybe
he not only silently tolerated but
which intrigued him as much
as when he sits on one side of our French door
watching a lizard or, if he’s even luckier, a rabbit
or small bird, and yesterday that long black snake
like a living middle C elongated by a sustain pedal.
This soft-spoken humanity is what Levy is about, in both senses of the word. His poetry is difficult to write about because the poems are so definitively what they are, complete and in no real need of comment. Read him.
