Toronto writer Cary Fagan was good enough to provide the first review for
Stephen Collis’ FIRST SKETCH OF A POEM IWILL NOT HAVE WRITTEN (2017)
over at his Bodies and Words. Thanks much! You can see Fagan’s post here. As
he writes:
Stephen Collis, First Sketch of a Poem I Will
Not Have Written. Ottawa, above/ground press, 2017.
abovegroundpress.blogsplot.com
An emotion not felt
so often in poetry is anger. But I certainly feel it in Stephen Collis’
long poem (something above 150 lines) – anger at contemporary culture, at the
stubbornness of capitalism, and perhaps at the corruption of poetry itself. It’s
full of interesting contradictions, the main one for me being that it is no
flag-waving manifesto or populist call to the masses but instead intricate,
fragmented, and often as not difficult.
At borders, frontiers, reaching
into the historical moment of listening
to insurrection and speech /
spur and limit
in place of the street / we have Facebook
Google is a universe we
No longer have to search the limits of
the revolutionary subject lies elsewhere
can we revive?
into the historical moment of listening
to insurrection and speech /
spur and limit
in place of the street / we have Facebook
Google is a universe we
No longer have to search the limits of
the revolutionary subject lies elsewhere
can we revive?
Sometimes he sounds like a tired and aging, but
still raging lefty, hating the opium of the internet and pop songs that “tell
us / nothing” (surely an unfair generalization these days). He might be
in an old-fashioned working man’s tavern, talking to a half-listening friend
(“and sometimes David when I say politics / I mean poetics”), feeling defeated
but with still some of the old energy in him. His thoughts jump around,
as if he might be half drunk or falling asleep-
swing low
Campanera. Missing. Cellphone. Rift. Blank. Space. Rosebud.
What body is general? Autonomous?
Gras. Roots. Bit. Torrent. Detainees. No one. Illegal.
Campanera. Missing. Cellphone. Rift. Blank. Space. Rosebud.
What body is general? Autonomous?
Gras. Roots. Bit. Torrent. Detainees. No one. Illegal.
There’s another moment when a name is mentioned,
likely a wife or partner: “Late now. Sound of the furnace. Cathy out. Girls
asleep.” This also gives the impression of a restless and unhappy soul
wrestling with defeats and losses in the dark hours. But the lines always have
a clean, sharp edge, expressing an intelligent consciousness that feels to me
trapped inside a spiral of argument, trying to find a way out:
I ponder Empedocles and volcanos
the history of the oppressed
“If you go out and look for the economy
it is hard to find”
desire to become cosmos
to live in the limitless
connection of all things
the history of the oppressed
“If you go out and look for the economy
it is hard to find”
desire to become cosmos
to live in the limitless
connection of all things
As I read I began to expect some kind of uplift or
release, some hope in the end, if faint or bleary. Instead the poem ends
in cynicism or perhaps just resignation: “god didn’t die / he was translated
into money”. But I took this as a momentary feeling, as if another moment
chosen (five minutes before, one minute after) might have given us a different
ending, a sense that the fight – in the street and on the page – must go on.