Amanda Earl reviews four 2017 titles: Matthew Johnstone's ( Kiln ), Natalee Caple's The Appetites of Tiny Hands, Philip Miletic's Marginal Prints and Sarah Fox's Invisible Wife

As an acknowledgment of the press' twenty-fifth anniversary [see my 'by the numbers' piece here], Ottawa poet, publisher and above/ground press author (here) Amanda Earl was good enough to review four different above/ground press 2017 titles over at her blog, providing first reviews for Matthew Johnstone's ( Kiln ) and Natalee Caple's The Appetites of Tiny Hands: Twentieth Anniversary Edition, a second review of Philip Miletic's Marginal Prints (after Eleni Zisimatos' review) and a third review of Sarah Fox's Invisible Wife (after Rebecca Banks' review and Greg Bem's review). Thanks so very much! You can see Amanda's glorious and generous review here.

Rebecca Anne Banks reviews Sarah Fox's Invisible Wife (2017)

Rebecca Anne Banks was good enough to review Sarah Fox's Invisible Wife (2017) over at Subterranean Blue Poetry. Thanks, Rebecca! This is actually the second review of Invisible Wife, after Greg Bem's review over at Yellow Rabbit. You can see Banks' original review here.

A dance with the carousel, Invisible Wife, a symbolist dance that lives on the edge of ecstatic experience, a woman’s scream that bangs in the New Age Renaissance Republic of poetry. Sarah Fox (Poet, writer, teacher, astrologer, worker, placenta encapsulator, artist, grandmother, resister) lives and writes in Minneapolis. She has published two books with Coffee House Press.

The cover of this Chapbook is an excellent introduction, an art nouveau piece, the head of a woman seems to be screaming over enlarged legs, and if you look again, in a trick of the light, it looks like she is a dancer with arms in an arc over her head. Both states are intertwined in this Art Nouveau poetry Chapbook, at once a protest at the state of power conundrums that hurt us and at the same time a dance with darkness, light and the state of serial relationships.

The poetry begins with a poem about Frida Kahlo, as if spinning mythologies and stories, about the Symbolist painter who was in a severe trolley accident and spent a lot of time in a body cast, painting from her bed. A controversial relationship with the painter Diego, Frida Kahlo did not have any children although she had several miscarriages.

“Don’t take the bus. Order burritos.

In Mexico City and Chiapas, women’s

rights. In Frida Kahlo, Diego. In Diego,

Marxism and a few babies.”

Poet Fox is spinning a symbolist poetry confection with edge, a blue rendition of a song.

The title itself, Invisible Wife, touches on the lost woman inside the darkness of her husband’s psyche, his power and his disconnect, someone not fully in her power, at the behest of the patriarchy. He is represented by snake imagery and as someone lost in a forest, suggesting violence. The wife is redemption, “My heart is also invisible, to me. But it sings in tune.”

Symbolist imagery of the goddess, the crone, nature, the body, birth, death and dancing, this poetry sings. Cadence is achieved through repetition, and spins into dialectic, spins into wholeness, spins into magic. A truthtelling, that haunts the nature of intimate relationships, serial marriages, the old school advice from Good Housekeeping magazine in 1955, the reality of power conundrums in intimate relationships and the effects of broken marriages on the body and the psyche. From First Aid Kit

“Radical lying is an unimaginable violence –

a violence now imprinting in psyche everywhere:

I hear the leader speak or see his words and I bleed

through my outerwear. I bleed all the way

back through my wedding day. I wore

blue velvet. Lol.”


“I’m imagining a tail on the wedding dress.

A whip. Something ugly like driftwood.

Something like a deer climbing out

of driftwood. Someone lifting

the driftwood up out of the river

they were crying into. Someone

lifting medicine out of the bride and

lifting the bride out of the ghost.

Someone exorcising the ghost from the truth.”

Enigmatic, as if clothed in mystery, a story is being told in broken thought forms, sometimes in narrative, a one-sided conversation. The story itself lives in symbols and pictures.

In Save Me – for Worldwide Discotheque, it as if the poem is set in a dance hall, people are dancing, the lines of poetry are people dancing and saying “Save Me”. An ingenue poetica of truth and protest,

“We need to think up better endings for our stories.

These tears of mine are justified. To be honest, every Jesus

is terrible. What’s another word for dance? Mother’s milk.

Save me. Endless darkness that is not darkness.”

A brilliant invocation against the violence of the war economy society, the brokenness in ended intimate relationships, the poetry spinning mythologies into dance. A brilliant read. Invisible Wife by Sarah Fox.

Greg Bem reviews Sarah Fox's Invisible Wife (2017)

Seattle WA poet and reviewer Greg Bem was good enough to provide the first review for Sarah Fox's Invisible Wife (2017) over at Yellow Rabbits. Thanks so much! You can see Bem’s review here.

some author activity: mclennan, Higdon, Greenstreet + Fox,

[Lady Aoife providing a valuable production assist] rob mclennan has a new poem up at Crap Orgasm; Hailey Higdon interviews Joanne Kyger over at Queen Mob's Teahouse; Kate Greenstreet is interviewed over at Touch the Donkey; and Sarah Fox has a new poem posted as part of the "Tuesday poem" series over at the dusie blog.

new from above/ground press: INVISIBLE WIFE, by Sarah Fox

INVISIBLE WIFE
Sarah Fox
$5

I tried to look. I carefully
talked to him whose form
dimmed, escaped its body,
superimposed over an imaginary
snake. Was I the dream?
Wasn’t the snake pretend?
He was a stone snake
that touched without touching,
kept burning his touch into
my mind until my mind
could not hold form. He
was a stone rising from the pit
of a fire, never not rising up.
My own mind became a ghost,
and everyone saw. He was blurred,
he unwound and unwound
and unwound. Did he become
my mind? I could not see
him when I looked at him.
He was rain. He was fire.
I squinted, he shapeshifted.
He had never touched me
with holiness. That was
a dream. Such a long dead
dream. I tried to talk. I
talked and talked and talked.
My talking unwound into
an aura he slid along
and through like a horse
that’s not a horse. Like
a snake through its own skin.
Through me, into me,
superimposed over my mind,
inside my organs. Colonizing
the very rhythm of my heart
beating in my chest while I slept
and he fondled me or himself.
I could not escape his unwinding.
My life blurred. “Some snakes
burn everything they touch.”

published in Ottawa by above/ground press
February 2017
a/g subscribers receive a complimentary copy

Sarah Fox lives in NE Minneapolis, and is the author of Because Why and The First Flag, both published by Coffee House Press. She is a teacher, astrologer, worker, writer, placenta encapsulator, artist, resister, and a grandmother.

To order, send cheques (add $1 for postage; outside Canada, add $2) to: rob mclennan, 2423 Alta Vista Drive, Ottawa ON K1H 7M9 or paypal at www.robmclennan.blogspot.com