BOOKS IN REVIEWa tree is rootedor a rock.Many things here hint at a solid, unusualtalent, but much <strong>of</strong> the collection fails tosatisfy fully, fails to communicate. Many<strong>of</strong> the poems come across as experimentalexercises: we progress through the bookassailed by handwritten poems, graphs,concrete poems, drawings, and every kind<strong>of</strong> avant-garde device, but we never findthe real voice <strong>of</strong> the poet here, as he castsaround, seduced by experimental gesture.The collection, for all its attempts atgnomic wisdom, leaves me ultimatelybaffled and a little bored as I search forreference points to which I can connectmy own experience. Playing with words,wrenching them around, missing outconnectives, dislocating syntax, does notin itself make language into poetry. Ihope the poet will continue in the directionpointed to by "Cultivated Earth,""From Snow to Snow," "No Frame,""Gat," "In Umbría." He has real talent,but a book this long does not serve himwell at this stage.Still seeking recognizable and tangibleexperience, feeling I can respond to, Iopen Marlene Cookshaw's first collectionand find myself once again in a semisurrealisticworld with few referentialtoe-holds :Let's say you're almost down the alleywhen a man passes you on his way to thegarbage binLet's say, too, that your lover constructsparallel beamsfor both him and you to follow. Youkeep straying to hisAnd the man has in his hand a deadwoodpeckerWhat, really, is this all about? We can,I admit, by working hard enough, tentativelyconjecture some symbolic meaningsin Cookshaw's work, but why shouldwe have to? Why the bafflement? Whythe long sequence <strong>of</strong> prose-poems, wherethe pseudo-narrative confuses? Much <strong>of</strong>this seems like private experience writtenin semi-private language, and the poet isnot communicating enough because sheis using techniques <strong>of</strong> obliqueness to hidebehind. She gives away practically nothingwhile pretending it's a lot. Not all islike that, however — there are somehopeful signs in poems like "ZoologicalGarden," "Angling," and "SevenMonths" that Cookshaw will come todeal more openly with the real world.When she allows us in, we can see a verygood poet.Eva Tihanyi lets us further into herpoetry, her world <strong>of</strong> experience. Theblurb gave me chills — "a range <strong>of</strong> imageryfrom mythological and romantic totechnological and cosmic" — but it's notthat bad! Here are real people in realplaces having real and clearly expressedexperiences. Blessed relief. But look alittle closer and the "cosmic" comes in,nuzzling at the poet, tempting her tojump too high to find "significance." Wehave "the primal pull <strong>of</strong> blood," "the truearcanum," "the primitive pliant consciousness,""God's invisible fingers," "thesky's dream" — over-elevated stuff whichis clichéd and pretentious. This showsTihanyi at her worst, but there are realvirtues here as well. When she comesback to earth and writes <strong>of</strong> people, relationships,laundromats, blueberries, windowblinds, her poetry is accessible andstrong. This is a promising and interestingbook, where we can find shrewdobserved significance in the ordinary.When she realizes that ultra-romanticcosmic imagery is s<strong>of</strong>tening her work instead<strong>of</strong> giving it strength, Eve Tihanyiwill be a poet to watch :The only reassurance:that somewhere in the small movements,a hand brushing hair <strong>of</strong>f a browor flicking lint from a shoulder,there is a poignant rhythm,a trifling dance <strong>of</strong> humanityJohn Lent's long, handsome collection189
BOOKS IN REVIEWenters and stays in the "dance <strong>of</strong> humanity."It is the most satisfying <strong>of</strong> thesebooks, allowing the reader access to manykinds <strong>of</strong> experience, not afraid to beconfessional, full <strong>of</strong> deep feeling. Hegives us fragments <strong>of</strong> the autobiography<strong>of</strong> a sensitive and intelligent man, comingto grips with his subjects out <strong>of</strong> necessity,not out <strong>of</strong> fashion. We come to know thepoet's friends, his journeys, his fears, hishopes, what he has read, what his life islike, and it is all done with a freshness <strong>of</strong>voice which convinces and persuades.(This voice transcends the irritating habit<strong>of</strong> leaving spaces between words, evenwhen there is no syntactical justification,and the poems which are too long andindulge in superfluous detail.) It is, aboveall, a human book and one I shall returnto for its insights into the swaying conflicts<strong>of</strong> a life, <strong>of</strong> happiness suddenlyturning sour, <strong>of</strong> a self-mocking and/orserious exploration <strong>of</strong> personal struggle.Edmonton, Toronto, Regina, Nelson,Vernon — the poems are rooted in realplaces, but these are turned into places<strong>of</strong> the mind, way-stations <strong>of</strong> the migrantheart, touchstones in the poet's search formeaning. The search is intensified by thetonal range <strong>of</strong> the poetry, from the highserious to the most colloquial, blendedsmoothly and always at the poet's service.The poems here do not lend themselvesto short quotation. Suffice to saythat this is a very fine collection.Perhaps the lesson to be learned fromthese five books is that strong, complexfeeling does not require complex surfacetechnique; that power in poetry does notnecessarily derive from technical experiment;that the good poet can examine,define, and transcend the everyday andmundane; that mystification, in languageor technique, can do nothing butmake wider the gap between poet andreader in Canada — those few hundredcopies sold, and, <strong>of</strong>ten, no wonder.CHRISTOPHER WISEMANMONSTERS WITHINSUNITI NAM jos HI, From the Bedside Book <strong>of</strong>Nightmares. Fiddlehead/Goose Lane, $6.95.JOHN OUGHTON, Gearing <strong>of</strong> Love: Poems andPhotographs. Mosaic, n.p.ALTHOUGH CANADIAN NOVELISTS havebeen noticeably engaged <strong>of</strong> late in socialcauses (Margaret Laurence and nucleardisarmament, Margaret Atwood and politicaltorture in Bodily Harm), Canadianpoets are no less committed. Themost recent collections by John Oughtonand Sunti Namjoshi bear ample testimonyto this fact, and reveal, as well,both the challenges and pitfalls <strong>of</strong> combiningpoetry and social issues.Oughton's collection, as its title suggests,is primarily concerned with theclash between the artificial or technologicaland the natural. The structure <strong>of</strong>the work highlights this clash; in the firstsection, "Welcome to Japan," the poet'sappreciation <strong>of</strong> the traditional reverenceshown to nature in this ancient civilization("Take rocks / for text / learnstream's / tongue well") collapses whenhe is faced with "geisha-land,"from whose assembly loins springHONDASONYPIONEERCANON. . .This convergence <strong>of</strong> Eastern and Americanvalues reaches a climax at the end <strong>of</strong>this section, when the poet kisses a cryingJapanese woman whose "lips are bittersweet/ as berries on a rough, Ontari<strong>of</strong>ence." Back to the land <strong>of</strong> rough fences— chained and imprisoned nature — wetherefore return in Section Two, "In StillLife."Here, the confrontation <strong>of</strong> artifice andnature reaches a fever pitch, and thepositive motifs in Japanese culture areentirely inverted, as though one were190
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