[Robert J. Clawson]

When Rafael Campo's poems first appeared in The Kenyon Review, I found them powerful. Marilyn Hacker said that Rafael "brings us the news." I've also heard a wonderful poet, Paula Tatarunis (who's a medical doctor...check out her poetry publications on google.com) speak of Campo's "thundering iambs." She liked his early work, but has tired of his style.

By Rafael Campo, from a series of 16, 16-line, poems in WHAT THE BODY TOLD.

XV. Lilacs for My Mother

Of all the drugs I've known, the lilac's sweetest.
I seek it in the gardens of my neighbors;
To walk intoxicated through its vapors,
I've visited the Arnold Arboretum
(Which has the largest plants--a century
Of cultivation, blooming, on display).
The scent recalls my mother's silk sachets...
I'm resting on her pillow. In the breeze,
She sings to me: she says I'm handsome, strong;
I'm all she ever dreamed of, perfect, loved.
It never mattered that I'm gay; above
All else (the breeze, remembering her song)
Is freedom to express our love, be who
We are. And so, about my arm? It doesn't matter.
The lilacs, through my tears, grow even fatter--
My mother is my heart. The lilacs bloom.


This piece comes from a series dealing with cancer in the speaker's arm, among other subjects, such as medical care and loving relationships.

Bob




[This message has been edited by Robert J. Clawson (edited October 23, 2001).]

[A. E. Stallings]

Hey Bob. I have to say, I don't really know Campo's work that well, though I run into occasionally in the magazines. This one strikes me as so plain spoken as to be almost flat (and I was caught short a bit by the alexandrine in the anti-penultimate line, which seemed to slow it down), though I do like the mood called up by the scent of lilacs and its associations. Would you mind posting another, something contrasting perhaps? Or is this one indicative, do you think? (I wonder if the 16 line poems are meant to call to mind at all Meredith's sequence of 16 liners, "Modern Love"?)

Or maybe post one of Paula's (if she doesn't mind)? I remember a great one in Poetry some time back equating different kinds of patients to different kinds of poets. I loved that one!

[Robert J. Clawson]

Alicia,

Sure, I'll post another, next week, though. And, yes, I'll dig out some Tatarunis. She's a big leaguer.

Bob

[Michael Juster]

Rhina and I have had some back and forth about Campo for a while. He seems to be short on manners--he never replied to an invitation to read at Powow, and apparently was an unappreciated last minute cancellation at West Chester. I found some of his early stuff quite intriguing, and technically skilled, but he's one of those kind of poets whose work seems to go downhill in proportion to growing fame--I have found his more recent work sloppy technically and increasingly reliant on shock value. He's a practicing physician locally; fame, a day job and writing poetry is probably too much for most mortals, so perhaps I should be more sympathetic.

[Len Krisak]

No. Mike, don't be.

Shock/schlock value would be more like it.

[Robert J. Clawson]

Mike,

I think you've nailed it.

Bob

[nyctom]

Well, I was intrigued enough by this thread to take out both of the Campo books--<u>What the Body Said</u> and [u]Diva{/u}. I don't think it is so much a matter of shock/schlock as it is schtick. He has three subjects: medical and homosexual and Cuban. And that's about it. Some of his poems, especially in Diva, are flat Alicia, and often painfully so. And he has fallen for all the postmodern tricks. Almost half the book, for instance, contains prose poems. They didn't particularly strike me as interesting. It's almost as if some editors collared him and said, "Prose poems are very hot right now." But there are a number of poems in What the Body Said I did find interesting and even moving, especially this. It is from the same sequence as "Lilacs for My Mother."

The Very Self

Another end-stage cancer patient came
For hospice placement yesterday. It seemed
As though he'd lived forever in the same
Misshapen body, starving for a name
To give each new-found bone. It seemed as though
He'd run until his muscles were consumed,
Until his gnawing hunger had subsumed
In it his very self. I need to know
The vital signs. I want to know his fate.
I need to hold his heart, the stone beneath
The endless, bone-strewn desert; while I squeeze
for just one drop of blood, more dying waits
Downstairs for me. I almost hear their groans.
Same hunger, bones. Same face we all consumed.
As I examine them, I find the tomb
Toward which they lead. I know it is my own.