Oh dear, her words haven't taken her very far, have they!
I'm afraid the Pantoum just reminds me of the "nice" poetry I was given as a child, which all seemed to be on those lines of using your imagination and flying away to any land you choose... I don't know. It's not SAYING anything, is it? And if it is, is it true?
I Googled Allison Joseph, she seems to have a large presence and lots going on. So here's another poem, but it also seems dull, anecdotal, untransformative. The level of craft isn't high, with awkward metaphors and not too much else going on.
I've seen so many people think they've reached a state of "poetry" when all they've really reached is "permission to own my experiences," which is actually just a condition that might ALLOW poetry. It's a beginning.
Well - to my mind. I could be a doily-weaver! This is very much political poetry, which has a lineage and tradition of its own. What was the King James Version if not political poetry? I'm sure lots of people feel heartwarmed and completely validated when they read these poems.
I note particularly that her content is much more authentic in free verse than it is in form, where she suddenly goes all sugary.
Of course the crux, in terms of it being high art, is where "what it's FOR" is more important than "what it IS." But this seems more than useful for giving to kids who need to know you can write your own experience. It's like A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, remember that?
Here's where the pantoum comes back in. It was clear to me on first reading that it's also a political poem. The dream girls are the disempowered ones. She's writing a poem for girls (& they are out there) who have no choices in life. It seems old-fashioned because it's not a concept we're accustomed to these days and the sugar hasn't helped! These days the girls might be more interested in Kim Addonizio.
My take, anyway.
Disobedience
Do I really want it back,
that pen for chipped
furniture, my room the last
stop for the peeling bureau,
the sagging mattresses
my grandmother once slept on?
Do I want to re-live
that shedding green carpet,
my unsteady desk with its
wobbly wooden chair,
the room cold no matter
the season, so clammy
no space heater could
warm it fully? I sat
in that room, engrossed
in library books, afraid
my father might find
my overdue copy of Fear of Flying,
that I read fitfully in the almost-dark,
astonished over its sex scenes.
Or I pecked at my stolid gray Royal,
striking stiff keys one at a time,
fingers hesitant on the heavy
machine, pressing out poems.
I taught myself new words
from someone's set of vocabulary
records, knitted long scarves
only to rip them apart.
Who wants to know that self
too timid to live beyond books,
too restless to make anything
enduring from yarn, words?
Do I really have to welcome
that girl back, the one
who loved transistor radios,
crochet hooks, who hoarded
pennies in a ripped purse?
I don't want her back
but she's here anyway:
gangly, ashamed,
disobedient daughter
who never seems to leave
her room, sneaking out
only when necessary,
leaving her dinner untouched,
sink of dishes unwashed.
BANNED POST
[This message has been edited by Katy Evans-Bush (edited February 20, 2005).]
|