Adapted from the anthology, CALIFORNIA POETRY FROM THE GOLD RUSH TO THE PRESENT: Suzanne J. Doyle was born in Missouri in 1953. She was a Marine Corps child, and, as her father was re-stationed, she moved from her home state to Hawaii (before it was a state) to North Carolina and finally to southern California, where she eventually attended U.C.L.A. and U.C. Santa Barbara. At Santa Barbara, Suzanne says, “I met Edgar Bowers and my education finally began.” After graduating, she was accepted into the creative writing program at Stanford University where she studied with Kenneth Fields and Helen Pinkerton Trimpi. She completed her M.A. in 1977 and worked as an English teacher in Palo Alto until 1981. Her first book, SWEETER FOR THE DARK, was published in 1982. Her other books are DOMESTIC PASSIONS (1984), DANGEROUS BEAUTIES (1990), and an e-book, WILD LIGHTNING (2002), produced by THE FORMALIST magazine. A chapbook, CALYPSO, was published in 2003 by Scienter Press.
For over twenty years, Suzanne has been a successful businesswoman, writing marketing materials for high-tech clients in the Silicon Valley. In 1990, she founded her own company, High/Low Communications. “You Learn to Steal as Much Time as You Can,” a 1998 interview with POETS & WRITERS, provides a witty discussion of the unlikely but surprisingly compatible marriage between poetry and the corporate world. Suzanne lives in Palo Alto.
Over the past six years, Suzanne has been working with Helen Trimpi to edit and get into print the poems of Catherine Davis. This is a true labor of love, as well as an extremely valuable contribution to American poetry. Information about the obstacles the project faces and the difficult life of Catherine Davis is available in the Stanford alumni magazine at:
http://www.stanfordalumni.org/news/m...how/davis.html
http://news-service.stanford.edu/new...is-042308.html
HOW WOULD YOU CHARACTERIZE your childhood? What did you most love to do? Did you get in trouble, or did you behave? Of all the places you lived when you were growing up, which left the most lasting impression?
I would characterize my childhood as a summer garden in which I was often surprised by snakes.
Both of my parents are from St. Louis and during my early childhood, because my father was in the Marine Corps, we would live with my maternal grandparents whenever he was ordered overseas. They lived in the St. Louis suburb of Overland on a lot that was about half an acre of a former apple orchard. Having survived the depression there, they had also planted grapes and a large vegetable garden. I would play outside all day, grabbing apples, grapes, strawberries, or mulberries whenever I felt like a snack, wetting my whistle on honeysuckle nectar. If I was lucky, my mom would pack me a lunch, so I didn’t even have to come in at noon. At the age of six I had devised my own version of Survivor. I was a little savage, ferociously resisting anything to do with being a girl.
I’ve tried to capture the beauty, magic, as well as the underlying threat and mystery of the adult world of those years, in poems like “Sweeter for the Dark” and “My Mother’s Jewels.” There were snakes, it’s true, mostly the ordinary garden variety. They didn’t get poisonous until we moved out West--to the garden that southern California once was.
DID POETRY OR ANYTHING LIKE IT have a presence in your early life? What effects, positive or otherwise, did growing up in a military family have on your literary talents?
Ours was not a literary household, and I don’t remember anyone reading much poetry to me, unless you count Dr. Seuss books. I attended small Lutheran schools for grades 2-8, where I was in the choir and went to church not only on Sundays, but to chapel as part of the school day, and to additional church services during Advent, Lent, and Christmas. I believe that’s why I usually write in quatrains. It’s the most common stanza in the hymnal, and I patterned on it early.
The first poem I wrote was about Christ’s Passion. I was attracted to the idea of suffering to the point of sweating blood. I felt I’d come close. After I read the poem to my mom, she took me aside and gave me a good talking to about not lying. I never could convince her I’d actually written those verses. I didn’t stop writing, but I did stop showing what I’d written to my parents! I was very fortunate in finding teachers who encouraged my scribbling. One of my high-school English teachers is a close friend to this day.
I think what literary talent I have developed to defy the lords of discipline. When I was accepted into Stanford’s Writing Program in verse, my parents told me “You’ve been living in a dream world too long. Get a job.” To their credit, they did relent a bit, once they realized I was determined to dream on. And, since I was raised to observe a very strict code of behavior, it could be argued that I am naturally, or should that be nurturedly?, more comfortable working within the strict confines of formal measures.
YOU HAVE SAID THAT YOUR EDUCATION TRULY BEGAN when you transferred from UCLA to UC Santa Barbara and met the poet, Edgar Bowers. What was that encounter like? Had you already begun to write poetry? Did Bowers steer you toward formal verse?
I met Edgar when I was in my sophomore year at UCSB, it was 1973. I had just changed my major from pre-med to English, to my parents’ utter despair. I took Edgar’s verse writing class. Mind you, this was after the Summer of Love and pretty much in the heart of the Sexual Revolution. Allen Ginsburg was reading “Howl” on the steps of the auditorium to a crowd of thousands. Teachers were encouraging students to “find themselves,” the drug culture of “tuning in and dropping out” was thriving, and the women poets most in vogue were Sylvia Plath and Ann Sexton. Before taking Edgar’s class I’d taken Kenneth Rexroth’s Poetry and Song, where you were allowed to tell him what grade you wanted at the end of the quarter!
With Edgar we began by reading and imitating the forms of 17th century lyrics and genre poems, such as the letter poem, the persona poem, the epigram. I cannot tell you what a relief that was to me. I felt like I could finally breathe again. The structure of the class was clear, the rules were simple, I could finally LEARN something rather than muck about in the dark trying to find myself. And, as is for me the beauty of working in form, it became a means of discovery, making me look at my subjects in ways I otherwise would not. Formal verse was good therapy for me, you could say, I my voice, and it was one that allowed me to speak what had previously been unspeakable—including the love that dare not speak its name. (While deeply closeted in my public life, I was always out as a lesbian in my verse. I didn’t know for sure that Edgar was gay until after I graduated from UCSB, but it was clear in his classes that while studying formal verse was our task, any subject was fair game.)
Edgar also gave me the lowest grade I ever received in an English class, told me to take Ancient Greek rather than French because my accent was so bad, and prescribed philosophy classes as a cure for my melodramatic bent. Later he would steer me toward Stanford’s Writing Program. He was a great teacher.
PLEASE TELL US A LITTLE ABOUT THE WORK YOU AND HELEN PINKERTON TRIMPI have been doing with Catherine Davis’s poems. When and how did the project begin? How much poetry did Davis leave us? Did any prose writings or letters survive? Do you see any resolution to the copyright question?
Edgar introduced me to the work of Catherine Davis. Sitting in his UCSB office, I mentioned that I liked Dorothy Parker’s cynical epigrams.
“The cynicism of a school girl,” he scoffed. “You should read Catherine Davis.”
Which I did, and where I found flawless iambics, perfect line breaks, coffin-nail closure, all in the unflinching hands of a moral sniper. The best of he epigrams, and there are many, rival the best of J.V. Cunningham, as this personal favorite illustrates:
Cursed be the man whose higher seriousness
Thinks no joke can survive, disdains finesse:
May he meet all his life dry, witty bitches,
Succumb to one at last, and die in stitches.
Scholars also speculate that Elizabeth Bishop’s “One Art” may well have been written in response to Davis’s “After a Time”, which you, Leslie, quoted from in your opening remarks. It’s one of her best. I think it’s worth quoting here in its entirety.
After a Time
After a time, all losses are the same.
One more thing lost is one thing less to lose;
And we go stripped at last the way we came.
Though we shall probe, time and again, our shame,
Who lack the wit to keep or to refuse,
After a time, all losses are the same.
No wit, no luck can beat a losing game;
Good fortune is a reassuring ruse:
And we go stripped at last the way we came.
Rage as we will for what we think to claim,
Nothing so much as this bare thought subdues:
After a time, all losses are the same.
The sense of treachery–the want, the blame–
Goes in the end, whether or not we choose,
And we go stripped at last the way we came.
So we, who would go raging, will go tame
When what we have we can no longer use:
After a time, all losses are the same;
And we go stripped at last the way we came.
One of the joys of editing Davis’ poems was the chance to work closely with poet, teacher, and dear friend Helen Pinkerton. When Bob Mezey and Don Justice first approached me about taking on the project, I hesitated to accept. But once Helen agreed to co-edit, I signed on. I knew she shared my admiration for the work and brought the added bonus of having known the poet personally, along with her impeccable academic credentials.
Shortly after we had assembled a manuscript from our own sources, we received a stack of unpublished poems and an 87-page manuscript of Selected Poems that had been assembled by the poet late in life. These came from Marie Pelletier, Davis’s long-time companion. Suddenly, editing grew complicated. We were faced with variants of many poems. We rarely agreed with Davis, an apparently relentless reviser, that the revisions were improvements.
We hoped to discover more excellent poems in the unpublished work, of course. Written in the latter part of the poet’s life, the bulk of the work new to us takes as its subject Davis’ depression and the destitute circumstances of her life. The poems were difficult for us to read, both in terms of content and form. Her suffering is patent and most poems are written in free verse, lacking the lyrical intensity and precision of the earlier work. The best illustrate her brilliant mind wrestling with the encroaching dark of advanced age and disease. Some did give insight into her personal life, making the earlier work more accessible. Far as I know, there were only a few letters in the papers Davis left behind. Most discuss her failed attempts to get the manuscript published. They are heartbreaking to read.
We took the manuscript to publishers we know personally. And, while all of them admired the work, none would risk publishing it. Davis died without a will and copyright was not clear. Cynthia Haven wrote two wonderful articles in Stanford publications about our plight. You can read them at
http://www.stanfordalumni.org/news/m...how/davis.html
http://news-service.stanford.edu/new...is-042308.html
Since then, poet and friend Ken Fields in the Stanford Writing Program approached his friend Paul Goldstein in the Stanford Law School and an expert on intellectual property. Mr. Goldstein’s law firm in San Francisco, Morrison & Foerster offered to take on the task of clearing copyright pro bono, if we could find a publisher willing to take the book once it was clear. David Leightty of Scienter Press, bless his heart, stepped up and agreed. Since then, Maya Hoffman a lawyer (and an English major!) at Morrison & Foerster has generously donated her time to investigate and locate the legal heir of Davis’s estate. She found a nephew in Texas, thanks to a tip from Susan Kelley, a student of Ken Fields and amateur genealogist, and has legally verified that he is Davis’s closest living relative. If the nephew is willing to sign the Scienter Press contract, Davis’s Selected Poems will finally see the light of day. Long story. Hopefully a happy ending. Not over yet.
WHAT”S YOUR FAVORITE HOLIDAY? Is there one you hate?
Love Thanksgiving
No hate, except for man’s inhumanity to man.
LAST, BUT NOT LEAST: What are your thoughts about Tim Murphy’s claim that there is an “extraordinary efflorescence of terrific poetry by women going on, unprecedented in human history?”
I don’t know anyone who loves poetry more than Tim Murphy. His enthusiasm is contagious, and I owe him a huge debt for being a tireless promoter of my work. I’m sure I wouldn’t have the privilege and honor to be given voice in this discussion, if it weren’t for Tim. Thank you, Timothy Tim! But I have to agree with Deborah that the last phrase may be a wee bit hyperbolic.
When I was writing in form in the 70’s and 80’s, it was almost impossible to find contemporary women poets doing the same. Even my friend Janet Lewis (poet and wife of the critic Yvor Winters) had gone back to writing free verse! Catherine Davis was one of the few poets alive who was writing poems I admired, and no one would publish her, except the odd journal. So you can probably understand why her work is so important to me. She was an inspiration, and as Catherine T described so well the thrill of discovering a poet who speaks to you, my heart would beat double-time when I saw new poems from Davis in the Southern Review. Aside from her, it was very lonely out here. I pretty much gave up on ever finding any other women whose poetry would really move me, something that only happens when technical mastery is matched by the musical power of the language.
Today formal measures are no longer regarded with the disdain they were in the freewheeling days of the 70’s. Plus, the Web has given communities that once were isolated, a place to meet. I never would have learned of the wonderful work of several of the women in this discussion without this platform. For the past few weeks, with heart racing, I’ve had my nose buried in Julie Kane, Jennifer Reeser, A.E. Stallings, Deborah Warren, and Gail White. Catherine, Leslie, and Rhina’s work I’ve known and admired for years.
All by way of saying (Boy, have I been long-winded. I wish I had time to make this shorter, as Twain would say) that I can’t say whether it’s never happened in human history before, but there sure is an ‘extraordinary efflorescence of terrific poetry by women’ in this forum and that is a thing of beauty!
A selection of poems by Suzanne Doyle:
WILD LIGHTNING
For Matthew Doyle Jacobus
You are not mine; you are my sister’s child.
Your soft mouth blossoms as you breathe and move
Your lips, just souring with milk, to smile
In sweet maternal dream. I have known love,
But not like this. How can my sister dare
To risk such beauty in a world so dark?
Billowing curtains in the night storm air
Admit some feral bitch’s lonely bark.
What will time leave you, Beauty, Oh my boy?
What love will cut your heart out in the night?
Already blind fear and desire’s toy,
What will you learn to salvage of delight?
What knowledge, blessing, charm might I dispense?
Here’s snake-root, wolf’s bane, holy water, Word
To hold against your crumbling innocence
And cruel attrition, of which you are assured.
Wild lightning scores the sky through this slant rain.
The plummeting barometer’s a sign
Of these sharp times that needle at my brain,
And I would leave you something that was mine.
I have these hard won pages and no son,
For reasons I don’t know. Remember me,
And do not leave what I have left undone.
WHERE THE RIVER MEETS THE SOUND
The river is a mirror three miles wide,
Where our white wake cuts out a crescent moon
That rides upon the gently rising tide.
We anchor and we fish, while some old tune
Of love gone wrong floats on the air.
Shrimp, pink as my own thumbs, as big around,
On weighted lines rigged with a double snare,
Sink in the summer waters of the Sound.
Such sweetmeats, Father, set to lure
The slimy spot and croaker to our hands!
In brotherhood unspoken and obscure,
I hold the hissing lantern while your knife
Splits belly after belly in its turn
And wonder, what cold, ancient monstrous life
Would not be drawn to coiling round the stern?
We wash our hands and pack up for the night,
Slinging the guts in water warm as blood.
The engine turns, the beacon blinks its light
And I keep watch behind as if I could
Defend us from Leviathan’s attack.
Sunk in the brine, the silver blades now beat
A brilliant phosphorous spoor out of the black,
A million words exploding at my feet,
Wild beauty in the violence that we share,
And then this darkness, darkness everywhere.
SHEPHERD OF THE SEA LUTHERAN CHURCH
ATLANTIC BEACH, NC
Above the nave, before the cross, one sees
A model shrimp boat turning in the breeze.
The families of fishermen file in,
The salt washed from their skin like so much sin.
Beside me sits my sister and we sing:
“This is the feast of vict’ry for our king,”
While the infant quickens in her teenage womb
And harmony distends the narrow room.
Beneath the organ’s deep, sententious roll,
Where I’m resigned I never will be whole,
She bows to pray and I fight not to weep
For every branch of faith I could not keep.
What fundamental grace to these men own?
Humility, like I have never known,
And the blessing to believe that there can be
No meaning that is not also mystery.
It’s only Pride and Folly make me dare
To flaunt what is just commonplace despair.
We labor in submission to the same
Dark undertow we know by different names:
Love, Mother of Us All, Cruel Mistress, Sea!
Let us commence a feast of victory
Where these have less to do with happiness
Than with endurance wrung out with distress,
And moments such as this, of wonder, where
With broken voices blending in the air,
The stained-glass panes cast green, blue, red
Around my sister’s gracefully bent head.
ON WINE
Though I may scent black cherry,
Violets or truffles in the nose,
Make my companions weary
Praising the bull’s blood that I chose,
Though it courses through my heart
And makes me brave (but rarely true),
And is the consummated art
Of all that tastebuds can construe,
Though I forget, I won’t deny:
The peroration to all this,
When the radiant glass is dry,
Is one expensive piss.
EPITAPH FOR A PARAKEET WHO DIED YOUNG
Here lies Dante, brave and blue,
Who chucked and chirped, who perched and flew.
Beloved of Alison, Suzanne,
Who did and do what people can
To nurture life where it grown true
And honor it when it is through.
These bones and feathers under clay
Are less our Dante than the way
The spirit soars when unencumbered
By knowledge that our days are numbered.
Then let this be our morning song:
Where hearts are gentle, love grows strong.
NOUVELLE POET
The lyric poet, so it seems,
Discovers as time passes
That proven forms constrain his themes;
He longs to reach the masses.
And so he turns his crabbéd hand
To blank verse, prose poems too,
Until his subject’s grown so grand
That neither one will do.
The novel—no, the screenplay!
But damn, he is no good;
He has no ear for what folks say,
Only what they should.
A TAWDRY MUSE
My consort is a tawdry muse
Who smokes cigars and drinks my booze.
She moved right in one night last week
With nothing in her bag but cheek.
She keeps me up all night and then
When morning dawns she settles in,
While all day long I pay the price
And lunch at home to servc her vice.
She reads my mail; she’s always snacking;
She points out all the things I’m lacking.
While she grows fat and more obtuse
And I consent to her abuse,
She wrecks my marriage and my flat,
And when I grieve, hands me my hat.
She thinks I cannot live without her
And I have had no cause to doubt her.
Linear Mode
