No Starling
From the book jacket:
Over the years, Nance Van Winckel's extraordinarily precise and energetic voice has built upon its strengths. Unpredictable, wry, always provocative, with a deeply satisfying balance of the spiritual and political, her poems make every gesture of language count. Although richly peopled with figures from this and parallel worlds—Simone Weil, Verlaine, Nabokov, Eurydice, "the new boys" working in the morgue, and others—NO STARLING moves beyond a reliance on the dramatic resonance of individual characters. Its vision is deeper, its focus both singular and communal: the self on its journey through the world and our responsibilities as a people for the precarious state of that world. From a review BY Liz Robbins: All of Nance Van Winckel's books of poetry demonstrate her unique blend of keen, precise wording and insight mixed with vibrant imaginative leaps (balancing artfully, as Stevens would say, imagination and reason). But if you only purchase one poetry collection this year, buy Van Winckel's latest, NO STARLING, which is a truly breathtaking book. The collection begins with the poem "Slate," where the speaker is hauling a dead body named "Nance" to be dumped in a quarry. This kind of premise--surreal, edgy, with slivers of humor--is characteristic Van Winckel, complete with her usual dead-on images, impeccable sonics, and profound revelations. Where she shows her particular genius is how she can stretch a poem to absurdist limits, yet deftly reel it back to a warm, universal conclusion, as in "The Winter Cow." The poem begins with a cow standing in a frozen field with all four of its hooves sawed off (it's not explained why), and moves to a boy arriving to very tenderly milk her; the boy hums while doing so, as he fears he can't sing without weeping. Here's the final stanza: The body is a great boat that knows the way through iced blue distances. Gravity's small hands tug at the hull. You get in and you close your eyes, and you go. There are so many exquisite moments like this one in the book, I couldn't possibly list them all. Clearly, Van Winckel has paid serious attention to structure, as themes reverberate from section to section. For instance, "water" and "shore" are both used metaphorically (though differently) in the closings of two of my favorites, "Mister" and "Verlaine in Prison." Death is another theme, found mainly in a fine cluster of poems in section one. No matter what the theme, though, Van Winckel's verbal dexterity and wisdom abound throughout. Suffice it to say, I read this book from start to finish in one sitting because I couldn't wait to see--from page to page, line to line--how Van Winckel would dazzle me next. There seems to me not one wrong move or weak moment in the entire book. NO STARLING is simply stunning. A poem from NO STARLING; "You People" received a Pushcart Prize and Poetry Magazine's Friends of Literature Award YOU PEOPLE People, don’t ask me again where my shoes are. The valley I walked through was frozen to me as I was to it. My heavy hide, my zinc talisman—I’m fine, people. Don’t stare at my feet. And don’t flash the sign of the cross in my face. I carry the Blue Cross Card— card among cards, card of my number and gold seal. So shall ye know I am of the system, in the beast’s belly and up to here, people, with your pity. People, what is wrong with you? I don’t care what the sign on your door says. I will go to another door. I will knock and rattle and if you won’t, then surely someone, somewhere, will put a pancake in my hand. You people of the rhetorical huh? You lords and ladies of the blooming stump, I bend over you, taste you, keep an eye on you, dream for you the beginning of what you may one day dream an end to. The new century peeled me bone-bare like a song inside a warbler—that bird, people, who knows not to go where the sky’s stopped. Keep this in mind. Do you think the fox won’t find your nest? That the egg of you will endure the famine? You, you people born of moons with no mother-planets, you who are back-lit, who have no fathers in heaven, hear now the bruise-knuckled knock of me. I am returned. From your alley. From your car up on blocks. From the battered, graffitied railcars that uncouple and move out into the studded green lightning. Do you believe because your youth’s been ransacked, nothing more will be asked of you? And people, about the shoes: the shoes have no doubt entered the sea and are by now walking the ramparts of Atlantis. I may be a false prophet, but god bless me, at least I have something to say. Supine in a pencil of night, I’ve no chiseled tip yet, but already the marks take form in the lead. |
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