The Mystery vs. the Mysterious

 I was reading a poetry book and very much enjoying it. The writing was crisp and the language enthralling. But I had a nagging sense that I wasn't giving it 100%. As good as the poems were, there was something missing. And it was not the first time I've encountered this feeling. 

I  don't need to identify the book or author;  this isn't a critique of her book. As I say, the problem I was having is not unique to this one book — I encounter it a lot. What bothered me this time was that the book was so good, I wanted the poems to succeed completely, but they stopped just short. 

The problem is that the poems do a wonderful job of communicating that sense of  the mysterious — the omen, the shadow — that haunts the narrator. But what is missing are sufficient clues to the specific mystery that is at the root of the poem. You are left with a deep sense of impending doom but no clarity about what the actual danger is lurking in the fog. 

As I say, this is not an uncommon problem in modern poetry. Young poets do it all the time. (I know I did it in my early poems and probably am guilty of it occasionally even now.) But usually it is just one of several issues with novice writers so even the sense of something mysterious afflicting the narrator seems staged or artificial. In this case, the poems were so good, the overall emotional draw so complete, the work survives and even thrives without any specifics on what drives the poem, the engine behind the drama. But even then, after four or five poems you begin to wonder if there really is anything back there. Is it real or is the author just pressing buttons and pulling levers behind the curtain?

What I am reading: Turn Up the Ocean by Tony Hoagland

 Tony Hoagland was one of the highlights of American poetry over the past thirty years, His precision, humor, and deeply human world view make him a must-read in a crowded field. Unfortunately, Hoagland died of cancer in 2018, leaving a very noticeable hole in the panorama of America verse.

What particularly stands out in Hoagland's work is its consistent excellence — from his very first book, Sweet Ruin, until the poems dealing with his imminent demise in Priest Turned Therapist Treats Fear of God, which was published the year of his death. The clarity of vision and mastery of language is there from beginning to end.

At the time, I had assumed Priest Turned Therapist was his last book. However, it turns out Hoagland was working on a manuscript of additional poems, called Turn Up the Ocean, until his death. This compilation was completed by his wife, Kathleen Lee, and recently published by Graywolf Press. Which is good cause for both surprise and excitement. 

Any new Tony Hoagland book is an event to be celebrated. His poems are inspirational both in content and their mastery of language and poetics. And Turn Up the Ocean is no exception. 

 These are most definitely Tony Hoagland poems. There is the characteristic melding of epic subjects (life, death, etc) with colloquial American idioms. There is the exacting rational structure of thought interspersed with wild leaps of imagination. And, of course, his idiosyncratic and very personable narrative persona.

But as much as I am enjoying the poems in this book, there still seems to be something missing. Not missing necessarily... changed, let's say.

It's not that the poems are unfinished or incomplete as much as they emanate from a different locale than his previous books. 

There are three differences I noticed in this book from his previous work:

• No dillydallying. These poems get straight to the point. Hoagland's previous works have a predilection for reveling in the joy of language, playing around a bit before settling in on the actual topic of the poem. The new work gets right to business and pushes ahead, with few diversions.
  
  
• Finished, but not complete. In some cases, the poems are not as fully developed as you might expect. What's there is complete, but you get the feeling he loosened up on his usual precision and thoroughness in favor of being done. For example, the poem "'On a Scale of 1-10' Said the Nurse, 'How Would You Rate Your Pain Today?'" which riffs on potential examples of each level of pain, somehow skips from level six to eight. Uncharacteristic for Hoagland. Almost as if he had a stanza for number seven planned, but not ready enough for inclusion.
  
  
• Reality does not always allow for certainty. Perhaps the most notable aspect of the latest poems is a diminution of Hoagland's pervasive optimism. It is one of the hallmark's of his poems — no matter how dark they may get, there is a persistent sense of positivity. Even if it is only from learning hard lessons, it is — at its heart — a form of learning and moving forward. However, many of these poems end more with a sigh than with a snap. The certainty is washed out of them and acceptance is more often the conclusion. 

The fact is, writing poems while dying must be hard work. And although darker than his previous work, these poems are an essential part of Hoagland's poetic journey and his legacy. And as such, deserve to be treasured.

Some Wonderful First (and Last) Books

I recently reread Linda Orr's A Certain X. I remember enjoying it when I first read it years ago. But age has a way of distorting one's view and youthful enthusiasm can look awkward in retrospect. So I was pleasantly surprised at how much I like the book now. Perhaps more than I did before.

A Certain X is really a wonderful book, full of insightful, surprising, and touching poems. Which led me to ask —  what other books of poetry has she published? To my surprise, the answer appears to be none. If I am not mistaken, she has published two scholarly works, but no other poetry. Which is a shame.

Which led me to another question: I wonder how many remarkable first-and-only books I have? Two I can think of right away — which are a couple of my all-time favorites — are The Touch Code by John Love and If the River's This High All Summer by Martha Fritz. Touch Code, in particular, is a totally unique book with a frenetic energy and sense of play like no other. But again, it appears to be Love's only book of poetry.

Sure, I have single books from poets who, for one reason or another, published a limited number of works. Some down to one book, or a book and a couple of chapbooks. Some because life can be short (or cut short, such as John Bowie's Screen Gems). Some because, well, getting  published is not easy. 

But what stands out with Orr, Fritz, and Love is that they appear to be people who started out strong then decided to "give up" poetry for other endeavors. I say it is a shame because I'd love to read more of their work. But then these singular books are like unique flowers; they have a fully-formed beauty that can stand on its own. And perhaps it is best to leave one's readers wanting more...