Off the Coast, Winter 2016
Review:
Not Prose Poetry Poetry
A Wolf Stands Alone in
Water by Joseph
Zaccardi (Cincinnati, OH: CW Books, 2015), 103 pages, paper). ISBN:
978-1625-4915-96.
I have been accused of
"detesting" prose poetry. "Not so," my partner
and co-editor replied. "He doesn't like bad prose poetry."
So let me use the occasion of this review to explain.
If we think of prose poetry and
poetry proper as lying on a continuum, Joseph Zaccardi's book is just
a small step on the mid-line between the two. Certainly he stands on
the poetry side of that line, but his poetry is very prosey. For
example, "Loss" on page 96.
There is knowledge and
knowing,
there is order and there is
giving
and taking. The flower obeys
the laws
of nature, whether opening in
full season
or the wilting in abandonment.
There is reason and choice.
What grieves is the knowledge.
It is what separates.
If Zaccardi has a style, this is
it, the plain statement of Yoda explaining something to Grasshopper.
Or perhaps it is translation missing the many beauties of language
while successfully, though flatly, setting forth truths. Clarity
abounds, but music does not. It is like Moses holding up the terse
lines of the Ten Commandments with no musical score supporting the
drama of the moment. Or to be harsh, it may be cognitively
definitive, denotative Wittgenstein would say, but stripped of the
elevating figures of speech many of us seem to have forgotten are in
the Greek. We learn half a dozen and deplore them for their limited
applicability. I think of the film "My Dinner with Andre"
where two mediocre minds try to impress us with their conversation.
If this poetry is at the middle
ground of the continuum, and all that is missing is beyond, then what
of prose poetry on the other side of the line? First of all, if
Zaccardi's poetry lacks music, feeling, and form, are those
characteristics sufficient to raise prose to the level of being
considered poetic? I would also like to see prose set forth more
poetically, that is, being unconstrained by sense in the old ways of
that term in the school book titled Sound and Sense. Yes, for good
prose poetry I want to sacrifice sense to sound. For those of us who
write poetry, that is a hard sacrifice to make. It's not exactly
opening ourselves to "Jabberwocky" but…well yes, it
might be. Can we go far enough into the prose poetry side of the
continuum to lose our cognitive sense and let the others run free to
play?
In a way, a prose poet is like a
circus performer who frees him or herself from gravity. It generates
the "Oh" after the explosion of the fireworks. That's not a
rational thing, but we do it, and because we do, it is accepted, even
communal in much the same way we share poetry at the ritual meetings
of our lives—weddings, funerals, major historical events. That
is why we have poets laureate and not prose poets laureate.
Probably the best prose poet I
have ever known is Maxine Chernoff who was a creative writer at the
University of Illinois—Chicago, and whom I now think is in San
Francisco. Her use of language sings. The words and their
possibilities dance around each other. Although she approaches
meaning in the same way Proust's writing entangles itself like a
symphony, her work is not so much thought as felt. Good prose poetry
is art, as simply seen and felt as a lone wolf standing in water.
— Michael Brown
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