In the past few years, as many young and not-so-young poets
exhibit their narcissistic doldrums or ideological accusations in volume after
volume of insufferable verse, it's timely – and about time – that Alden
Nowlen's Collected Poems (2017) arrives 34 years after his death.
Biographically and aesthetically dense, editor Brian Bartlett's lengthy
introduction takes pains to present Nowlan's personality, life, and poetry in
human terms, whether the concerns are spiritual or social. He also lays out the
Collected in the appropriate manner: all of Nowlan's volumes are titled in the
index, and appear in chronological order, against the (sometimes operable) maddening
tack of presenting a Collected thematically.
Nowlan has sometimes been accused of composing off-hand
homilies and anecdotes lacking prosodic sophistication. Though Nowlan at his
worst is, at times, indeed indicted on that count (the man simply wrote too
much, and there's nothing like a doorstopper Collected to bring that point
home), his seemingly dashed-off personal studies often reveal much more than a
fleeting first reading may lead a reader to see. For every “Letter to a Young
Friend”, in which “[a]n aging freak,/for whom there was no choice, wishes you
strength/to bear it should you find that which you seek”, there are many more
succinct, emotionally devastating, direct entries like “The Factory Worker's
Poem” where “I am as limp as a puppet/from which the ventriloquist/has
withdrawn his hand” or fearless investigations into personal weakness from
“Hide and Seek” wherein
if I believed
in God
would ask
him to
forgive me
for being one
of those
who know
how to hide.
Another misconception, by some at least, is that Nowlan's
unruly personality spilled over into his poetry so that not only wouldn't he
write a more or less 'accomplished' poem, but that he couldn't. Here's a
wonderful sonnet, perfect in its execution, and wise in its understanding of
others, and oneself in relation to those others. This is “Golf”, in full:
My friends believe in golf, address the ball,
however bent, to an appointed place.
Newtonians, convinced no orb can fall
out of the numbered course of time and space.
But I, from clumsiness or pity, drive
balls out of bounds and into woods and traps,
my knees and wrists vindictive in their love
for dark and tangled places not on maps.
“Golf's not your game,” they say. But I persist.
“Next one goes straight ...” I promise. Oh, they're fooled
right cunningly by my secretive wrist
that treacherously lets the world go wild.
Let them attack the green. As for myself,
I pitch into the darkness, like a wolf.
There are too many facets of Nowlan's poetry, too much
diverse subject matter, too many astonishing nuances and ambiguities within
lines of poems – indeed, within phrases and even words – to do justice to them
in a short review of a Collected by a major poet, but the beauty of Nowlan's Collected
Poems is that we now have that evidence in a one-stop book which, at least
for this reader, deepens and stamps with awe the experience each time the poems
are returned to.
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