Calin Torsan Portrayal of MARGENTO in Graphic Front
His place is not among us. I can't see him here and I can't see him now.
He is a fool, and a thief, and a mystic. But these words are just
blowing their own trumpet, marking his entrance MORE HERE!!!!!
Călin Torsanis an archivist at the Romanian Peasant Museum.
Over the years, he has been involved in many musical projects
(Domnișoara Pogany, Einuiea, Nu și apa neagră, Jazadez, MORE HERE !!!
Peter Joseph Gloviczki. Kicking Gravity. Cliffs of Moher, County Clare, Ireland: Salmon Poetry, 2013
From Contorted Ars Poeticas to the Funny Banal
what will the ricochet/ of my ankle be worth […] this bony puzzle/ in the
window doubling,/ now, as a mirror: the person/ I was before I kicked gravity/
hard in the abdomen.Laugh,/ babe,
that’s what you told me […]
taller/ versions of yourself when they/ appear between the boundaries/ of what
that old architect let in/ when he said: Put
it here,/ yes, that’s it, now we’re home.
Those are a few (actually most of the) lines from the intriguing
opening poem, “Door,” from Peter Joseph Gloviczki’s Kicking Gravity. The architecture
of the poem (and of the book) is thus laid down by an “old” architect—most
likely of form and tradition that draws boundaries and gives directions—in this
poem.He’s not the only character in the
poem though—“babe/you” is another one who actually speaks when we think the
speaker does, since when half way through the poem, when we believe we just heard
the (indeed) contorted lyrical confession of the speaker, we find out it (or at
least part of it) is actually what that “you” answered the speaker when the latter
asked for advice regarding dealing with the former’s “taller versions”. This is self-referential and it develops an (at
least apparently) complex allegory of the writing of a poem involving deceitful
rhetoric, recurrent indeterminacy (“what will
it be worth,” “what you told me,” “what the architect let in,” etc.) and
The few following prose poems that
follow are far from being that complicated though.It is as if after expelling the “taller
versions [expectations?]” of the reader, the poet relaxed and started telling
anecdotes from his childhood, about an aunt “we” like to call “Lefty,” and
soft-surrealist Simickian mixes of blurry memories, oneiric fears or eroticism,
and submerged personal mythologies—
taught me where all the doors where; I loved the ones inside her elbows.I learned how to open those first; how they
connected to other openings in her body, wired one to another like a burglar
but unlike the Serbian-American master, he either overdoes
it by adding unnecessary ‘strong surprises’, or dismisses any possible richer
meaning by settling either for a sentimental conclusion or a joke.
poems in the first section are interrupted by a funny and captivating “Sonnet
for Anne” written after Stephen Dobyn’s “How to Like It”—
… to make Anne
blush.Her cheeks become cherries: fresh, ripe Bing,
kind that would have been painted by Rembrandt.
turns that cold Pepsi to sweet Riesling.
sends Catholic school girls into a jealous rant.
picture the poet’s imaginary audience hollering and asking for more, but
Gloviczki prefers to go back to the less appealing puzzling prose pieces.
The second section seems to start
off the same kind of scenario as the first one, a first rather twisted abstract
poem, a possible ars poetica (“(i) can’t stand” “the mechanisms which
facilitate hands opening and closing […]” etc) followed by a couple of
seemingly biographical notations, but then a couple of sparse poems with
scattered short lines fortunately change the pace.“The Tornado Sequence” captures well the
experience of potentially devastating weather by stitching together apparently
unrelated fragments, thus suggestive of the effects of a tornado—“the guy whose
tractor/ trapped him,/ the woman thrown against her fence./ I bought a lottery ticket, he [the
speaker’s brother] says,/ on my drive
home” which unfortunately the author chooses to spoil (in this one once
again?) with a flat joke: “I’ve been
fooled by light before,/ never by wind—/ even my best chair failed me” (as
above, the poet’s emphasis here as well).
travel poems, which are praised in one of the blurbs for their “listening with
a journalist’s ear” are not travel poems.But unlike in A.L. Nielsen’s Ghana or Kansas sequences where there is no
‘travel poetry’ because the genre along with certain capital assumptions in
modern poetics are challenged and reshaped in remarkably relevant ways, here
what we get is scenes and/or reflections that hardly have any relevance or
efficacy in describing (let alone enacting) a relationship between a problematic
speaker and the elusive alterity of a place or community.The bad English of a cab driver, for
instance, who takes a circuitous route most likely in order to rip off a
speaker who doesn’t resist because of his stomach flu hardly tells us anything
interesting about the latter’s experience of visiting Budapest.
third section, some more family poems draw a few good sketchy portraits or
scenes, while certain images successfully circumscribe unclear but persistently
haunting events from the past.In “Breakfast,”
for instance, the speaker’s mother apparently thinks the former could have but
did not prevent somebody’s death.She
then sets a knife on the table and starts spinning it “with a sure hand.”A number of ‘advice’ or ‘instruction’ poems
are both funny and convincing.In one
addressed to (or spoken by?) a groundskeeper, the various thoughts, pieces of
advice, and everyday tidbits make room, at a certain point, to the surprise of
a couple of very good lines taking some unexpected turns: “Sure,/ the evening
light always visits and windy doors know to slam shut./ Love, write my number
on your hand./ Call me with my digits against your flesh.”
Does the community around us need poetry or poets? Community—singular,
as in local, or global as well—or rather plural, as we are part of or in
touch with so many matrices crossing all kinds of social, linguistic,
cultural, and geographical divides? But going back to the first
question, are poetry and poets one and the same thing in that
respect—or, in other words, is the poets’ poetry the poetry that
communities around them ‘consume’, identify with, enjoy or employ for
(any of) the meanwhile marginalized and ‘secularized’ versions of the
functions that poetry ‘normally’ had in
‘traditional’/‘pre-contact’/pre-(post)modern communities? [...]