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Reading M Sarki, one has the impression that the literal meaning of the
poetry is somewhat hidden, below the surface, off to the side, outside
the
words themselves... perhaps it is within the reader's experience of
reading
the poem itself. It is acceptable to say of Sarki, that sometimes one
understands his work "hardly at all": as Gordon Lish writes in his
introduction to Zimble Zamble Zumble; "I read, when I am reading
poetry,
Stevens and Sarki, and understand neither one more than the other, nor
either hardly at all." But perhaps not "understanding" is the key. We
have
already had to understand too much. The real joy is in riding the
pleasant
buzz between what is an essential arch and what is play in Sarki's
poems.
There is a playful ambiguity in Sarki's work, a fluid middle ground in
which
meaning appears fabric and we can't help but feel lucky to be invited
along
for the ride. It's a land of choices, choices which will always yield
something great if the reader is ready, aware and open. In the poem "A
Winsome Jest and Behold the Giver" Sarki asks, sadly: "Others have kept
themselves choiceless, haven't they?" (p.70). It is an earnest lament. Feeling that you are in a place of endless possibilities is essential.
Great
writing requires this, and great poetry requires this essentially.
Allusions, remembrances, personal connections. . . one must be able to
see the
starting point and get taken from there somewhere. Great writing must
take
us from a place of being open to being more open, almost leaving one in
a
state of yearning. This is the joy of the reader's individual
experience.
His writing is so effective because he cares about carefully chosen
words,
the bare soul of each word laid open (words picked like diamonds) and
he
cares about the spaces between the words (sometimes, one might guess,
as
much as the words themselves, as any great poet would). The minimalism,
the
"better filter" is omnipresent. In the poem "On the Destruction of
Sentiment," Sarki asks for "a better filter." Throughout the book I
found it
hard to imagine what that would be. His filter, it appears, is in
excellent
condition. But is it not like the poet to ask anyway? To never believe
your
words are working well enough. The previous line in the same poem also
has a
universal appeal for writers "And nothing / else happens. / But this
page /
still churns for / the more / important / occasion." In Sarki's poems
about
writing one can relate to the struggle and experience the pathos. The
self-imposed exile of the page is a terrain poets know well. You have
to
really care to find yourself marooned there.
Sarki writes beautifully about language: (p.77) In the poem "Gregori's
Theater of Belief:" "finding words that ovulate" (p.77) and (p.88) in
"Within the Distinction of Being" he writes: "I carry phrases. / I show
them
how to dance / and shake down these rigid / steppes. Many fall in the
face / of
my impulses. Broken. They point out the distances" and p.83 in the
poem
"Sitting on the Arm of Robert's Mouth": "Each word makes for
another. /
Giving birth. Producing new names"; or p.58 "sounds of words working
together." The landscape of the writer is important throughout Sarki's poems. I
can't
help but think of Sarki as a "writer's writer." His work often
addresses the
struggles of the craft; the distances it creates between the writer and
the
world; trying to erase those, and the distances it creates between the
writer and the people he tries to write about, the isolation and the
need.
As a writer, I have to state that one of my first impressions, reading
Sarki, was a great, mighty tumult of inspiration. I felt my fingers
quivering for a pen, I felt hungry waves of need and want, as if a
perfect
poem lay hiding somewhere nearby, as if reading him could make me a
better
writer. As if the nearness of such great poems could force one out of
me
too, perhaps, just luckily by proxy.
For Sarki writing is painting, playing, throwing a ball. And with that
reading, we should not be bothered by the fact that some poems we may
not
understand. When a poet is so capable, and writes with fun, we need not
require a didactic backdrop. Sarki does not require footnotes.
Although, in
an attempt to understand his work more thoroughly, I have tried to look
up
every word I didn't know -- for example: Abysm, fovea, furdle,
gotterdammerung, haytits, nasturtium, ostioles, pinions, pipits,
pelicles,
saxifrage, spicule, wongah) -- but I found that takes a lot of the fun out
of
it. Something tells me its okay to enjoy Sarki's poems read aloud -- as
instances of speech, sounds that mean, even if sometimes we aren't sure
exactly what they mean.
Wallace Stevens was criticized too, for obfuscating meaning in his
poetry.
Sarki is surely as relevant as Stevens was then and now, both
modernists
unhindered by didactic accompaniments to each poem. As Stevens said of
his
own poetry:
"My intention in poetry is to write poetry: to reach and express that
which,
without any particular definition, everyone recognizes to be poetry,
and to
do this because I feel the need of doing it.
"There is such a complete freedom now-a-days in respect to technique
that I
am rather inclined to disregard form so long as I am free and can
express
myself freely. I don't know of anything, respecting form, that makes
much
difference. The essential thing in form is to be free in whatever form
is
used. A free form does not assure freedom. As a form, it is just one
more
form. So that it comes to this, I suppose, that I believe in freedom
regardless of form." -- (See: Wallace Stevens: The Borzoi Reader)
That is the great joy we get with both Stevens and Sarki, "freedom
regardless
of form" and the freedom will always yield limitless choices -- something
Sarki
knows is delightful and essential in poetry. This freedom leaves us
with
much to interpret and a gallery of beautiful words to wander among.
For some this freedom of form can be frustrating because it leads to
ambiguity -- or to too much ambiguity. But not to overstate the ambiguity
claim, many of Sarki's poems I think I do understand. For example, the
poem
"Ofili" has a perfect arch and would be clear to any young reader.
Catherine
makes a mess of his kitchen, "But, listen, it is still worth / being
everything at once, given your / lips. And the sap we so happily /
lapsed
into." (p.98). It is a love poem through and through.
If one wants to pull themes together to navigate the ambiguity there
are
many themes that run throughout the book. If that is the way one
chooses to
read Sarki. Prevalent themes are the earth and struggle. There is the
man
digging in the earth while the woman prunes "as a documentation of her
love"
from "Flaming on the Banks of the Ohio" (p.74), and from "In My
Difficulties
with Direction" (p.63) she is cultivating the ferns while he is left to
weed. And in "Plumbing" we read: "An earthworm tunnels / toward some
deepening, / down into the deepest muck, / down in the dark / below St.
Augustine." Also, there is the theme of the bird throughout the book, a
bird
"Up in our heads / is a losing battle. . . / We follow / directives. Land
even
stranger vibrances." (p.92). And in "Nest" we read: "What pheasant /
thought
to / lift me / up this tree / to breathe / his tiny / breath of wing?"
Wingless birds appear in "Borrowed from Death Row:" ". . . this rack of ribs
/
the culinary feature that/ exacts a clever race of birds. / Exempt of
wing.
Presiding / over the table. . ."
Also, the seasons run throughout the poems, the lushness and the
emptiness,
the blossoms so acquainted with spring, come forth in quite a few
places and
in "In Her Garden Coat and Dungarees" (p.72): "Their lusters smelted /
by
the fragrant boot / of spring." The fall: "Autumn left holding her
breast"
(p.13), "Autumn's gland" (p.45). And the cold metal of winter: "Why is
it
she settles / for this metal / in the winter" from "Powder."
The experience of reading becomes paramount, the stark effect of words
on
paper, words written, poetry with or without discernible meanings
evident or
provable. This amazing fact strikes me when reading Sarki. . . and leads
me to
what seems obvious: What else is there? What more do I require of
poetry?
Nothing. Reading should give one that buzz. . . that glow. . . two words
find
each other, for whatever reason, and the reader is left struck dumb
with
delight.
Poetry when it works, works well because it is bare, it is object,
relation,
feeling, effect. For example in "Filament:" "Toothbrush. / And these
dandelions. / Her face laid out / on granite./ Under Umbrellas. / And
this
fig. / And a taller shade of stone" (p.32). This is as close to a
perfect
poem as I can imagine. Also witness the beautiful, romantic sensuality:
". . . and the sap we have so happily lapsed into" (from "Ofili") or
sometimes
crass words put right on paper as in "Hilda" (p.33): ". . . her brackish
heart /
equipped with gears! / -- And all this time / she stood there / dripping.
/
Fingered herself. . . " Here sexuality breathes anew. We are disturbed in
the
opening of the poem then left amused. Just as in "In Her Tuttled
Marsh:"
"The white frog / agog beside / her grotto / safe from that / burker of
frost / climbing / up past her knees." Sexuality in Sarki's poems is a
surprising turn, a flip, we are faced with frost creeping up a woman's
thighs and we are left like the frog, pleasantly agog. In "Facts, and
the
Plaster of Chicken" he writes: "I force my body / into her colony. /
Exposing my gratitude / and devour the class." Each time Sarki pulls a
sexual theme into a poem it is an awesome surprise and it is twisted
ever so
gently so that we see it in a completely new way.
Poetry is words crafted, stuck, made to stick together even if you
don't
want them to. Words forced through a filter, words repositioned a
thousand
times, spaces rehearsed and replaced. It is work, hard work for the
writer
and for the reader. Far too often, the reader's role is taken away from
us,
too much work is done for us, we are inundated with things "spelled out
for
us," so seldom is any subtlety left, so seldom can one find "a new bull
of
meaning" to ride. We are rafts adrift in a culture of bombardment.
Sexuality
is a punch in the face found on every billboard, in each commercial,
around
each bend. Sensuality is lost under a sea of perfumed detergents and
chocolate-flavor pumped air. We look to poetry to escape this. Poets
like
Sarki are making up for it in a big way. There is an incredibly
pleasing
sensuality in many of Sarki's poems. I think of "Muted Orange:" "The
yellow
will taste / like sponge. / Or peach. / A swatch from last winter's /
circumference. /pure apricot pulp. / Of her weighted cloth. / And
tree." The
colors and the vivid textures stay with me, infuse this reality with
his,
thankfully. The world lights up again under Sarki's pen. Omnipresent
synthetics are easily forgotten and color, taste, texture, sound and
smell
reside.
Being a sensualist I like this place best when reading Sarki. Overall,
I try
to resist the urge to draw the exact "meaning" out of each poem. In the
end,
I like getting lost in my sensory experience. And I like being turned
on my
head in a poem. For example in "Flight:" "He wanted to take / one last
look
/ into the vile orifice, / and there become / their looking-glass, /
waving,
/ with his hat, / goodbye."
Best is to find one's own way to read Sarki. The choice is always there
for
us. One can get lost in the sounds of the words and how they "work
together"
or one can see the poems for their possible "meaning" and look up every
word. One can see the poems as almost surrealist or dadaist works, word
plays or koans. Or like me, one can breathe in the scents, see the
blossoms,
laugh when he's toppled you over and walk away smiling. Any way one
chooses,
at worst you'll be left flipped, a bit askew, and at best you'll be
inspired, invigorated, surveying the view from a new perspective,
wiser,
more alive, and yearning for more.
First published in a limited
edition by elimae books, Zimble Zamble Zumble can now be ordered from your local or online bookstore in an edition from Authors Choice Press.
(An earlier version of this review was published in Taint Magazine.)
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