Showing posts with label Corina Copp. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Corina Copp. Show all posts

Monday, March 18, 2013

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Monday, March 26, 2012

Puzzlement is often a feature of my reaction to new work that is both powerful & mysterious: I want to know why I’m having such a strong response to the poem. A perfect example is Corina Copp’s breath-taking little chapbook from Ugly Duckling, Be Met / Pro Magenta, one of those 2-in-1 dealy-bobs, only not just with twin front covers and the texts running upside down up to one another, but in fact double-bound together, so that each work, a relatively short (by my standards) poem, has its own spine & binding. Terrific as the book design is – and it deserves some award for best chapbook – the poetry inside is even better, definitely hitting the gong on the “take the top of your head off” scale. Here’s a sample from Pro Magenta:

Antagonist, never let
Go, never be the house-
Hold perfect soil and
Ideal climate, be a love
That does not know
How to know human
Genre crashed on
The purblind sea, how-
Ever austerely sun-
Sick, I made
Hare and eggs
Enraptured, trundled
One of my reveries even
Amidst a violet party
Decision to help
Force a whale
Under the point
Of the green pencil
It will like pulsing
I don’t, well would
Do but how to
Achieve purblind
Handcrafting raw
Product at the hop

This first stanza is almost “clear speech,” but it’s not. It uses “purblind” twice & now has caused me to type the word exactly three times in my entire life. The balance between extravagant, ornate language – “Enraptured, trundled” – and one-syllable words weighs to the latter, enough so that the two two-syllable terms in

to help
Force a whale
Under the point
of the green pencil

carry rhythmic force. The line is not fixed either by word count or syllabics, but the vision of intuitive presence – the being of the writer herself – is unmistakable.

But I don’t quite know how the language angles & juts, and the poem leaves me with a great sense of longing: if I could just get that, whatever that is, something of enormous emotional, spiritual, cognitive import would suddenly be revealed. At least that’s how it feels me to. So I find myself reading these two poems again & again, flipping the book & starting over.