Wednesday, June 14, 2017

Poet Jacqueline Trimble Pays Tribute to Her Mother in AMERICAN HAPPINESS . . .

Chris Rice Cooper 

*The images in this specific piece are granted copyright privilege by:  Public Domain, CCSAL, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law, or given copyright privilege by the copyright holder which is identified beneath the individual photo.  

**PLEASE TAKE NOTE:  This is an analysis of Christal Rice Cooper’s interpretation of American Happiness.   The poet's interpretation of his or her own poems are in “italicized quotes.”



Jacqueline Allen Trimble’s
AMERICAN HAPPINESS
“Then Emerge Like a Lady:  A Poet’s Remembrance of Her Mother And The Lessons She Taught Her”
       On September 27, 2016 New South Books (http://www.newsouthbooks.com) published American Happiness New Poems by Jacqueline Allen Trimble
The  cover art of American Happiness is by New South Books co-founder and co-publisher Suzanne La Rosa (http://www.newsouthbooks.com/pages/newsouth-staff/suzanne-la-rosa/) and graphic designer Scott Markel (https://www.linkedin.com/in/scott-markel-ba242388/)



Left to right:  Jacqueline Trimble, Suzanne LaRosa, Scott Markel, jacket cover American Happiness.  

American Happiness, named the Best Book for 2016 by Seven Sisters Books (http://sevensistersbookawards.com), is Trimble’s first poetry collection. 


       Trimble lives with her husband Joseph ((https://www.facebook.com/jacqueline.trimble.58?hc_ref=SEARCH&fref=nf) who she dedicates American Happiness to), their two sons, and one daughter in Montgomery, Alabama, where she is an associate professor of English and chairs the Department of Languages and Literatures at Alabama State University (http://www.alasu.edu/index.aspx).  

  

       Trimble, a Cave Canem Fellow (https://cavecanempoets.org), was recently awarded a Key West Literary Seminar Teacher and Librarian Scholarship (http://www.kwls.org/news-updates/2017-teacher-librarian/) and is the recipient of a 2017 literary arts fellowship from the Alabama State Council on the Arts (http://arts.state.al.us).  


       American Happiness consists of three parts:  Closure (12 poems), The Geography of Passion (10 poems), and American Happiness (12 poems).  


       Trimble in the preface to American Happiness pays tribute to her mother, Erna Dungee Allen.
       When I was four days old, I was adopted by Cleola and James Allen.  When I was four, my adoptive mother, Cleola died.  My father married Erna Dungee when I was around five.  A month before my seventh birthday, my father, James Franklin Allen, died suddenly of a heart attack, so my stepmother, Erna Dungee Allen raised me and officially adopted me again, though legally she did not have to.” 

  copyright granted by imgarcade.com webpage

       Trimble never viewed Erna Dungee Allen as her stepmother but a mother who loved her like any mother would love her own flesh and blood. 

                      copyright granted by imgarcade.com

Her mother taught her many lessons from her own life one of which was to stand up for what is right which she did as a foot soldier for the Civil Rights movement.

 Foot soldiers during the Civil Rights Movement.

And to never give up on finding that true love, which is expressed in the poem “Cinderella Finds Happiness With Her Third Husband.”

Vintage painting of an old fashioned wedding

She also instilled a sense of healthy power and black pride in her child – Trimble became the only black child to attend Davis Elementary School her first year.   

             Davis Elementary School Pubic Domain

Perhaps the greatest lesson her mother taught her was the power of poetry.  Erna’s mother recited poetry to her and she passed on the tradition to her own daughter.  And she taught her daughter poetry in action when she had her daughter dress as a ghost for the local Fall Festival where her mother read palms:

There I was.  The only little black child in the whole school wandering the halls of the festival in a sheet with a pointed pillow case hat in which my mother had cut two little eyeholes.  It was years before I understood why my mother laughed and laughed and took so many pictures of me in my white sheet that night.  Even then she was teaching me the power of pleasure of ironic juxtaposition – a lesson that continues to inform my sense of humor as well as my poetry.

       The Saturday Evening Post cover 10/23/1920

       In the poem “The Klan Panhandles For Donations At The Intersection Of Court Street And The Southern Bypass” Trimble exemplifies her mother’s humor without diminishing her mother’s horror of those white sheets:

Above the Southern Bypass, the Ku Klux Klan
rose, a chimera of white as white as my mother’s
sheets, swaying, even then, on the other side of
town.   

     The KKK marching on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington D.C.  1928

       The speaker of the poem, like her mother, recognizes the power of poetry in the humorous “If I Didn’t Write Poetry” where the speaker of the poem imagines robbing a bank, without a gun and without the violence:

               Then give her my note.
Perhaps something in iambic pentameter.
Better yet, heroic couplets:
Please give me all the money in your till,
So no one in this bank I’ll have to kill.

       Even though her mother is not specifically mentioned in “How A Woman Carves Poetry of Her Bones” it validates her mother’s view of poetry and how it could change lives for the good; but unfortunately there are those who will ignore its powerful and good qualities, and utilize it for evil.


     

Other lessons Erna taught her daughter can be found in the poem “A Woman Explains The World To Her Children.”  
Her daughter is not superior or inferior to any other human being (The world does not owe you/ indigo,the quiet charm/ of purple love)
       She will not teach her daughter to eat, but how to grow her own food:  (Mama will not fall/ to fill your anxious belly.)
      She taught her daughter that it was up to her to make her own dreams come true and not the stars she wished upon:  (No matter how many stars/ you wish on, those distant suns/ flamed out long ago.)
      
She taught her daughter to respect the goodness of the individuals who came before her and to appreciate what they did in order to provide her with a better way of life:  (Your comfort is built/ on someone’s broken back.)
       She taught her daughter the importance of good hard work and the attitude in which to do that good hard work:  (Pick up your implement/ and move on down that row. / Go on and sing while you’re at it./  Might as well.)
       “Everybody in America Hate the South” is a contradiction at best – not in fact, but in mood.  It starts out as a serous poem but then is followed by sarcastic humor, while at the same time neither diminishing or overstating the other.
       In the first stanza the speaker of the poem boldly states the South’s history of depraved violence

That land filled to the rafters
with ghosts of lynched boys and attics full
of souvenirs – dried ears, fingers, genitalia
like prunes –


The body of Emmitt Till which his mother insisted be visible to all so that no one would ever forget the atrocity that was done to him. 

The speaker of the poem describes Mammy and Miss Scarlett from Gone With The Wind and this description has nothing to do with the novel by Margaret Mitchell or the film by David Selznick:  (of Miss Scarlett calling for Mammy who/ has now grown some dreadlocks and owns/ the chicken restaurant on the boulevard.)  


       The closest comment I remember my mother saying about something akin to Gone With the Wind was when I came home from sixth grade history class and my teacher Coach Edwards had made some comment about how kind and benevolent slaveholders were to slaves, parroting the pervasive position of the time.  My mother said, "You go tell him that that is not how it was.  Slaves often didn't have enough to eat, were often want of proper clothing, and were treated like animals."  

                              Vintage African Mosaic Painting

In the poem “A Feast With The Sane” the speaker of the poem’s brother seems to suffer from mental illness or violent tendencies and the speaker of the poem learns that food home-cooked from her mother can heal even this, but only when the family communes over Mother’s kitchen table.


       In “Family Photograph:  A Conjugation” the speaker of the poem writes about her last Christmas she shared with her mother.


       In “Second Sight” the speaker of the poem’s mother is at her deathbed, and her daughter at the age of 22 is praying that the end will come, to spare her mother the pain. 
In the third stanza, the speaker of the poem is witnessing God answering her prayer right in progress, her mother just on the brink of death.  Just when her prayer is answered, she begins another prayer.

I hiss at the moon and pray for sight:
Wondrous and mystic light,
embrace my soul,
inflame my vacant eye. 


       In “The Day After Her Mother Died” the speaker of the poem misses her mother so much that everything she sees, even the yellow in the eggs reminds her of the color of the dress she wore when her mother took her to a recital in the park.

              
          Vintage card of African Ameircan little girl in yellow dress.

       At the end of the poem, the speaker of the poem yearns to be held by her mother, only to lie in bed “sweating/ afraid of the silence in the next room?”
       The mourning of her mother’s death continues in the poem “Things That Are Lost.”

If objects remain in motion
until some force stops them
what force stops our memory of the dead?
      
Even in spirit her mother is still teaching Trimble lessons in life; one of which is to always value herself even when others do not. 
That lesson is expressed in the poem In “Did Jean Paul Sartre Ever Ask Simone De Beauvoir To Go To The Winn-Dixie?” where the speaker of the poem measures her value as a woman to that of a man, and reveals a feminine power necessary for all women to heal and to feel whole:

I can throw a basketball through a hoop
and ensure the survival of the species by incubating
a basketball-sized human being in my uterus
for almost ten months

   

 It is in this pride of being a poet, woman, African American that the speaker of the poem finds her thriving voice and will always emerge like a lady (line from the poem “Did Jean Paul Sartre Ever Ask Simone De Beauvoir To Go To The Winn-Dixie?”)


Thursday, June 8, 2017

Poet Anne Whitehouse's METEOR SHOWER - Resurrecting the Dead through the Elegy

Christal Cooper

*The images in this specific piece are granted copyright privilege by:  Public Domain, CCSAL, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law, or given copyright privilege by the copyright holder which is identified beneath the individual photo.  

** PLEASE TAKE NOTE:  This is an analysis of Christal Rice Cooper’s interpretation of Meteor Shower.  The only interpretation from the poet herself will be noted in a quote.  Thus far there are no quotes.  Therefore this entire piece is an analysis based only on Christal Rice Cooper's interpretation of Meteor Shower.



Anne Whitehouse’s Meteor Shower:
“Reflecting the Dead Back to Life Through the Elegy”

       On September 7, 2016 Dos Madres Press Inc. (https://www.facebook.com/DosMadresPress) published Anne Whitehouse’s fifth poetry collection Meteor Shower.     
   

       Meteor Shower illustration and book design is by Elizabeth H Murphy who is represented by Illusion Studios (http://www.illusionstudios.net).  


       Whitehouse’s other poetry collections are:  The Refrain (Dos Madres Press); One Sunday Morning (Finishing Line Press); Bear In Mind (Finishing Line Press); Blessings And Cursers (Poetric Matrix Press); and the chapbook The Surveyor’s Hand (Compton Press).


She’s also written a novel called Fall Love  (Xlibris).


       Meteor Shower is broken up into six parts:  A Girl Who Fell In Love With An Island (10 poems); The Eye That Cries (10 poems); Moving (10 poems); The Mask (9 poems); Grout Pond (9 poems); and Life’s Continuous Chain (7 poems).
       The poems contain the common thread of reflection on One’s Self (“A Girl Who Fell In Love With An Island.”); Nature (“At The Ocean”); Events (“The Eye That Cries”); Things (“Wedding Silver”); and Memories (“Moving”).
       What is most captivating about this poetry collection is Whitehouse’s expert hand in writing the poetic form called the elegy, a lamenting poem, couplet or song written in the memory of a deceased person.

In “One Way Session in memory of Marc Snyder” the speaker of the poem mourns the loss of her and her husband’s marriage therapist.

You were our therapist
for 25 years-
to think I still believed
we had all the time
in the world!

She attributes she and her husband’s therapist Marc with the ability to making their marriage an honest marriage.

Only you had the ability
to turn our gazes inward
to reveal how we’d each
wronged the other.

Soon she no longer mourns her therapist but celebrates the relationship that she and her husband Steve share, and she gives credit of this relationship to her therapist, which allows her and her husband the freedom to swim (from under the rock/ that had trapped me,). 

where we find each other
and hold on.

By the end of the poem therapist Marc Snyder lives on because their love relationship lives on:

the two of us warm
and steady, for this time,
now and forever,
between the two immensities.

       The poem “A Few Things I Learned From My Mother-In-Law In memory of Martha Jane Linton Whitehouse” the speaker of the poem pays tribute to a woman who taught her about the importance of space in order to have healthy relationships.

I had not grown up in a family that respected boundaries,
and it was a relief to have a mother-in-law
who set such store by them.

The next two stanzas the speaker of the poem shares some of the lessons her mother-in-law taught her.  It is in the next to last stanza that she speaks directly to her mother-in-law:

Martha, mother-in-law, gin-drinker, I lift
my glass to you, bare-footed, braving the humidity
on the porch, armed with your frosty martini,
watching the surface of the canal stained pink
by a pastel sunset through dark palms,
blurred by the passage of underwater life. 
 
The final two lines, a couplet, not only remembers her mother-in-law but also brings back to life the ancestors her mother-in-law told her about.

So that long-vanished ancestors will come to enlighten us,
You tell us the family stories that you have taken to heart.


  In “Glimpse of Glory in memory of Hellen Zeanah Macon Cherner” the speaker of the poem observes her grandmother, who suffers from Alzheimer’s or some form of dementia, bathed in intense sunlight so bright that she has to look away, but only momentarily; she looks back at her grandmother, who is now playing with her own two year old daughter and her grandmother’s face lights up, with what the speaker of the poem believes is recognition; but then in the next stanza she recognizes that her grandmother thinks she is now the nurse that she once was in her younger years.  She knows this is a sign that she is not getting better but on the cusp of death.

I’d been thinking she was getting better.
I know now it was the opposite-
her spirit was readying for the infinite.

In “Bookends in memory of my father-in-law Hugh Lord Whitehouse” the speaker of the poem and her husband are going though her father in law’s house packing, deciding what things to keep, what things to give away.  Even with the house empty, the house takes on the persona of her father-in-law.

Yet, stripped of so much,
the house still enchanted us,
enfolded and protected us.

After exploring the house’s kitchen , back yard, an d back yard swimming pool the speaker of the poem venture into her father in law-s library and finds bookends that were handmade by her father in-law:

and recognized my father-in-law’s handiwork
in the blocks of wood four inches square,
each fastened at right angles with two screws
to a square of aluminum.

Made with care, using material at hand,
the squares of wood sanded and stained,
and the squares of aluminum sanded, too,
so they would slide smoothly
between book and bookshelf.


The speaker of the poem’s husband reveals to her that her father-in-law made things to earn money during his poor grad days.   In the last stanza, the bookends take on the persona of her father-in-law, his struggles, his ability to turn those struggles into beautiful art, and the great unknown of what those struggles were.

In so much of what he did,
My father-in-law exhibited a painful perfection
that was hard to live up to, hard to live with.
In their serenity and simplicity,
these beautiful objects he made
reveal nothing of his struggles.

       The most compelling blockbuster of a poem in this collection is the poem “Calligraphies” in the voice of famed artist Cai Guo-Qiang (http://www.caiguoqiang.com)  who is speaking in memory of his father, calligrapher and painter Cai Ruiqin – making this poem both a persona and an elegy poem at the same time.  

                     Cai Guo-Qiang in Houston, Texas. October 2010

       In the first stanza the young Cai witnesses the making of art and the destruction of war right at his front door.

In the old days in China
my father collected calligraphy,
ancient scrolls, and rare books.
We lived in Quanzhou,
across the strait from Taiwan.
We could hear artillery batteries
firing into the mist at the island
that still resisted the mainland.


       Cai remembers his father as an artist whose artwork was synonymous with his father’s identity.  There was no separation – his father inhaled and exhaled his calligraphy, his art.  The next two stanzas describe this act of breathing art essential to his father’s life, spirit and wellbeing.

My father’s calligraphy
was delicate and adept.
I used to stand at his shoulder,
careful to leave space
for his am to move freely,
as I watched him wet the ink
to the right consistency,
select his brush, and dip it
gently and carefully, soaking
the soft hairs of the badger,
and stroke its sides
against the jar, forming a point
like no other, soft, flexible, yielding.

With an intake of breath,
he raised his hand that held the brush,
hovering above the paper,
and slowly exhaled
until he was an empty receptacle,
and then, and only then,
he touched the tip of the brush
to the fine rice paper-
the strokes flowed, deft and sensitive,
forming the ancient shapes of the words.


Then his father experiences his first of many deaths in the form of the Cultural Revolution, when out of fear of imprisonment or loss of human life, his father hides his book and scrolls in a hole in the family cellar.  He then experiences more deaths:

but he was still afraid, and little by little,
he began to burn it, at night, in secret,
in the hidden depths of the house.

                           Burning of statues during the Cultural Revolution

The speaker of the poem Cai remembers his father‘s severe depression and loss.

Afterwards he was not the same.
He lost himself in a strange self-exile
and left us all, his family behind,
finding perilous refuge
far  away in the mountains
in a ruined Buddhist convent,
where an old crone of ninety,
the last remaining resident,
gave him sanctuary.

                    The Paro Taktsang Palphug

While at the Buddhist convent he managed to find a piece of himself back, but only momentarily. 

There he would take sticks

and write calligraphy once more
in puddles on the ground
that would disappear
as soon as it was written,


In the next stanza the speaker of the poem Cai brings his father and his father’s art back to life by creating is own art:

I am his son and my calligraphy
is firework, my art gunpowder,
as evanescent as writing on water.

Can Guo-Qiang preparing a gunpowder drawing for the Arts China Gallery at the Houston Museum of Fine Arts in October 2010

Evanescent is a good word to describe these poems – except the poems don’t completely disappear – they are like waves in the ocean – traveling from us and then coming back to us, like a song.

In seconds the fog lifted –
one moment visible
and vanished the next
from a rise in temperature.

--excerpt, “Inspiration”


Left:  Minute droplets of water constitute this after-dark radiation fog, with the ambient temperature −2 °C (28 °F)
Middle:  Up-close view of water particles forming fog
Right:  Advection fog layer in San Francisco with the Golden Gate Bridge and skyline in the background


       Or better yet like a meteor shower – the poems reaching a part of us that is eternal, not able to be tangibly touched, but able to be seen and felt – like the cosmic debris, echoing in our ears.

Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels’ hierarchies?
Every angel is terrifying, he heard,
imagining that annihilating embrace
empowering the Duino Elegies.


--excerpt, “Inspiration”