Vagueness of situation can prove problematic in poetry written by anyone, be they new at the art or a seasoned professional. Though vagueness can be problematic it can also be integral to the structure and power of a poem. No matter how detail oriented the poem is in its construction there is always room for interpretation of its details, whether they are lifted directly from life situations or born on the fringe of the fantastic. Negative space, vagueness, can do positive work in a poem in its generation of interpretive flexibility in its frameworks, voice, narrative coherence, metaphor, thematic presence, and atmosphere. In C. D. Wright’s “More Blues and the Abstract Truth,” the reader is given a poem with a very loose narrative structure, a looseness that produces a pervasive vagueness of situation that serves the poem in a positive way. The looseness, the vagueness of situational sign posts, shifts the weight of the poem, the points at which meaning seeking readers can pull information from, to its other elements like metaphor, theme, authentic detail, and syntax.
“More Blues and the Abstract Truth” is littered with authentic detail. The details are as variable as they are poignant; from the paperboy who “comes to collect / with a pit bull” (3), to “the rot / under the floormat” (14), to the confessional honesty of the speaker’s “frequent bleeding / the tender nipples” (13), to the zucchini that somehow “keep[s] on the sill” “even at the end of June” (8). These concrete images ground the poem and paint a keen image of the world the speaker inhabits. Dressing the authentic details is the sparing use of, for their subject matter, engaging metaphors. The speaker intertwines authentic detail with visceral imagery in her thoughts on her gynecologist, “another gouging mechanic,” (17) and then later plays with the language of religion through syntax to generate another metaphor rich in meaning, “the word / has broken… with the wine. And the loaf. / And the excellent glass of the body” (32). The richness of the second instance of metaphor comes from the body of knowledge indigenous to the reader that is activated with the loaded words emphasized by the syntactical irregularities she uses to introduce the metaphorical idea of filling the body with religion as though it were a wine glass. The end of the poem in particular is brimming with authentic details presented as frenetic ideas of a racing mind through parataxis. The speaker asks the grandmother in the poem how a body can “go on drying / the flatware” (27), “fix rainbow trout” (28), and “grout the tile” (28). The grandmother replies with similar syntax that performs the opposite function: “Even. If. The. Sky. Is. Falling. / My. Peace. Rose. Is. In. Bloom” (38). Because of the loose narrative structure the reader does not know if the speaker is at the grandmother’s house, or on the phone with her, or why the speaker is speaking to her grandmother, or if the speaker is ill or well, or if the speaker is dreaming the entire sequence, or if the grandmother is even alive or if the entire exchange is a memory. The dearth of information forces the reader to focus on what is presented: the authentic detail, metaphor, and syntax. From this shifted focus the thematic content of the poem becomes clear and is set off by the title of the poem. Though the speaker’s mind is full, evidenced by the plethora of detail, and yet disquieted, evidenced by the two metaphors that referenced physical and devotional discomfort and the unusual syntax of the speaker’s voice, the speaker is finding support in the voice of her grandmother, real or imagined.
Vagueness of situation can be detrimental to any poet and any poem if not carefully managed. A haphazardly incomplete canvas does not a painting make. Because C. D. Wright’s poem “More Blues and the Abstract Truth” dabbles in the boundary between concrete detail and loose narrative it must strike a balance between what is present on the page and what is not. For “More Blues and the Abstract Truth” C. D. Wright chooses to cut away much of the narrative aside from bits of dialog because what shores the poem against the potential tide of incoherence is its strong and familiar theme, its use of visceral metaphor, authentic detail, and surprising but effective syntactical devices. To have included more narrative structure would have been to beat the reader over the head with the poems content. Too many brush strokes ruin the painting and what C. D. Wright gives the reader to work with is just adequate to see the beauty in its craft and not an ounce more.
original works of parts
Adventure Quest in Sunlight A Major
The children are playing in the wood
with dinosaur trees
and flickers of Cardinals, Jays,
and Peckers busying themselves,
between eddies of bushwhacking
stick wielding
ninja fights.
An orange and, at one time, white Tabby
ducks a flight of acorns
from dusky palms and hides beneath
the fronds and eaves of a
fortress fit for a most princely
demon of prehistory.
Stubbing toes and elbows
on the game trail as they
tag and spit and bellow
and laugh
to the river's edge
and sit and drink
more blue sky
than dreamt
possible
the day before,
they build plans
for attempting the moat
barring their way to
a portion of science that is,
honest to God,
alchemic and metallic
and heady with
enough discovery
to make Prometheus wish
he poked around a few moments more
before settling on fire,
but it's seven o'clock in the afternoon
and the evening is plucking the clouds
thin quilled feathers, a broad shouldered
mother with butcher's fingers
and doe lipped dexterity,
even as they flee
with the days westward exhalations.
The trees begin satisfying
their bellies
with the last scraps
of daylight and
the operation is postponed
out of necessity, and
the chorus feast,
in its nibbling chirping bites,
reminds them all
of the soft spots in their
little exhausted store houses
for the sweet rice and red beans
soon to occupy the table
back home.
with dinosaur trees
and flickers of Cardinals, Jays,
and Peckers busying themselves,
between eddies of bushwhacking
stick wielding
ninja fights.
An orange and, at one time, white Tabby
ducks a flight of acorns
from dusky palms and hides beneath
the fronds and eaves of a
fortress fit for a most princely
demon of prehistory.
Stubbing toes and elbows
on the game trail as they
tag and spit and bellow
and laugh
to the river's edge
and sit and drink
more blue sky
than dreamt
possible
the day before,
they build plans
for attempting the moat
barring their way to
a portion of science that is,
honest to God,
alchemic and metallic
and heady with
enough discovery
to make Prometheus wish
he poked around a few moments more
before settling on fire,
but it's seven o'clock in the afternoon
and the evening is plucking the clouds
thin quilled feathers, a broad shouldered
mother with butcher's fingers
and doe lipped dexterity,
even as they flee
with the days westward exhalations.
The trees begin satisfying
their bellies
with the last scraps
of daylight and
the operation is postponed
out of necessity, and
the chorus feast,
in its nibbling chirping bites,
reminds them all
of the soft spots in their
little exhausted store houses
for the sweet rice and red beans
soon to occupy the table
back home.
Somewhere Between Unhappy Endings
Laying by the streams muddy folds,
the stream that crisps and sparks with August’s
dewy 3 A.M. kiss, I close my fist on
tufts of nappy cattails, snapped and trodden
into the bank.
Brown bull frogs bound and flop over and under
the blackened, storm felled, trunks
at the edge of my backyard. They are looking
for the pond I filled with concrete last year
to raise the value of my home.
A rifle cracks somewhere near the tracks
of the coal train and the moon’s eyelids lift
in the gap between 80 foot Hickories.
The mourning dove, covering
Her empty nest, stirs and whistles away.
I hum and the moon quiets its gaze, rolls over
beneath its tattered blanket of vapors,
and the weightlessness of wanting not returns to me
like the breaths I hold
every time I feel you breath in beside me.
the stream that crisps and sparks with August’s
dewy 3 A.M. kiss, I close my fist on
tufts of nappy cattails, snapped and trodden
into the bank.
Brown bull frogs bound and flop over and under
the blackened, storm felled, trunks
at the edge of my backyard. They are looking
for the pond I filled with concrete last year
to raise the value of my home.
A rifle cracks somewhere near the tracks
of the coal train and the moon’s eyelids lift
in the gap between 80 foot Hickories.
The mourning dove, covering
Her empty nest, stirs and whistles away.
I hum and the moon quiets its gaze, rolls over
beneath its tattered blanket of vapors,
and the weightlessness of wanting not returns to me
like the breaths I hold
every time I feel you breath in beside me.
Somewhere Between
Lying by the streams muddy folds,
the stream that crisps and sparks with August’s
dewy 3 A.M. kiss, I close my fist on
tufts of nappy cattails, snapped and trodden
into the bank.
Brown bull frogs bound and flop over and under
the blackened, storm felled, trunks
at the edge of my backyard. They are looking
for the pond I filled with concrete last year
to raise the value of my home.
A rifle cracks somewhere near the tracks
of the coal train and the moon’s eyelids lift
in the gap between 80 foot Hickories.
The mourning dove, covering
Her empty nest, stirs and whistles away.
From my sodden bed amongst the reeds
I stand, companion to yet
another night quietly grasping for cloture,
wrists outstretched, clean and pale,
and faintly, faintly, scarred.
the stream that crisps and sparks with August’s
dewy 3 A.M. kiss, I close my fist on
tufts of nappy cattails, snapped and trodden
into the bank.
Brown bull frogs bound and flop over and under
the blackened, storm felled, trunks
at the edge of my backyard. They are looking
for the pond I filled with concrete last year
to raise the value of my home.
A rifle cracks somewhere near the tracks
of the coal train and the moon’s eyelids lift
in the gap between 80 foot Hickories.
The mourning dove, covering
Her empty nest, stirs and whistles away.
From my sodden bed amongst the reeds
I stand, companion to yet
another night quietly grasping for cloture,
wrists outstretched, clean and pale,
and faintly, faintly, scarred.
Montepellier Will Not Fix His Fence (and it bothers me)
A lime and raspberry daiquiri fell out of my dream last night and hid itself in the cot I kept rolled up. For guests. Thirst was the second thing on my mind. The first was addressing the issue of Montepellier's hound who, for the sixth time this week, was at my ankles. In through the out door and now in my garden of spilled clothing round my feet.
The early morning hours are mine to spend, but I rarely buy for one. I share my frustration with my heel against the hounds paw and he whimpers away to a dimmer corner. Waiting for signs of sleep. To itch my skin and curl the hairs of my shins again. I lean and stretch the way I remember Jane Fonda on BetaMax. Before I understood the appeal of shimmer tights.
Cartilage cracking is really only the pop of bubbles within the tissue. The world wide web has also assured me that arthritis cannot be so generated. But endorphins can. The rush of warmth through the compressing spine is probably nothing compared to the flush on her cheeks when she popped the thin plastic around the candy tin's lip.
I could bet money that she would blush as tremendously crushing a pocket vole, nest and all, in her creame complexioned fist. Body temperate saliva wakes me. Slapping against the thick painted drawing cooked into the shirt front. I excuse myself the indiscretion for the sake of the guests. They offer blank and darkness dilated pupils instead of allowance.
Classical music is not really classical. They've insisted in the past, but I am in a rare mood for conversation and the hound is snoring machine like. I turn the radio dial to static. Before turning it on. If every person could listen to every song they liked at once it would be unpleasant. For everyone who preferred talk radio.
Snoring ceases and my toes curl happily in my off white garden. The neighbor has retrieved his mongrel and the cot, well soaked within, is making a fine chair for someone. On its outs. A shift in the air before my face tells me the door has come free of its jamb. And maybe I can defray my hosting duties to the reedy and ill mannered new arrival.
The early morning hours are mine to spend, but I rarely buy for one. I share my frustration with my heel against the hounds paw and he whimpers away to a dimmer corner. Waiting for signs of sleep. To itch my skin and curl the hairs of my shins again. I lean and stretch the way I remember Jane Fonda on BetaMax. Before I understood the appeal of shimmer tights.
Cartilage cracking is really only the pop of bubbles within the tissue. The world wide web has also assured me that arthritis cannot be so generated. But endorphins can. The rush of warmth through the compressing spine is probably nothing compared to the flush on her cheeks when she popped the thin plastic around the candy tin's lip.
I could bet money that she would blush as tremendously crushing a pocket vole, nest and all, in her creame complexioned fist. Body temperate saliva wakes me. Slapping against the thick painted drawing cooked into the shirt front. I excuse myself the indiscretion for the sake of the guests. They offer blank and darkness dilated pupils instead of allowance.
Classical music is not really classical. They've insisted in the past, but I am in a rare mood for conversation and the hound is snoring machine like. I turn the radio dial to static. Before turning it on. If every person could listen to every song they liked at once it would be unpleasant. For everyone who preferred talk radio.
Snoring ceases and my toes curl happily in my off white garden. The neighbor has retrieved his mongrel and the cot, well soaked within, is making a fine chair for someone. On its outs. A shift in the air before my face tells me the door has come free of its jamb. And maybe I can defray my hosting duties to the reedy and ill mannered new arrival.
Ruled an Accidental Death
Twined in the thriving plates and needle points of Spring, it peeks, and burrows, through the whispering ankle deep ripples like a shed, paled, yellowed, snake skin. Four months passed, ponderous as willow trees on an afternoon stroll, dappled rays of guilt glinting on their leaves. Winking and weighty. Gently, he placed her sunburst candy purse, still full with spare hose, lipsticks, eye pencils, amidst the glittering and stunted black stalks, rigored and dead as the legs of a poisoned field cricket colony.
A square of ash flakes and dissolves against his naked wrist. He casts about as a fox for hounds unmustered. Fingers touch and wipe clean the fresh droplet of the pigment spilled and dried and peeling free of the Spring painted beneath.
The stemware rested, a crescent of invisible blade, against the pile of the thin burgundy rug. Her toy kanine descended, curious, to the spreading, mingling, stains and in a few moments slit her pink little nose from tip to, cleft, snuffling, upper lip. A third, confused, whimper brings naught but the unamused and taciturn stare of the gray hour hand, while minutes twitched by the fireplace’s brick work like nerve throttled heartbeats before known and suspect footsteps.
A square of ash flakes and dissolves against his naked wrist. He casts about as a fox for hounds unmustered. Fingers touch and wipe clean the fresh droplet of the pigment spilled and dried and peeling free of the Spring painted beneath.
The stemware rested, a crescent of invisible blade, against the pile of the thin burgundy rug. Her toy kanine descended, curious, to the spreading, mingling, stains and in a few moments slit her pink little nose from tip to, cleft, snuffling, upper lip. A third, confused, whimper brings naught but the unamused and taciturn stare of the gray hour hand, while minutes twitched by the fireplace’s brick work like nerve throttled heartbeats before known and suspect footsteps.
Batting Average
Laughter snares listeners and
forty minutes into
the Sunday sermon and
distracted by
the sweat on the pastor's
graying face while he retread
his rocky marriage to bait
classroom participation, and
the choir member who
passed out screaming about
God's love, and
the thought that the only
self help
book I would ever need was
the bible and
the three thousand
self help books written to
clarify
its straightforward pages,
I found myself
to an edge
able to contain a snickering
tightening at the corners of
my eyes and an
erection in my lap as
I remembered
Theresa's birthday party
in tenth grade when
the power went out and,
instead of flashlight tag,
we all played
grabass.
God's mysterious ways
revived the choir singer and by
His grace
she was able to walk
to a wheelchair.
They called
an ambulance and
called for members of
the flock
who were also EMTs
just in case.
forty minutes into
the Sunday sermon and
distracted by
the sweat on the pastor's
graying face while he retread
his rocky marriage to bait
classroom participation, and
the choir member who
passed out screaming about
God's love, and
the thought that the only
self help
book I would ever need was
the bible and
the three thousand
self help books written to
clarify
its straightforward pages,
I found myself
to an edge
able to contain a snickering
tightening at the corners of
my eyes and an
erection in my lap as
I remembered
Theresa's birthday party
in tenth grade when
the power went out and,
instead of flashlight tag,
we all played
grabass.
God's mysterious ways
revived the choir singer and by
His grace
she was able to walk
to a wheelchair.
They called
an ambulance and
called for members of
the flock
who were also EMTs
just in case.
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