It is with a heavy heart that we now have to announce that Black & White Gets Read is going on an indefinite hiatus. We sadly, have failed to maintain enough reviewers to keep the site going. If our status changes in the future, we will re-open the site at that time.
Black & White Gets Read
Sunday, June 26, 2016
Sunday, February 14, 2016
Consequences Of A Moonless Night by Loueva Smith
Published by Texas Review Press
Reviewed by G.
B. Welch, Ph.D.
In
her first chapbook, Consequences of a
Moonless Night, Winner of the prestigious Robert Phillips Chapbook Prize,
poet Loueva Smith takes us from the East Texas piney woods where she was born
to a park bench that fronts the Rothko Chapel in Houston , Texas . With stunning imagery she tells us that her
darkness is always with her, it
rearranges the furniture. The family is steeped in Pentecostal beliefs that
the world will end in her lifetime. My father’s mother walks/ with the beast of
the Apocalypse/ on a leash down to the livestock/ pond… for exercise. Her father tries to build a fire on a cold
night with wet wood. It smolders, but no
heat. He plays Love Me Tender with five rubber bands on a cigar box. They are so poor the static electricity in
their hair has to serve as Christmas lights.
The only thing her father will give Ms. Smith are the names of the
constellations in the night sky while her mother remains secluded behind stacks
of romance paperbacks breathing through rose petals the scent of a love she
longs for.
Growing
up, Ms. Smith is closest to her older brother and, as readers, we stand with
the family as he dies, too young, too soon.
He has given her books telling her what to expect from this world: Kafka
and Anne Frank’s Diary. And she asks of
her kitchen chairs, when they were felled in the forest did they long to be
made into flutes, to have holes drilled for song? She rescues a crippled bird and tells it, You and I are rooted things. But then, if Jesus can work on the Sabbath,
making clay birds fly, can Ms. Smith become the poet she’s dreamed of being
since she was a girl carrying Emily Dickenson’s poems in her pockets?
Dearest Marie is the first in a series of love
letters. Taken as a group they form a
transition between the loss of a loved one, and the beginning of a new love. In these poems Ms. Smith explores unfamiliar
territory. I can’t learn to pronounce even the simple words…..My voice hides in a
cut-lass sugar bowl. The poems are
exploratory, sometimes cautious, certainly gentle. I touch
her ridged childhood scar/……the letter M/ the same as the burn on the inside/
of my lip where I seldom say her name.
Tarot Pair and Recipe introduce the pitfalls of loving. Marie’s recipe for a meal includes the knee
joints of St. Joan of Arc. Let her pray all night …../ ….It makes the
flesh tender. And finally the last
poem, Dearest Marie, (the second poem with this title) unveils the poet with
truth, candor, and strength.
Consequences of a Moonless Night leaves our minds wobbly with its
expansive journey through lyrical imagery.
Sunday, January 10, 2016
Acts of Balance by Nancy Means Wright
Published by
Finishing Line Press
Reviewed by Carol
Smallwood
Vermont writer Nancy Means Wright is the author of seventeen books and
has had dozens of poems published in magazines and anthologies such as
Bellingham Review and St. Martin’s Press. The 18th-century feminist Mary
Wollstoncraft is no stranger to her as she has published a mystery series based
on her life. Wollstonecraft is best known for A Vindication
of the Rights of Woman (1792), in which she argues that women
are not naturally inferior to men.
In her third chapbook, Acts of Balance, the poet alternates chronologically the voices of the historical Mary
Wollstonecraft and a fictional contemporary farmwoman, Fay. For each poem,
she’s included a short preface with their name (Mary or Fay), date, and their
current concern.
Most of the poems have a work by the fictional contemporary Fay
opposite one by Mary Wollstonecraft such as:
Fay Drops in on an Apple Doctor
Something is growing inside
Fay’s breast. Vermont, 1994
Fresh cheeked and white-haired,
he leans over my bare breast
and we talk poems.
Admittedly, he writes a little,
A Carlos Williams. Last week
the poem described an aunt who
died—it was pancreatic cancer.
Breasting the Flood
Mary gives birth to Fanny. Le
Harve, 1794.
When my cat purrs
the fresh stream rushes
under the frail bridge,
the earth rumbles
in the rub of wind;
green twigs snap.
The attractive chapbook’s design is a study balance it self with red
endpapers, red ribbon tie, red cardinal bird on the cover. The first poem is by
Fay in 1957; the last poem is by Fay, 2012.
The dialogue between the women divided by time and place shows a unity
between the two lives, a sharing that women too often do not see among
themselves whether they are contemporaries or not. We are in the Third Wave of
the Women’s Movement but many women do not realize it which I suspect Mary
Woolstonecraft would have understand very well; Wollstonecraft died when she
was thirty-eight, shortly after giving birth to her second daughter. I would
have enjoyed an introduction by the poet on how she came to write this memorable
work.
Sunday, October 11, 2015
Answer to My Ellipsis
by Donella M. Dornwell
Published
by Transcendent Zero Press
Reviewed
by henry 7. reneau, jr.
When is a door not a
door?
When it is ajar, and any perception “masked in
paranoia” may enter, uninvited.
Every
one of our personal perceptions of the world, all our private feelings, are
solely dependent upon the chemical balance, or imbalance, of our brains. Answer to My Ellipsis, the first poetry
collection by Donella M. Dornwell, shines a discerning light into the impaired
reality of mental illness. Her fearless use of introspection and unadorned
wording reveals the skewed landscape of her altered reality, like a mirror
brought unnervingly close, exposing “. . . the door-matted closet/of dreads
I’ve been,” proving both demoralizing and revelatory.
As
such, the thoughts and feelings, uncertainties and fears of the sometimes
direct, sometimes elusive voices in her poems, once filtered through Dornwell’s
poetic second sight, boldly verbalize from the secluded room of loneliness, of
pharmaceutical depression, the incorrigible anxiety of desperation, unexpected
hallucination, and the almost feral guardedness in her interactions with those
labeled rational, stable, sane . . . human:
“You’re
a pushover.”
but
really I’m evaporated,
saying
“yes” to them
but
“no” to me.
Shoving
me out of happy . . .
The
spotlight she directs inwards, using a sparse poetic methodology similar to
Emily Dickinson, probes deep into the prism of “dim thoughts/of menial me,” to
then unavoidably refract outwards, illuminating the lurking psychosis, and lack
of empathy, sometimes lurking otherwise latent in status quo-deemed “Normals.”
Readers of this collection of poetry will no doubt be inspired by
her artistry, courage, and “tight rope walk of stable me” perseverance.
Sunday, September 6, 2015
Mutant Neuron Codex Swarm by Juliet
Cook and Robert Cole
Published by Hyacinth
Girl Press
Reviewed By: A.J. Huffman
Mutant Neuron Codex Swarm, a 27-page chapbook by Juliet Cook and Robert
Cole, is a self-portrait of a relationship as a bad acid trip through hell. It is brutal and honest in a way that can
only come from an almost after-life-like separation from the self. As readers, we are hovering above the carnage
with the speaker, looking down on a train-wreck of a situation with a disdain
that is anything but disconnected.
Cook
and Cole, two obvious masters of macabre surrealism take us on an imagistic
roller-coaster journey through the blood-soaked progression of a transgressive
nightmare, drowning in an over-abundant amount of love, lust, hate, sweat and
tears. They open doors -- revealing
wounds, skins and private atrocities – that should probably have been nailed
shut and abandoned in the deepest bowels of memory, but by doing this they
force the reader to not only journey with them through these horror-soaked
pages, but also to journey inside themselves as the cataclysmic scenerios begin
to seem all-too-familiar. This bawdy
collection of expositions erupting with expletives of lust and frustration born
of a stereotypically mundane obsessively co-dependent, self-destructive
relationship is as intoxicating as opium, and just as addictive.
Fearless
of judgment, Cook and Cole actually welcome the readers’ theoretical
commentary. In Bang It Until It Explodes, they blatantly pose the question: “Are they human? You decide.”
This strange awareness of and interaction with the readers subconscious
forms an immediate connection, forces more squeamish eyes that might prefer
flower-covered denial, to not only engage, but to focus on base-level debauchery
splayed in the following pages.
In
a mere 23 poems, Cook and Cole manage to weave a portrait of gravitating build,
an eruptive explosion, and a settling into almost sadistic complacency that is
beyond impressive in both its uniqueness and its universality. In Stop
the Madness!, we see the point of initiation: “You know how pussies purr/and then turn into
explosive devices.” At this moment, even
though feminine pronouns abound, gender disappears, and male or female, a
uniquely human understanding of what is about to happen emerges. That moment when amazing sex clicks something
in the brain screams this is worth any
price overrides common sense. “The
telegraph reads DON’T/stop DON’T
stop DON’T stop” is a testimony to
the over-riding confusion that occurs when the body and the mind get lost in
intense physical sensation. “The
aftermath/is never good enough.” drives the duplicitous point home – the
absence of such amazing sex is a level of down that causes a craving need for
duplication, repetition, and the realization that this consuming coupling can
only end in something less than the euphoric Xanadu it is held as.
In
Induction Obscura, we begin to see
the beginning of the ups and downs that can be the only reason even Shakespeare
referred to love as “merely a madness”:
“They dig themselves out of the loam. . . down the toilet again.” As the intensity of the relationship grows,
so does the imagery of these emotional potholes: “where the light at the end of
the tunnel/is another tunnel smoldering beyond control.” (Churning Codex Portal)
Coagulation Served Cold With
Lemon Zest reminds us again of
the consciousness of our speaker, the awareness of the torturous destruction
that is both being inflicted by her and is being inflicted upon her: “Allow me to place the napkin just so/upon your lap, around your
neck,/the blade tip trained to your ear.”
Even worse, we begin to see the speaker’s awareness of her own
helplessness: “Tied down, hacked off, so
much less to potentially love.” While
grisly and grotesque, this awful moment is still completely relatable. Have we not all tried to metaphorically cut
off pieces of a significant other in search of a reason to extract ourselves
from a bed relationship, often to no avail?
And
when extraction fails, what is the next human reaction? Blue
Flames in the Nest tells us: sex
becomes a weapon. “A robe falls to stand
up straight/brimming with teeth.” This
idea of the body as weapon is taken one step further in Contamination Ward: “too
drugged to mutter an evocation . . . The doctor waters his perennial scourge .
. . Continue the retinal collapse in sub-level three.” This image of a sexual zombie with
intentionally induced blindness flashes like lightning in a starless sky –
illuminating to an almost painful extent.
“Is his pen(is) a medicine bag or a blow torch?” The ugly face of addiction is beginning to
emerge.
By
the time we reach Swarm One,
addiction has consumed both speaker and reader:
“Lucid unrelenting pain proponent, we were somehow winged/with gigantic
stingers all over our skin. Nobody can
touch us anymore.” The emotions of the
speaker echo what the reader is feeling.
The scene is too painful to endure, and yet to alive to pull away
from. We are completely consumed.
From
that peak moment of unity, immediately we are plummeted into dregs if emotional
despair. Swarm Two blast us with a scathing dose of realization: “Nobody can save us . . . Ashes ashes we/used
to think we were interesting. Now we are
nothing/but rotten fritters that would eat until nothing remains.” With that slap to our consciousness we are
faced with a mirror of entrails that are both otherworldy and our own, and we
think this must be the end, this must be where reality strikes and someone is
saved. But no, Copy and Pasty My Eyes shows us that there is no happy ending to be
found in this tale. Clarity is not to be
found. “Here, at the entrance/exist,
blinding dust is everywhere.” And in Final Swarm we are faced with the
unwished for reality—sometimes there is no way out, and we see the speaker and
her counterpart 10, 20, 50 years in the future still stuck inside this hellish
hamster wheel, going nowhere: “we sit
and buzz by an empty fireplace,/wishing the forest would be set ablaze.”
Finally,
Cook and Cole remind us that they have been bleeding intentionally before us by
posing just a final question to the reader:
“when we lick the dirty mirror, does it make us more attractive?” This visceral duo, in all the depravity of
the previous pages, shows that there is always a level lower. The need is still prevalent, but has now
changed. The search for sexual
gratification, for emotional sanity and a calmer co-existence, is now manifested
in the need for any validation. Is this
literary penance enough to equal a moment of beauty. Yes.
Yes it is.
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
How I Lost My Virginity to Michael Cohen and Other Heart Stab Poems
by Alexis Rhone Fancher
Published by Sybaritic Press
Review by April
Salzano
Reading
Rhone Fancher’s newest collection is like one of those times you start out
fucking and end up crying. Even when sex seems to be for a good fuck’s sake,
the layers of meaning remain infinite. There is always more to it than that.
Sex is a rite of passage, an exploration of selfhood and femininity, a power
trip, a road trip, a mind trip. How you screw is who you are and everyone you
refuse to be. Fancher tells us in the poem “Let’s Be Happy Now!” that she not
someone’s old lady, but someone’s wet dream, “not the marrying kind,” but “the
fucking kind./The lewd lingerie kind.”
While
this is certainly one kind of woman within these pages, Fancher also portrays
women as much more complex creatures. Her women are stilettos and flats, Mary
Jane’s and “two-toned, two-faced saddle Oxfords that guard the door” (“Walk All
Over You). They are wives and they are mistresses. They are also bitches,
whores and narcissists. They are rape victims and beaten wives with “Dark
Options” whose shopping list includes “star fruit, endive, hollow points/and a
pair of balls.” They are as much heartbreakers as they are heartbroken. When a
woman in this collection is hurt, it is often at the hands of another woman.
Perhaps consequently, the female speaker is often as cruel to men as other
women have been to her. Women are feared and fearful. One even finds a way to
strip a rapist of his power in the poem, “College Roommates,” where she says:
“I didn’t mine the rape./It was the softness I minded./He couldn’t get it
up/when it mattered.” One trait consistent to women throughout this body of
work is their power. They fuck, but they also love, and more importantly, everything
they do is with passion. Indifference is not an emotion in Fancher’s
repertoire.
Every
corner of every poem is alive and vibrant. Although they are fewer than the
moments of lust, there are many tender moments within, such as in the
ekphrastic pieces closer to the end of the collection. In “White Flag,” for
example, we catch a glimpse of another side to the dark, sexually liberated
thrill-seeker (or perhaps a different speaker and woman entirely). Who has the
power to make her “desperate for a second chance” like one of Hopper’s
subjects? The sentiment echoes, haunting in it seclusion, lonely in its
juxtaposition within such a body of work so otherwise explicit and sexually
charged. This is not to say Fancher resists making even sadness sexy with her
subject’s “parted knees, open thighs, that famous shaft of Hopper light a white
flag.” As real as this woman is, the woman in the next poem, is nearly a
mannequin, an objectified body, painted so that she will “Stay Put,” while her
mind wanders the landscape of a framed painting on the wall. The shock here is
this boredom not often found when the speaker is naked. Her stillness is heavy
with implication.
Fancher
leaves it all on the page just like her speakers leave it all on the bed (or
the floor or the mustang or the…) Sex is self. Her sexual evolution runs
parallel to the notion of self-development and recognition. “It was the most
powerful I’d ever be,” she says in “The first time I gave cousin Lisa an
Orgasm.” Making someone cum equals a kind of control; cuming means surrender of
control. But it’s not quite that simple, as nothing in this poet’s work is. In
many pieces, such as “Handy,” surrender is something to fear, akin to being
“glued to the sheets or tethered to the box spring,” not objectified, but owned
nonetheless. In other pieces, such as one aptly titled “Property,” the speaker,
says of a lover’s thumb hooked in her belt loop, “like you have me on/a leash.
Like you own me. I’m not sure I don’t like it.” Like all women, the degree to
which one is willing to go against her nature is directly proportional to how
enamored she is with the one making such a request, whether that means to be
owned or to take a picture of her pussy with a Polaroid. The organization of
the poems is such that we alternate frequently between two extremes: wanting to
be possessed and wanting to defy the very notion. We need only trace the
duplicitous use of the word “surrender” in this text to note how frequently the
speaker considers allowing herself to be kept, but resists. Vulnerability
itself is a “perversion,” as in the poem, “Flashbacks.” Sometimes the notion of
desiring a lover too much means “swallowed up/Disappeared.” In other moments, she mocks her own obsessive need
for freedom and danger: “When I desire you,/I think: no stringers./Like that’s
a good thing,” as in the poem, “Love Bites” where she confesses, “I get all
mixed up,” both as to why pain is sexy and why desire might mean ownership.
Though
you may start out reading these poems for the sex, you will end up reading them
for the raw beauty. The pain of loneliness and heartbreak runs a close second
thematically to the many meanings the act of sex can hold. This collection is
not for everyone. Just as one with a weak stomach would not read the gory
details of an autopsy, a prude should not bother cracking Fancher’s spine.
Sunday, June 21, 2015
Femme Eterna by Lyn Lifshin
Published by Glass Lyre
Press
Review by April Salzano
Born
of a collaboration that unfortunately never came to fruition between Lifshin
and Russian painter Luba Serlikova, Femme
Eterna examines historical women, Enheduanna, Scheherazade, and Nefertiti,
to provide what becomes an ambitious speculation on the women’s innermost
thoughts, as well as a comment on their collective and individual impact on
feminism and writing. From an intrigued, and at times obsessive,
perspective, Lifshin contemplates each of her subjects with a voice as bold and
feminist as the voice she projects onto each woman. Reader-accessibility and
understanding is of utmost importance to the poet in this work, as in all of
her work, and each woman is examined fully and with Lifshin’s usual
unapologetic questioning and fearless explanation in place of esoteric
allusion. Also typical of the poet’s previous collections, each poem could
easily stand alone, displaying no dependence on the others in the collection.
Many are even titled the same, simply with each woman’s name, and include all information
necessary for any reader to fully appreciate the subject. It is this very
accessibility that allows the reader to become part of this world, to “smell
the saffron, feel the hot dust near the pyramids,” just as Lifshin promises in
the introduction. As much as she allows us to become immersed in this ancient
world, Lifshin still keeps us tethered to the here and now with her signature
vernacular, which forms a stark contrast to the world it describes: “Birds
no/one now living can/see dart thru brambles,” she writes in “In a Breeze of
Dates And Olives, 4000 Years BC”. Just as we forget we were reading ink on
paper rather than cuneiform on lapis lazuli tablet, we are reminded by the poet
with such an abbreviation or a reference to the difference between that time
and our own, which one of the work’s key themes.
At
times, the writer adopts the persona of her gorgeous, powerful subject, while
in other poems she remains an external voice and outside observer, allowing
herself to become a character in this history. Only once the image is fully
created does Lifshin interject, always returning us to the vision of a young
passionate woman on the banks of the Tigris, weaving words and history into a
beautiful braid, giving “birth to what/explodes from/her heart,” as in the
poem, “Between the Euphrates and the Tigris.”
The
first section is as much a tribute to Enheduanna as Enheduanna’s to the goddess
Inanna, a contribution to the very immortalization of which she stands in awe. Here is a woman, 6000 years before us, that we
as readers can associate with, that through “rage and pain” is asking: “Can you
still be/a poet-priestess/when your skin/wants a flesh man?” (“Some Days Her
Heart Feels No Relief”). Is art alone enough to sustain us? This is one of the
many questions of poet, reader, as much as it is of Enheduanna herself. The relationship between art and life is an
essential one to explore as is the nature of language, simultaneously fragile
and permanent: “She can’t let/the day go, she/is obsessed,//she is carrying/the
embryo of a/poem in her fingers.” Enheduanna shows us the restlessness Lifshin
colors her with, a young writing because she has to, often showing little
control over the act of creating art. With or without her consent, Enheduanna
creates, each poem becomes a divine act, “each shape/glowing with the/ambiguity
poetry/demands,” as in the poem “When She Pressed Her Web-Shaped Reed into Soft
Clay.”
Much
like Enheduanna, Scheherazade is alive and well in this collection, despite the
nightly danger she faced at the hands of the Sultan if she was unable to
entertain him with her stories. Lifshin tells us in her introduction that this
is a woman “easy to identify with,” which one finds to be, however
unfortunately, a profoundly true statement. At the beginning of this section,
Lifshin sets up the notion of sexuality coming second in importance to artistic
importance, the latter a more difficult test to cheat on, and a task that
cannot be faked. In the third poem in this section, “Scheherazade,” our subject
is clad in blue, “not the wild bullfight flame/color that drives men wild/as
the story goes,/but calm.” Importance and focus is placed on her word, not her
physical form. The hypnotized husband
becomes the “you” in most of this section, forcing the reader to identify with
him, to become as taken with the speaker as we are the author, both performing
the same task, luring us with their imaginations, one through the other. “Each
tale,” she tells us “like the third person/in this ménage à /trois where words
tempt/more than bodies,” as she shows in “How Could Her Palms Not Be Wet?” She
offers the scenario of man, woman, and story locked in an intimate triste. The
reader becomes the fourth member, breath held, a fearful voyeur who cannot turn
away. The speaker’s ongoing plots become a “strip tease,” each night only a
shred of clothing removed as a new plot unravels in the ongoing effort to stay
alive. We get the sense that the imminent danger adds adrenaline we presume is
needed to do what she has to do to stay alive. Lifshin interestingly equates
Scheherazade to Rapunzel in “ Each Night She is Like A Drowning Nymph,” with
her words as her rope, both women sacrificing themselves to escape their fate.
Lifshin
saves the best for last, paying tribute to the mystery and beauty of Nefertiti
through poems as sensual and strong as the woman herself. Speculating on the
many theories about the woman’s life and death, Lifshin paints the third portrait
in her collection, this one maintaining the state of the “perpetual arousal” Lifshin
warns us of in the section’s introduction. We are also shown a deep admiration,
as the author conjures ideas of what Nefertiti may have thought and felt during
all phases of her life, as woman, mother, as goddess and king, multifaceted
“like a flower/that keeps unfolding,” but, as time has shown, nowhere near as
fragile or ephemeral, as she shows us in “Hours Posing for the Sculpture.”
Nefertiti’s beauty and power has lasted beyond what she could have imagined,
though Lifshin certainly instills in her version of this mythical creature a
kind of prescience rivaled only by her sex appeal. “[H]er skin can barely/keep
her inside,” we see as the young woman poses for the sculptor who will
immortalize her, a knowledge of her own beauty, which seems to feed itself
infinitely.
Maybe
due to the accessibility of the work, to the balance of speculation and fact,
or perhaps because of the ease with which the poet navigates her subject, this
collection comes to a close before we are ready to let go, leaving us sitting
in the sun on the banks of the Nile, thinking of these three beauties, each a
petal of that forever-unfolding flower, wondering why we haven’t read more
poetry about them. Ultimately, the collection as whole educates as much as it
admires, and the subject matter is presented with equal parts knowledge and
grace.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)