John Hennessy: Exit Garden State

I thought I knew pain. And I was not far wrong. But clearly I am not alone. I’ve recently been reading the latest collection by John Hennessy, Exit Garden State. I’ve written with admiration about some of his previous work. This latest collection shows another side of the poet, showcasing the full breadth of his talent, as he turns personal heartache into art.

Yes, that’s a poet’s stock in trade. But Hennessy’s take is neither wry nor self-effacing; it’s just plain honest, and that’s why it hits brutally hard. But let me start at the beginning—with the first poem in the book, which sets the tone for (and teaches you how to approach) all that follows:

Hang the shovel from a Calvary
of nails. Resist your own cross-examination.

Amazing how much can be crammed into two lines! I originally read “hang the shovel” in the sense of “hang it all,” as in “to Hell with it!” But I suspect we are to take the phrase literally, to hang the shovel from a hook on the garage wall. But no, not a hook, but a nail—and not a nail but a Calvary of nails. I can’t help imagine the countless statues I’ve seen of Jesus with a rarefied crown of thorns. As a result, “cross-examination” takes on added meaning: an examination of the holy cross, or an angry examination of the situation. At the very least, we understand that the following poems are written from the perspective of a poet with a harsh Catholic upbringing (is it superfluous to say “harsh?”). We soon learn, too, that this shovel is for gardening (as opposed to, say, grave-digging), in a domestic setting.

Which brings us back to the book’s title. “Garden State” can be construed as the stately garden of paradise—from which the only exit is a fall. But more terrestrially, perhaps, it refers to the poet’s relocation to the environs of Amherst, in New England, where Dickinson lived her quiet life. A far more bucolic setting than the seamy petro-pharma corridors of New Jersey. In fact, I was surprised to see that Hennessy can stand toe-to-toe with any Nature Poet. In just a few lines in “Middle School and Son,” he throws in watercress, milkweed, spikenard, beardgrass, dogbane, bishopweed—it’s like reading a book of medieval healing potions. “No Clock in the Forest” trips from bittersweet and woodbine to peonies, foxglove, crabgrass, morning glory, and Jack’s pulpit. He seems to know the names of living things as well as Adam. Which brings us to the last poem in the first section, “Leaving the Garden.” This meditation focuses most plainly on the poet’s painful divorce, which becomes the biblical fall from grace—from comfort, love, family, familiarity. Like Adam, he suddenly sees how naked, how vulnerable, he has been all along, “no artifice, / the constructs, contracts, whatever used to pass / for life, exposed.” The poem arguably conveys greater poignancy because it is a sonnet, a form associated with the first buds of love and desire.

The association between the natural and domestic worlds reaches its peak, for me, in “Domestic Retrograde.” The word literally means “a step backward,” once again implying a fall from an ideal (or at least farther progressed) state. The poem paints an idyllic domestic moment—parents in the kitchen, children at play—disturbed by the presence of a hummingbird inside the room, frantic to get out. Suddenly, the home, the marriage, is a prison, however comfortable, that someone needs desperately to leave. The poet manages to capture the bird in a dish towel while the wife opens the door, and “in one motion, he was / liberated.” It’s an important choice of word, because while you can always be free, you can only be liberated if you are not. But while the bird is seen as a “crucifix hologram,” it assumes the guise of Mars, the mercurial god of war. As such, this compassionate effort does not avail the poet, who concedes:

Such a devastating summation! At some point, though, the poet seems to have moved on, and found a new romantic interest. But moving on is complicated. A shared history is hard to exorcize, even if the memories are not all rosy. “What if every kiss she gives me replaces / one you didn’t?” he asks in “Some Future Tense.” And in “Twenty Questions,” he recounts receiving “a letter that begins, I don’t wish / I’d never met you,” a sentiment that hits like a gut punch in its lack of emotional investment—while at the same time, suggesting its opposite, thanks to that double negative. Another poem addresses someone in flattering terms (“A mind no snake / could ever swallow”), and as it is a sonnet, I assume the subject is the poet’s new love. In fact, the book ends on a poem that seems to address the same listener; the tone is tender, which is why the last line, “this note to you, / who are here in my head like a razor folded in its case,” does not convey a sense of menace or violence but rather decorum and domesticity. It suggests that after being dulled by depression, his mind is now sharp again. It also conveys a sense of being cleaned up, made new, a tabula rasa (in contrast the the “palimpsest” he was in a previous poem). I might even go so far as to say the dead parts have been cut out, allowing new growth.

I don’t want to give the impression that this book is all about paradise lost and found. A large chunk of it centers on his father (“good in a crisis’) and the significance of family, both nuclear and ancestral. With age, he has reached a different understanding of his father’s life and choices—and sees himself in a similar light, as both parent and child. Numerous poems are inspired by travel, most significantly through the Greece and Ireland. And the grit of New Jersey is still prevalent (there’s even an appearance or two of Freddy, the pedophile and sexual predator who figured prominently in Hennessy’s first book). Hennessy’ work clearly shows the wisdom and self-reflection of someone who has traveled widely, keenly observing every unfamiliar detail. If I have any gripe, it’s that sometimes the references are a bit too personal and specific. This is certainly not Confessional poetry, but the average reader will occasionally encounter references and inside jokes they have no real way of knowing. 

Hennessy gives us a fun easter egg as well: at the end of the lengthy roster of acknowledgments and thanks, he tacks on a list entitled “Soundtrack of Thanks,” listing his musical inspirations. Not surprisingly, it is a very eclectic list. 

On an unrelated note, I was saddened to learn that Sandra Gilbert has died. She was a remarkable poet and scholar—you can read my reflections on her work here.