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<\/p>\nLogan\u2019s poetry can be both lush and pointed at the same time. I am awed by his ability to craft the perfect phrase or select the perfect word (I\u2019m sure he would prefer \u201cle mot juste\u201d), describing scenes and actions in ways that are at once surprising and obvious. Among my favorites: \u201cSand crabs scrabbled from our tightened palms\u201d (from \u201cHorseneck Beach Odalisque\u201d) and \u201cIn an hour, the bats would batter through darkness\u201d (from \u201cIn the Swamp\u201d). Those verbs\u2014scrabble and batter\u2014not only conjure the action, but evoke the sensation in a visceral way. I can practically feel the little critters burrowing through my fingers trying to get back into the wet sand. And it\u2019s wonderful how the name of the actor is framed in the name for the action\u2014crab and bat. Imagine how different those lines would read if he\u2019d instead said \u201cscrambled\u201d and \u201cblustered.\u201d Logan, at his best, embodies Pope\u2019s admonition about sound and sense.<\/p>\n
Though not, in any sense, a Nature Poet, Logan is an astute observer of the natural world. He apparently makes his home, at least part of the time, in Florida, and the local denizens\u2014manatee, alligator, anhinga, coral snake, etc.\u2014all make an appearance. Still, he saves his most piercing gaze for his most intimate associates\u2014his parents, or grandparents, his wife and lover. These are often viewed with a nostalgic exasperation, or tragic poignancy.<\/p>\n
Logan can render some rapturous descriptions, but sometimes, he\u2019s most moving when he\u2019s most pared down. Consider these lines from \u201cAfter Easter\u201d:<\/p>\n
\nThe doctors found new cancer in your blood.<\/div>\n
Even here, though, it might be noted, he does not abandon the formal structure—the iambic pentameter that frequently supports his poems. A poet like Logan needs to keep his mooring.<\/p>\n
I know that Logan has a reputation for being \u201cdifficult,\u201d but I really don\u2019t find that to be true. I suppose that\u2019s because I am familiar with many of the references, even those that border on the obscure. For example, I have fond memories of Ostia Antica, the subject of one poem, and have always been a great admirer of LaRochefoucauld—not a name you encounter everyday.<\/p>\n
That being said, there is a long sequence in the middle of the book entitled \u201cPenitence.\u201d Although the components are all intriguing in their own right, I can\u2019t quite figure out what ties them all together. Sure, they all share a common structure\u2014sort of an extended sonnet—but there must be more that I\u2019m just not getting. Penitence implies an introspective examination of past sins, mixed with a genuine remorse, hopefully leading to redemption. There are 24 sections, which naturally invokes the 24 hours in a day. Is it, then, a book of hours? A day in thew life, in the mode of Joyce? The references are all over the map\u2014from Coleridge to Garbo to Pol Pot to Austen to Fermat to Shackleton….<\/p>\n
Well, this is definitely poetry for the well-read and well-traveled (which perhaps amounts to well-heeled?) References to the classics are sprinkled liberally throughout, with Dante\u2019s Inferno well represented, and Shakespeare of course, along with the Greeks and Romans. Biblical references also abound. And yet, you\u2019ll also find an occasional dab of the pedestrian, a spattering of brand names reminiscent of Lowell (e.g., \u201cimmortal as Saran Wrap\u201d in \u201cAdultery,\u201d or \u201ca foamy SOS-pad blue\u201d in \u201cUnder the Palms\u201d). Poetic language knows no bounds.<\/p>\n
Logan\u2019s is ultimately a grim vision\u2014a philosophy pulled in two directions. On the one hand, an epicurean sense: enjoy the pleasures of life while you may, because they and you will soon enough be gone; and on the other, a nihilism: don\u2019t bother trying to enjoy yourself, for even the stately pleasures are always tinged with the specter of death. The first poem in the collection, \u201cThe Rotting Stars,\u201d ends with the line, \u201cI could see everything that was to come,\u201d a sentiment laden with foreboding and inevitability, as nothing good can be expected. The final poem, \u201cThe Old Burying Ground,\u201d includes the stanza,<\/p>\n
\nto words no longer said
\nbut memory of the dead will never
\nresurrect the dead.<\/div>\n
A devastating admission for a poet, who uses words, in part, to keep the past from disappearing entirely.<\/p>\n
I mentioned that Logan is a keen observer, and the notion of \u201cthe gaze\u201d recurs throughout the book\u2014sometimes introspectively, as in a mirror, but often more ominously, as in the \u201codalisque,\u201d a trope that appears more than once. The odalisque, in European art, typically depicts a recumbent, half (or wholly) nude woman of the seraglio. Deeply steeped in the orientalist tradition, it places the observer in the position of the sultan, with ultimate power over the observed. In a sense, every memory is an odalisque, enticing the rememberer, who chooses what to see and what to ignore, positioning everything to his satisfaction\u2014perhaps a little petulantly, imperiously. My favorite poem in the collection, \u201cHorseneck Beach Odalisque\u201d (already mentioned) encapsulates all of this, particularly in its description of the sand castles we all have built at some time:<\/p>\n
\nThe dribbled turrets capped a moated wall,
\nand then the Muslim tide came roiling in
\nand took the holy cities one by one.
\nBy August, we were Moor-wasps,
\neach boy a white-toweled sultan of the waves.<\/div>\n
Logan is clearly writing for an audience that shares his desultory interests, his erudition, and maybe even his particular life trajectory. If you don\u2019t get the references, you might feel a bit left out\u2014like being at a party where everyone but you shares the same inside joke. But if you can get beyond that, the work is truly engaging and rewarding.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
William Logan: The Whispering Gallery It wasn\u2019t that long ago that the great debate in poetry was between the proponents of formal and free verse (the cooked and the raw, as it came to be known). While there were, of … Continue reading