Like Logan, Cording apparently divides his time between Florida and colder climes (at least during the writing of this book). But while he shares Logan\u2019s stylistic reserve, his references are not so esoteric, and will probably be familiar to anyone with a Catholic upbringing. Cording’s work is plain-spun and meditative, and frequently elegiac. Indeed, the elegy seems to be his default setting, which might just be a function of age\u2014these are mature poems, and what they lack in youthful energy, they more than make up for in grace and wisdom.<\/p>\n
Great examples include \u201cBelated Elegy, January 1, 2011,\u201d and \u201cElegy for an Idea\u201d (inspired by Philippe Petit, who also made an appearance in my first book). There\u2019s also \u201cLast Day,\u201d \u201cWords,\u201d and \u201cFall Cleaning, Windows Mostly,\u201d which is a curiously moving elegy for a mouse. But of course, the elegy to his father, \u201cStill Listening,\u201d sets the standard. It\u2019s written as a sequence detailing the period just before and after his father\u2019s death. The first part, in particular, shows remarkable formal flourish; it portrays the family gathered with the ailing father in hospice, improvising a \u201cJumble\u201d (like the sort typically found in the funny pages of the newspaper) to pass the time and keep his flagging spirits up. It\u2019s written as a series of couplets, and the last words of the couplets are themselves word jumbles: read and dear, life and file, lamp and palm, etc.<\/p>\n
The final part of the sequence recounts the poet fiddling with his father\u2019s hearing aids, which have been kept like relics in a drawer. It is an odd bridge to his dead father, one that brings him close but ultimately can not bring him back:<\/p>\n The title, \u201cStill Listening,\u201d takes on added resonance, as it carries two very different connotations, based on which preposition follows. Listening \u201cto\u201d implies an active engagement, an understanding, a communication. Listening \u201cfor\u201d implies an anticipation, an unmet expectation, a lonely silence. This distinction gains even greater significance with regard to a line halfway through the poem, \u201cGod is still speaking, but we\u2019re not listening.\u201d Is Cording expectantly (but fruitlessly) listening for God to speak? Or is he still listening to God as he speaks, with uncertain comprehension? Is the voice of God any more audible than the voice of his dead father?<\/p>\n It should be noted that the phrase \u201cI am still listening\u201d also appears in the elegy, \u201cWords,\u201d so there\u2019s something in the phrase or act that carries some deep meaning for the poet.<\/p>\n Cording is an astute observer of both the natural world and human nature. We find a lot of ocean sunsets, local flora and fauna (manatees, pelicans, alligators), and walks in the wild. In fact, many of the poems exhibit a meditative, melancholy state that was apparently induced by a solitary walk. But there\u2019s also the grit of what I think describes a childhood and coming of age in New Jersey: the conveyor belts of \u201cEvolution,\u201d the dilapidated porno theaters in \u201cA Beginning,\u201d the sky \u201ctinged with green\u201d in \u201c1964.\u201d Even the father listening to Sinatra in \u201cStill Listening\u201d conjures images of Hoboken or a similar town.<\/p>\n I\u2019ll end with a quick look at the poems that bookend the collection. \u201cKafka\u2019s Fence,\u201d which occurs just before the first of four numbered sections of the book, can be viewed as the apologia. The tone of quiet frustration and complaint reaches its peak in the line, \u201cHaven\u2019t we \/ always known we\u2019d reach and end we couldn\u2019t complete?\u201d It\u2019s a take on the ars longa vita brevis<\/em> theme, except in this case, it\u2019s lamenting the fact that life is often too short to create a lasting work of art–or anything, for that matter. That stands in stark contrast to the final poem, \u201cNo-Name Pond,\u201d which concedes, by its title, that even enduring works of nature are ultimately anonymous, much like great artists over time. Nevertheless, it concludes,<\/p>\n Those final lines may be deceptively simple, perhaps underwhelming, but they hold an acceptance, a resignation, that the poet has been driving toward throughout the course of the entire book. It is a quiet ending to what is often a quiet book, more elegiac than nostalgic, from a poet less intent on making himself heard than on listening to what the universe might have to say.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Robert Cording: Only So Far A friend recently dropped off a small trove of poetry books\u2014names that I recognized, for the most part, though I was not necessarily familiar with the work. One book really stood out for me: Robert … Continue reading ![\"\"](\"https:\/\/m.media-amazon.com\/images\/I\/71b+k8s6O3S._SY385_.jpg\")
<\/a>Anything can be a form, but the form should arise from and reinforce the content. In this case, the form is a foil to the father\u2019s mental state, as he struggles to make sense of his impending exit from the world, no longer able to solve even simple mental puzzles. And at the end of it, life remains a puzzle that he has never quite managed to solve. We also see him, in other poems in the book, buried behind his morning newspaper\u2014and the fact that he has here set it down becomes emblematic of his letting go of life, of relinquishing the daily facts of the world, of surrendering his authority.<\/p>\n
\nas if, my own hearing amplified,
\nI might pick up something he is
\nstill saying, but all I get is that loud hum
\nand screech\u2026.<\/div>\n
\nit was good to be here […] Good to bring
\na few stones together, and come to know,
\nso casually as I paddle off
\nthat, most likely, I\u2019ll never be back.<\/div>\n