Richard
Blanco’s latest collection of poems, Looking
for the Gulf Motel (Pitt Press 2012) returns to many of the same themes and
subjects as his first collection City of
One Hundred Fires which won the acclaimed Agnes Starrett Poetry Prize. I
remember liking this earlier collection for its energetic and confessional exploration
of cultural difference and assimilation.
Looking for the Gulf Motel is a collection of personal and
confessional poems. It is hard to hear the words confessional poetry without thinking of James Dickey’s infamous denunciations
in the Paris Review interviews of
1974. In discussing Robert Lowell, who
was exempt from Dickey’s scorn (for reasons probably relating to gender,) Dickey
claimed
He’s very good. But you can be interested in his hang-ups, his family, for just so long. In order to read Lowell and to like Lowell or Anne Sexton or any of the poets that follow after Lowell, what is presupposed is that their life and their situation is going to be eternally fascination to you. And it isn’t. The measure of his (Lowell’s) ability is that he can make you interested in his family; whereas Sylvia Plath, writing poems like “Daddy,” is ridiculously bad; it’s embarrassing. People like Sylvia Plath or Anne Sexton just embarrass you.
Of course, Dickey was mostly wrong, as history proved. Lowell continues not to make readers interested in his family. Plath and Sexton are now permanent parts of the literary canon, as poems like Daddy transcend the merely personal and relate to universal psychological issues. Meanwhile, Dickey’s claim to fame rests on a handful of quality poems and the movie Deliverance—remembered, if remembered, for dueling banjos and redneck homosexual rape.
Yet
Dickey was
correct in asserting that the purely personal poem, the poem which has a coyly
buried context, the poem which reads like a journal entry with line breaks, is
not eternally fascinating. I found Blanco’s poems, with a few exceptions, to
fall into this category. From my point
of view, and at the risk of sounding overly harsh, most of these poems were not
interesting enough to be embarrassing.
Just why this is the case is worth considering. I, for one, am not opposed to the confessional mode of writing. If the house of poetry has many windows, then I suspect it has more than few mirrors. Here are a few possible explanations for my lack of enthusiasm. To begin with the length of Blanco’s lines gets tedious because they invariably run between 8 and 12 syllables. This is the range of the spoken phrase, and can be as dull as someone who speaks to you without altering the length of phrase. Writing in fixed syllabics (decasyllabics, for example) would at least generate the necessity of unexpected variation. This volume also suffers from a fatal lack of interesting metaphors. (Here Blanco is very much unlike Sexton and Plath.) Granted there are a fair amount of similes, but similes limp where metaphors leap and the absence of that energy, after eighty pages, comes across.
Many of the poems in this collection fall into the category of what I call the buried context poem. This is a personal poem that gives you a train-window glimpse of something that is no doubt loaded with important dimensions for the poet that are unknown and unknowable for the reader. Buried context poems generate a kind of iceberg feeling—the sense that there is a lot more to this but it is hidden from view. Consider
Maybe
For
Craig
Maybe it was the billboards promising
paradise, maybe those fifty-nine miles
with your hand in mine, maybe my sexy
roadster, the top down, maybe the wind
fingering your hair, sun on your thighs
and bare chest, maybe it was just the ride
over the sea split in two by the highway
to Key Largo, or the idea of Key Largo.
Maybe I was finally in the right place
at the right time with the right person.
Maybe there’d finally be a house, a dog
named Chu, a lawn to mow, neighbors,
dinner parties, and you forever obsessed
with crossword puzzles and Carl Young,
reading in the dark by the moonlight,
at my bedside every night. Maybe. Maybe
it was the clouds paused at the horizon,
the blinding fields of golden sawgrass,
the mangrove islands tangled, inseparable
as we might be. Maybe I should’ve said
something, promised you something,
asked you to stay a while, maybe.
paradise, maybe those fifty-nine miles
with your hand in mine, maybe my sexy
roadster, the top down, maybe the wind
fingering your hair, sun on your thighs
and bare chest, maybe it was just the ride
over the sea split in two by the highway
to Key Largo, or the idea of Key Largo.
Maybe I was finally in the right place
at the right time with the right person.
Maybe there’d finally be a house, a dog
named Chu, a lawn to mow, neighbors,
dinner parties, and you forever obsessed
with crossword puzzles and Carl Young,
reading in the dark by the moonlight,
at my bedside every night. Maybe. Maybe
it was the clouds paused at the horizon,
the blinding fields of golden sawgrass,
the mangrove islands tangled, inseparable
as we might be. Maybe I should’ve said
something, promised you something,
asked you to stay a while, maybe.
Here the reader is either transfixed
in an ecstasy of wanting to know more about this Craig and his sunny thighs or
the reader has drifted into a coma of total disinterest. I must add that Doris Day’s hit single Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps from her 1964 Latin for Lover’s album does all that
this poem does but with pictures of Rock Hudson and a groovy Latin beat.
As
the above poem illustrates, a dominant feature of Blanco’s poetics is
repetition—anaphora in particular. Such poems as, Looking for the Gulf Motel, The
Name I Wanted, Habla Cuba Speaking:,Since Unfinished, and Place of Mind rely on repetition and
refrain for structure This was the case in the poem Blanco read at Obama’s inaugural
celebration “One Today,” a crowd-pleasing cross between Walt Whitman and U2 lyrics.
Some of the poems in this collection revolve around reveries and reflections which are utterly moot. This generates a feeling of puerility, an excess of subjectivity and self-reflection. The poem "Of Consequence, Inconsequently" is an idle reflection on the randomness of his genetic existence. He thinks of his great grandparents and asks
But what if they’d never met, what color
would my eyes be? Who would I be now
had they gone to Johannesburg instead,
or Maracaibo, or not left Sevilla at all?
Into what seas would I have cast thoughts,
what other cities would I’ve drowned in?
The countries I would’ve lost, or betrayed,
the languages I would speak or not speak,
the names that would’ve been my names –
I’d like to believe I’ve willed every detail
of my life, but I’m a consequence, a drop
of rain, a seed fallen by chance, here
in the middle of a story I don’t know,
having to finish it and call it my own.
So here the poet arrives at the notion of chance as a defining feature of his existence--which is an absolute given..
Most
of all, there seems to be a certain poetic complacency in many of these poems—a
lack of ambition—poems that read like dead end streets of nostalgia and
sentimentality. Consider the title poem offered in its entirety
Marco Island, Florida
There should be
nothing here I don’t remember . . .
The Gulf Motel with
mermaid lampposts
and ship’s wheel in the lobby should still be
rising out of the sand like a cake decoration.
My brother and I should still be pretending
we don’t know our parents, embarrassing us
as they roll the luggage cart past the front desk
loaded with our scruffy suitcases, two-dozen
loaves of Cuban bread, brown bags bulging
with enough mangos to last the entire week,
our espresso pot, the pressure cooker–and
a pork roast reeking garlic through the lobby.
All because we can’t afford to eat out, not even
on vacation, only two hours from our home
in Miami, but far enough away to be thrilled
by whiter sands on the west coast of Florida,
where I should still be for the first time watching
the sun set instead of rise over the ocean.
and ship’s wheel in the lobby should still be
rising out of the sand like a cake decoration.
My brother and I should still be pretending
we don’t know our parents, embarrassing us
as they roll the luggage cart past the front desk
loaded with our scruffy suitcases, two-dozen
loaves of Cuban bread, brown bags bulging
with enough mangos to last the entire week,
our espresso pot, the pressure cooker–and
a pork roast reeking garlic through the lobby.
All because we can’t afford to eat out, not even
on vacation, only two hours from our home
in Miami, but far enough away to be thrilled
by whiter sands on the west coast of Florida,
where I should still be for the first time watching
the sun set instead of rise over the ocean.
There should be nothing
here I don’t remember . . .
My mother should still
be in the kitchenette
of The Gulf Motel, her daisy sandals from Kmart
squeaking across the linoleum, still gorgeous
in her teal swimsuit and amber earrings
stirring a pot of arroz-con-pollo, adding sprinkles
of onion powder and dollops of tomato sauce.
My father should still be in a terrycloth jacket
smoking, clinking a glass of amber whiskey
in the sunset at the Gulf Motel, watching us
dive into the pool, two boys he’ll never see
grow into men who will be proud of him.
of The Gulf Motel, her daisy sandals from Kmart
squeaking across the linoleum, still gorgeous
in her teal swimsuit and amber earrings
stirring a pot of arroz-con-pollo, adding sprinkles
of onion powder and dollops of tomato sauce.
My father should still be in a terrycloth jacket
smoking, clinking a glass of amber whiskey
in the sunset at the Gulf Motel, watching us
dive into the pool, two boys he’ll never see
grow into men who will be proud of him.
There should be
nothing here I don’t remember . . .
My brother and I
should still be playing Parcheesi,
my father should still be alive, slow dancing
with my mother on the sliding-glass balcony
of The Gulf Motel. No music, only the waves
keeping time, a song only their minds hear
ten-thousand nights back to their life in Cuba.
My mother’s face should still be resting against
his bare chest like the moon resting on the sea,
the stars should still be turning around them.
my father should still be alive, slow dancing
with my mother on the sliding-glass balcony
of The Gulf Motel. No music, only the waves
keeping time, a song only their minds hear
ten-thousand nights back to their life in Cuba.
My mother’s face should still be resting against
his bare chest like the moon resting on the sea,
the stars should still be turning around them.
There should be nothing
here I don’t remember . . .
My brother should
still be thirteen, sneaking
rum in the bathroom, sculpting naked women
from sand. I should still be eight years old
dazzled by seashells and how many seconds
I hold my breath underwater–but I’m not.
I am thirty-eight, driving up Collier Boulevard,
looking for The Gulf Motel, for everything
that should still be, but isn’t. I want to blame
the condos, their shadows for ruining the beach
and my past, I want to chase the snowbirds away
with their tacky mansions and yachts, I want
to turn the golf courses back into mangroves,
I want to find The Gulf Motel exactly as it was
and pretend for a moment, nothing lost is lost.
rum in the bathroom, sculpting naked women
from sand. I should still be eight years old
dazzled by seashells and how many seconds
I hold my breath underwater–but I’m not.
I am thirty-eight, driving up Collier Boulevard,
looking for The Gulf Motel, for everything
that should still be, but isn’t. I want to blame
the condos, their shadows for ruining the beach
and my past, I want to chase the snowbirds away
with their tacky mansions and yachts, I want
to turn the golf courses back into mangroves,
I want to find The Gulf Motel exactly as it was
and pretend for a moment, nothing lost is lost.
Here is
the very soul of nostalgia, a wistful yearning for the past, beautifully and
specifically detailed, featuring a simile or two and patterned by catchy
refrain. But that’s it. I think that a poem should reach beyond
abject sentimentality and nostalgia or should at least make the attempt.
Perhaps another poem might better clarify what I am trying to convey.
Cooking with Mama in Maine
Two
years since trading mangos
for
these maples, the white dunes
of
the beach for the White Mountains
etched
in my living room window,
I
ask my mother to teach me how
to
make my favorite Cuban dish.
She
arrives from Miami in May
with ah
parka and plantains packed
in her
suitcase, chorizos, vino seco,
but also
onions, garlic, olive oil
as if we
couldn’t pick these up
at
Hannaford’s in Oxford County.
She
brings with her all the spices
of my
childhood, laurel, pimento,
dashes of
memories she sprinkles
into a
black pot of black beans
starting
to simmer when I wake up
and meet
her busy in the kitchen.
With my
pad and pencil eager
to take
notes, I ask her how many
teaspoons
of cumin, of oregano,
cups of
oil, vinegar, she’s adding,
but I
can’t get a straight answer:
I don’t
know, she says, I just know.
…
She
insists I just watch her hands
stirring,
folding, whisking me back
to the
kitchen I grew up in, dinner
for six
of us on the table, six sharp
every day
of her life for thirty years
until she
had no one left to cook for.
I don’t
ask how she survived her exilio:
Ten years
without her mother, twenty
as a
widow. Did she grow to love snow
those
years in New York before Miami,
and how
will I survive winters here with
out her
cooking? Will I ever learn?
But she
answers every question when
She
raises the spoon to my mouth saying
Taste it, mi’jo, there’s no recipe, just taste.
This is a classic immigrant
set up—borderline cliche by now--often played out with the mother and hapless daughter-in-law. It’s the
home cooking lesson. We have the easy Spanish phrases, the ubiquitous mangoes
(I haven’t seen this many mangoes since the grease fire down at Hooters),
dashes of memories sprinkled into the black pot. Who would object to such a heartfelt
lovely poem and yet, at the risk of sounding callus, I sometimes feel that we
are not too far away from Edgar Guest. Maybe it takes heap of mangoes to make a
house a home?
This
collection is front-loaded with the best poems coming in the first section
of the book. Such poems as The Name I
Wanted, a kind of identity manifesto where the poet proclaims his preference for the Western Richard over the Latin Ricardo, The prose poem Tia Margarita Johnson’s House in Hollywood, sets up the same contrasts with he speaker deciding to favor the Western house with its Sonny and Cher and Lawrence Welk--the house without a revolucion. Such poems as these serve to lessen my overall sense of vague disappointment.
