Lucie Brock-Broido (1956–2018)

At my age I should know better than to judge a book by its cover, but the fact is that the only reason I bought this book was because I not only liked the cover, I was enchanted by it. But to say that I am less than enchanted by the contents is an understatement.

Stay, Illusion is a collection of poetry. There are so many things to like about the physicality of the book, beginning with the title which is a scrap from Hamlet of all places (Act 1, Scene 1) in which Horatio addresses the ghost, to the Rapunzel-like photo on the back cover of the author with her golden mane, and of course the truly enchanting cover reproduction of the iconic white buck in repose. Leafing through, the individual poem titles seem to give hope of more enchantment inside: "Infinite Riches in the Smallest Room," "A Meadow," "You Have Harnessed Yourself Ridiculously to This World," "Currying the Fallow-Colored Horse," "Dove, Interrupted," "Dear Shadows," "For a Clouded Leopard in Another Life" — to name a few. If this were a menu, the fare must surely be sumptuous.

After this build-up, it is with great sadness that I report the poetry herein falls somewhat short of my expectations.

In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that poetry is not my favorite genre, although I am not a total Philistine in that department. What is not to like about Shakespeare's Sonnets, or various poems by Keats, Wordsworth, John Donne, or even Baudelaire? And Lucie Brock-Broido also is obviously a serious poet.

She is admittedly capable of producing evocative imagery, and there is quite a lot of it here. But it is hard to find a poem that takes a theme and carries it through to the end. The poems seem disjointed. A single disjointed poem is not a bad thing. But a whole book of them is a bit much. There is a sameness to it all that is wearying in the end. The stream-of-consciousness is carried too far. Yet, still, some of the poems are quite like dreams that move from one image to another.

The Pianist

Ivory sailcloth of the nuptial bed, the last fantasia, pulsing, lit.
I was besotted with the fever of the setting free.
Feedbag of meal, the feeling of oats, so soft at the muzzle of me.
Then they moved me to a sow-shaped exurb; I did not prosper there.
If you would leave at daybreak, by night I'd wait for you, at everywhere.
    Your licensed massage therapist
Loves you more concretely than I do. I, abstract, adoring, distant
And unsalvageable. She said, Give up, be palpable—all Hand.
I took to the tawny river and swam into the theater
    Of the darkened chamber music hall.
    I loved with all my heart my fear.
You were just an hallucination on my own slow way to sea.
    On the common, there were swans
Pretending to be boats that carried people
      Who imagined they felt joy.

The indentations are inexplicable, and there are many throughout that seem meaningless. If a poem is read aloud, does such preciousness even matter? But perhaps these poems are meant to be seen and not heard.

There is actually one poem in the book that I think I understand: "Currying the Fallow-Colored Horse." It is not ostensibly about what the title states, but rather I believe it represents the kinds of random thoughts one might have while doing something else. And it is one of the few poems, along with "The Pianist," that doesn't deliver an unpleasant jolt amidst all the flowery language.

And to the curious I say, Don't be naïve.
The soul, like a trinket, is a she.
I lay down in the tweed of one man that first frost night. I did not like the wool of him.
You have one mitochondrial speck of evidence on your cleat.
They can take you down for that.
Did I forget to mention that when you're dead
You're dead for a long time.
My uncle, dying, told me this when asked, Why stay here for such suffering.
The chimney swift flits through the fumatorium.
I long for one last Blue democracy, which has broke my heart a while.
How many minutes have I left, the lover asked, To still be beautiful.?
I took his blond face in my hands and kissed him blondely on his mouth.

As these examples show, it is difficult to connect the poem titles with the actual content.

Poetry is a very personal affair, and so the fact that I do not relate to much of Brock-Broido's poems should not be a deterrent to others for whom references are less obscure or even unappealing. I read many of the poems more than once to give them every chance, but the truth is that this poet does not really speak to me. It may be that I am too much stuck in pre-modernity.… (más)