RSS Feed

Tag Archives: Gerald Locklin

Let Us Now Praise Ordinary Things by Kareem Tayyar (Arroyo Seco Press)

Let Us Now Praise Ordinary Things by Kareem Tayyar (Arroyo Seco Press)

Kareem Tayyar’s Let Us Now Praise Ordinary Things is an extraordinary collection that discusses how one can find fulfilling and long term joy through a balanced understanding of how to appreciate simple things against a backdrop of pain. I have long admired Tayyar’s work and his approach to life. It is not easy to write about appreciating life, and he is able to do so without becoming preachy or treacly. Instead, he looks into the essence of things and moments to understand them for what they are. He doesn’t ignore pain; in fact, he acknowledges it. What he dwells on, however, are the moments between moments that constitute joy. The final line of the collection sums up this philosophy well: “After all, there is so much to praise, and so little time” (103). For him, death is a fact and that lends an urgency to his appreciation of those moments that comes before it.

     Much of this is a pure appreciation for art in all its forms. He is someone who loves classic rock of the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s, and his discussion of it reminds me of the work of the late Gerald Locklin, who was one of Tayyar’s early mentors. Both have a casual voice that draws out what is extraordinary about the artists and the experience of encountering their music. In “On the Rolling Stones,” for example, he acknowledges what so many people love about the band, but highlights what people often forget, which is their potential for sensitivity. He writes, “they have written one of the most sensitive, vulnerable, and downright gorgeous songs ever committed to record: ‘Winter,’ which is the kind of ballad Wordsworth would have written had he come along in the age of electricity” (47). He goes on to allow his readers to enjoy the nostalgia of an old rock band, but also to draw out what we might have forgotten or never known about them. He discusses many musicians in this way including Bob Seger, Bob Dylan, but he certainly does not stop with popular musicians but classical music, jazz, Impressionist painters like Monet and Michaelangelo and writers like Shakespeare and Hemingway. Like his mentor, he does not limit his mind or creativity but allows himself to follow any line of thought that appeals to him.

     He also allows himself to explore the more spiritual dimension of small pleasures. In “On Dogs,” he demonstrates how powerful those moments can be. Here, he longs for a dog, “just so long as he is as much of a healer as Hero, a black labrador whom, upon arrival, pulled a close friend out of an extended depression that she has never fallen back into” (41). The small pleasure of being with a dog can lead to joy if someone is awake to it. In “On the Small Mandarins I Purchased at the Market this Afternoon,” he writes, “these mandarins are really something, small enough to double as Christmas ornaments, sweet enough to make ice cream seem hopelessly dull by comparison, and filling enough to make me believe that I could subsist entirely on them and nothing else for the rest of my life” (97). He often allows himself to dwell on these small kinds of pleasures.

     Anyone has a long history of pain and a great deal of pain to come, but Tayyar has found his way through that pain. He, like Kurt Vonnegut before him, offers us in this collection the day to day attitude that can make life a much better state to be in.

John Brantingham 26th June 2021

Pimp by Ranney Campbell (Arroyo Seco Press)

Pimp by Ranney Campbell (Arroyo Seco Press)

Ranney Campbell’s Pimp comes out of a direct, narrative, unblinking tradition that includes artists like Kevin Ridgeway, Gerald Locklin, Patti Smith, and Fred Exley. These are poems drawn out of the latest period of Campbell’s life when she decided to change her life by quitting her job and moving to California as a way to break away from the traditions and limitations that she found in St. Louis, Missouri. She has found a way to express herself with a narrative clarity that speaks her truths.
Her work comes often from a memory of exploitation, which she might be angry about, but does not draw her into self-pity. “In Them Days” for example, she recalls a relationship with a man who

owned a Mercedes
dealership, how he loved
his beautiful things

I was most prized
living art
up in Alta Loma

snow
in the foothills

me
in the Jacuzzi

with those high-priced prostitutes
brought to party
when sales was good
any certain day (33).

Her work throughout has the ability to draw a picture and suggest arguments and conclusion with quick images and a couple of perfect words. We are left to ponder the implication of what it means to be a woman who is chosen to party with prostitutes. In “The Boys come,” she draws on a previous time when men simply demanded of her with no thought of reciprocity:

when they came across Gert,
they got lucky.
when they came across me,
they got stitches (12).

This collection is not by any means stuck in her past; it is equally about this new life that she is building for herself and how she came to be where she is. Her move from the Midwest and her longing to get to the West away from its humidity and to the dryness of the deserts is shown in her prose poem “Burn Off.” “Red desert. Tan desert. I don’t care. Can’t stand it here. All the trees and green and weeds and humidity and people so slowed and dull with Midwestern demands on me . . . Sticky thickness manner oppression offends my innards” (35). This reminds me so much of the themes that run through a lot of Locklin’s work. For him the East was a place of pointless oppression, and for Campbell it is Missouri, but both find a freedom to be themselves in California. For both of them, California seems to be the place where they can find the authenticity of their true selves. For Campbell, it has allowed for this book which is an expression of emotions in a style that she did not feel welcome writing in St. Louis.

Campbell’s book is the kind of work that I love to see coming out of Los Angeles. Stylistically it is what I have grown up with without being a kind of imitation of previous work. It is her own work, informed by an MFA from her hometown but innovated through the life she is pursuing in the West.

John Brantingham 3rd March 2021

Belief is its own kind of truth, Maybe by Lori Jakiela (Atticus Books, 2015)

Belief is its own kind of truth, Maybe by Lori Jakiela (Atticus Books, 2015)

This engaging, multifaceted creative nonfiction memoir is exquisitely written and effortlessly draws the reader into a series of philosophical issues. Ostensibly the narrative concerns the narrator’s quest for her biological mother and medical history through the Catholic Charities following the death of her adopted mother. However, it soon develops a series of narrative threads moving back and forward in time, which concern nature versus nurture, motherhood, authenticity and mapping a life. What emerges through short, stabbing paragraphs of gritty, self-deprecating and emotionally charged versions of being raised by foster parents is the trail of how that narrator was formed and became the woman who writes.

The story of the search for her birth mother highlights Jakiela’s extensive narrative gifts. She is sharp, insightful, adept at the use of detail to show the wider social-economic or family context, brutally honest and concerned with using language to uncover deeper layers of meaning. Her use of language with its movement from staccato jazz to the darkly funny is reminiscent of Geoff Dyer in The Colour of Memory and Paris Trance. However, Jakiela offers another layer than Dyer in that she is concerned with probing the archaeology of words. This takes two forms. One is a concern with naming and names, and the other is a fascination with adding words to develop vocabulary and selfhood. Both concerns are shown in the narrator’s exploration of her daughter’s first word, ‘abre’ meaning open and her son’s first word, ‘duck’, which she views as ‘blood things’. There is also a sense that words carry possible transcendence through the uncovering of older meaning. Like Dyer, Jakiela wears her learning lightly and is a joy to read.

Years ago, I saw a palm reader in a basement storefront in New York. She held my wrists, turned my palms up, both hands. “This,” she said, tracing a finger down the lines of my left hand, “is what you were born with. ”Then she traced a finger on my right palm. “And this,” she said, “is the map you make yourself.”
The she asked for $50. She took MasterCard and Visa, not Discover.

Blood is a strong motif running through the memoir. There is a moving scene in her in-laws’ kitchen when the narrator has received a series of abusive messages from a woman purporting to be her birth sister following her efforts to contact her mother. This is cleverly juxtaposed through the décor of pears reminding her of Odysseus’s use of pears, his homelessness, her old classics Professor’s urging her to read the original, and cutting her palm when trying to slice a bagel in two. “Cut away from yourself,” my mother always said. She inspects the ragged cut between the heart and life lines, and the blood ‘coming up in spots, flecks.’ The scene builds up through a series of emotions. ‘Anger comes after grief and fear, a logical thing, but I can’t sort this. I want the truth and I want the lie I was born with. I want connection and I want to get as far away as possible.’

Underlying the narrative are some interesting premises, such as the desire to write to discover what one does not know, and the boundaries and limitations of one’s own life story. Jakiela is a knowing and explorative writer seeking to expand and grow. An adopted person’s story, she writes, ‘is someone else’s secret.’ Indeed this leads her to write an imagined and seemingly authentic account of her birth mother’s situation at the time of her birth. Her birth mother subsequently refuses to acknowledge and communicate with her daughter. Here lies the agony, the persistent unease, and joy of this well filtered narrative. From the darkness of a crippling past, Jakiela finds light.

Her quest for connection ultimately stems from her own selfhood, family and relationships, and an ability to draw from literature and upon the life experiences of other writers and poets, such as Anne Sexton, Gerald Locklin, whom her son is named after, and Lucille Clifton. Beneath that is a quest for the roots of words and an understanding of the role of translation.

My birth mother’s name is such an ordinary one, as ordinary as podium, as plant, as pen. “Do you ever wonder about that?” Lucille Clifton wanted to know, how something plain could have so much power. But in Grimm’s fairy tale, Rumplestiltskin demands the queen learn his name or lose her child. Ancient people believed to know someone’s name was to know that person’s essence. To change a name meant to change destiny. The name I was born with means work and strain. The name I was born with was a wolf.
Lori is a laurel tree. Lori is a celebration.
A name can be a transformation or a cage, both.

Lori Jakiela is a most accomplished writer. You will not be disappointed by the range and scope of this provocative memoir.

David Caddy 16th April 2015

Gerald Locklin’s Novellas

Gerald Locklin’s Novellas

Spout Hill Press have republished Gerald Locklin’s classic novella, The Case Of The Missing Blue Volkswagen, originally published in 1984, republished in 1999, with an introduction by John Brantingham that views its post-modern style and structure as a means of having a conversation with the reader about the limits of fiction. It is a fruitful way into the work that is at once playful, funny and greater than the sum of its parts. Locklin’s casual style functions effectively on many levels and is very funny.

http://spouthillpress.com

Spout Hill has also published Locklin’s lost novella’s Last Tango in Long Beach and Come Back, Bear to present the original trilogy for the first time.  If you have never read any Locklin, the best introduction is to say that he entertains and provokes in equal measure in a beguiling way. A central figure in Los Angeles writing since the Seventies, these beautifully produced novellas are at the heart of his social satire.

 

Locklin’s Deep Meanings: Selected Poems 2008-2013 from Presa Press contains some of his best recent poetry.  As Edward Field writes, ‘The male spirit in him remains honest, bighearted, sentimental, generous, gentle, vulnerable, but sassy in the face of adversity…’ I have always thought that he is the male equivalent to that other brilliant maverick Camille Paglia. Both are always worth reading.

%d bloggers like this: