Trace, by rob mclennan
A Little Slash at the Meadow
by Joshua Marie Wilkinson
Both titles published by
above/ground press, 2013.
It takes a unique
understanding of one’s surroundings to write Trace, -- and not just a confident
assessment of the working gears maintaining its infrastructure or social
climate. Trace, documents, among other things, the character of a city within
the city; those remnants of previous settlements cast aside or scrubbed anew.
And who better to sift through Ottawa’s former selves than rob mclennan, the
man responsible for writing Ottawa: The Unknown City? Utilizing this knowledge
to uncover layers of architectural overhauls and namesake changes, mclennan sustains
a presence in these poems as a witness and co-discoverer; part of the “we” that
walks firmly footed through changing streets. Here's [a circumstance, a western link]:
“We vocalize what
this is: human. Ninety-six foot wide concession,
road. Separating
Sparks and Besserer. The west was Wellington, the
east, Rideau. We
would have our gardens. The rope
lends lazily, descends.
Death weighs, no
mass. Possibly, our rhetorics. The heart, plus this
alone. A mass of
modern bus and antiquated streetcar. The power of
an average.
Slanting, ruin. Heritage crumbles, the fold of which inside.
Trace, nearly
obliterated. Configurations from a stain. It is one, or it is
other. I am
meaning the opposite.”
Readers with a relationship
to our nation’s capital will quickly connect with Trace, but not every poem
exists at such a particular crossroads as the above example. Perhaps the most
beautiful poem to the contrary, [entirety, the edge of sky, scrapes] exists
in the intangible: “A hush of limelight, walking. Softest, luminescent green.
Reflecting, kettle. Diverse objects, spread. Reflecting off your half-tones. A
silence, not imposed but opened. Loose bone in tightly-packed. Aground.”
Elsewhere mclennan mentions a crossing-bridge but they could just as easily be
navigating the ruins of a beach. In any case, the details are stimulating enough to reassess how this peaceful chapter fits into a city’s broader character (not to mention its modernization, a focus that mclennan
trusts to his readers' opinions).
Those of us unwilling to
geek-out over mclennan’s regional question-marks should at least take note of his
stylistic shift toward the prose-poem. Gone are the line-breaks that flowed
like tributaries in so many of mclennan’s chapbooks; in Trace, he contains his
findings to single, compact paragraphs. Both a quick compass-reading and a densely arranged inquiry on heritage and authenticity, Trace, gives us considerable pause to ponder our own
disappearing history.
“I want the poem to squeeze
your arm like the blood
pressure bag.”
The above statement may as
well stand in for Joshua Marie Wilkinson’s top objective: to compress a lot of
ideas into one crushing poem. That’s how A Little Slash at the Meadow operates,
a visceral and hyperactive slab of free-verse that oscillates between seedy and
imposing, funny and poignant.
If this review is beginning
to read like a disclaimer, it’s as much a warning of Wilkinson’s approach as it is of his
content. In other words, beware of gaping transitions that pit one stand-alone
sentiment against another, which then accumulate and challenge any persisting
narrative elements. As with any habit-forming drug, the key is to stick with the
present chaos of Wilkinson's text and avoid dwelling on the confusing patches along the
way. (Trust me, you'll want to retread later anyway.) So hang in there: A Little Slash at the Meadow is intended to be read as a
whole, in one sitting, and that’s surprisingly easy to do once you realize: the experience is
getting there.
“That strangler sure is good
at finding abandoned buildings.
Yes & very good.
I make lists & cross off
the items as I complete them.
I do this with a line &
an x both.
Am I so scared of being
alone with the selves I was?
An old acquaintance tries to
fuck me on his dining room floor.
Oh, I want that Bloodbuzz
Ohio suit.
Let us un-acquaint
ourselves.
I still like it when old
folks, rural folks smoke in their homes on tv.
Click between Dog the Bounty
Hunter & Hoarders.
Dog & Hoarders.
What is desire but some
pleasure in careening.
Depends on how you like it
to cadence.”
Even if we can safely assume
that the entire disjointed piece unfurls in the hotel room by the sea (mentioned
on page one), A Little Slash at the Meadow doesn’t separate advancements in
Wilkinson’s narrative from his incorrigible inner monologues. The collision of
these happenings often finds each ricocheting, unresolved, but occasionally they cap off
memorably:
“It’s alright you didn’t
write back,
unless you still want to?
I’m on the computer just to
see
if anything I don’t want to
go to
invited me out to turn
down.”
It’s one thing to throw
clever curveballs at your readership (and suffice it to say – sticking with the
baseball metaphors here – not all of these ones cross the plate) but another
thing entirely to maintain a good measure of quality impulsiveness throughout a chapbook. And it’s because Joshua Marie Wilkinson keeps his
audience at a playful distance that when he connects, A Little Slash at the
Meadow proves well worth the trip.
“A tree limb hanging almost
into your soup, budding
orangey & casting a
sunlight spider’s
thread to your face. It’s
morning –
your blouse is open a bit
saying look here, look off
look, look off.”
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