{"id":310,"date":"2014-03-05T23:25:52","date_gmt":"2014-03-05T23:25:52","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnleonardpress.com\/?p=310"},"modified":"2014-03-05T23:29:40","modified_gmt":"2014-03-05T23:29:40","slug":"collusion-reviews","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/johnleonardpress.com\/?p=310","title":{"rendered":"Collusion: Reviews"},"content":{"rendered":"

From Ali Jane Smith,\u00a0The Australian<\/a>\u00a0,\u00a0<\/em>February 9, 2013:<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Brook Emery\u2019s Collusion manages to combine equanimity and equivocation. Even as he wrestles with profound and complex questions, Emery retains a core of serenity.<\/p>\n

There are moments of deep contentment, \u201cas though the sun had circled thus for us\u201d, the warm and hopeful presence of a grandchild, sleeping and stirring through storms meteorological and metaphysical, and there are the fears that the abject body cannot escape, though in this case of incapacity rather than death.<\/p>\n

In one vivid image, a \u201cjacaranda\/ against the church\u2019s mortared, crumbling mass,\/ mauve and stunning and substantial as it is -\/ all indirect flowering of twists and turns\u201d, at first suggests there is solidity to be found in the natural world rather than the crumbling church, but this poet goes on to upset any such easy reading, noting that the tree \u201cseems uncontained, as though at any moment\/ it might escape the rooted, understandable restraints\/ of space and time\u201d.<\/p>\n

Emery describes the jacaranda in terms that reveal it as contingent and temporary as the ruined church. These are the poems of an unfaltering observer, filled with questions and meditations that ripple through the book as the poet works at unravelling arguments and lacing them together again.<\/p>\n

Ultimately, in Collusion, only uncertainty is to be depended on.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

From Martin Duwell,\u00a0Australian Poetry Review<\/a>\u00a0,\u00a0<\/em>April 1,\u00a0<\/em>2013:<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Brook Emery\u2019s previous book, the excellent\u00a0Uncommon Light<\/em>, explored with great subtlety and precision questionss which are usually considered to be the provenance of philosophers of the mind: What is consciousness? How does it relate to the body? What is memory? And a host of other implicated issues: What is thought and how does it relate to meaning? It considered these by bringing to them a poet\u2019s skill, an ability to speak about difficult-to-describe states in a tactile way (while always being aware of the paradoxes of \u201cpoetic\u201d methods such as metaphor). The essential movement of the poetry is to undermine whatever solutions or certainties emerge as a result of meditation and when one thinks of Emery\u2019s poetry and the way it is almost always \u201cgrounded\u201d at the sea\u2019s edge on the west coast of Australia, it is hard not to think in terms of the way sand shifts continuously beneath our feet, seeming to be both supporting and unstable. This position seems, at first, quite conventional for our time in that it rejects any transcendental ground of being and is highly sensitive to observed processes and interactions but I think it also rejects the Buddhism that might offer it a comfortable home since the virtues of those beliefs and practices are, after all, tied to a baroque theology involving vast imagined cycles of history and processes of rebirth. \u201cThat Beat Against the Cage\u201d is a multipart poem from\u00a0Uncommon Light<\/em>\u00a0that hammers away at such issues and its final stanza concludes on a note of dissatisfaction:<\/p>\n

It\u2019s untenable, this drifting that sees the world as drift.<\/p>\n

The fantasy should ebb, become the half-recalled<\/p>\n

calling of the sea, or else lifetimes will be spent meandering<\/p>\n

self-consciously through the matter of the day,<\/p>\n

shuttling back and forth as if transience<\/p>\n

could be a domicile, fearful that to stray too far,<\/p>\n

stay too long, is to change the story<\/p>\n

for an understory, the agreed accepted world<\/p>\n

for a thesis of perplexity: a conclusion there is<\/p>\n

no evidence to decide, or that the evidence<\/p>\n

leads to thoughts the thought cannot sustain.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve read this as a rejection of Buddhism but it might also be simply a rejection of a poetically convenient way of living in a liminal state, exploiting borders and uncertainties and using uncertainty as a stable ground on which to erect poetic structures full of the gestures that arise from certainty. At any rate, the poem seems to be saying that although uncertainty is a state, it isn\u2019t one to feel comfortable about: transience can\u2019t be a domicile.<\/p>\n

But the book isn\u2019t entirely about such matters: woven throughout\u00a0Uncommon Light<\/em>\u00a0were a group of poems addressing a question that usually derives from the philosophical vectors of ethics and religion rather than from those of the nature of consciousness: what is the nature of evil and whence does it come? They weren\u2019t the best poems in the book but their attempts to deal with the issue \u2013 significantly they were strongest when they dealt with the poet\u2019s inability to deal with the issue! \u2013 were a welcome widening of perspective. This direction isn\u2019t continued in Emery\u2019s new book\u00a0Collusion<\/em>, but if it seems to abandon the question of evil it does have some poems about personal guilt.<\/p>\n

Above all things, one\u2019s first sense of\u00a0Collusion<\/em>\u00a0is how organised a book it is, how little like a conventional collection of poems. If it keeps a narrower focus than\u00a0Uncommon Light<\/em>, it also experiments with a variety of tones, even of types of poems, and places them carefully. The first, last and central poems (they are all untitled) are done in epistolary style, addressed to K. At the moment we think of Kafka and start to explore the possibilities involved in writing to such a figure (or perhaps his protagonist), the middle poem carefully corrects our course:
\n. . . . .<\/p>\n

Dear K, I tire of the apparatus of my brain.<\/p>\n

I fear that you (my interlocutor, my will,<\/p>\n

my conscience) may also tire. The thoughts I think<\/p>\n

have passed their use-by dates, are petals tossed<\/p>\n

in Burnt Norton\u2019s dusty wind. We could,<\/p>\n

we probably do, lead many lives even as<\/p>\n

an inoffensive clerk or as a monstrous insect<\/p>\n

squirming on its back, feet and feelers wildly<\/p>\n

seeking purchase on the air. We stand accused.<\/p>\n

We answer allegations we make against ourselves.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Someone finding this will think I\u2019m corresponding<\/p>\n

with Franz Kafka (it could be Kierkegaard<\/p>\n

or Krazy Kat). I\u2019m not that mad, and besides,<\/p>\n

Kafka had too many problems of his own (migraines, boils,<\/p>\n

constipation, tuberculosis, a certain paranoia). . . .<\/p>\n

Although this invokes Eliot (twice) as well as Kafka, a book containing poems as imaginary letters, or letters to imaginary recipients (\u201ccorresponding\u201d is an interesting pun) recalls the work of Bruce Beaver, especially his\u00a0Letters to Live Poets<\/em>, and reminds one that that poet, too, was an inhabitant of a Sydney beach surrounded by an environment which both thrust particulars at you while at the same time reminding you of their essential instability all in a sharp, crystal clear light. I can\u2019t remember any earlier poems by Emery which are homages to Beaver but one of the groups of poems which are carefully interspersed throughout\u00a0Collusion<\/em>\u00a0are clearly done in one of Beaver\u2019s styles, probably that of the \u201cDays\u201d sequence of\u00a0Odes and Days<\/em>, the third of Beaver\u2019s great central triptych of books. I\u2019ll quote the first of them in full (it\u2019s the fifth poem of\u00a0Collusion<\/em>):<\/p>\n

It\u2019s almost spring in our neglected hemisphere.<\/p>\n

As yet no indication we\u2019ve tilted far enough<\/p>\n

to receive the annual, waited-for reward.<\/p>\n

The sea and sky volley what there is of dusk<\/p>\n

and a peevish wind plays nip and tuck<\/p>\n

to irritate the waves. In its own good time<\/p>\n

the sun will be here and the sea all aquamarine<\/p>\n

as if, overnight, spirit could manifest as light<\/p>\n

and just this startling colour. Then morning warmth,<\/p>\n

leaves on imported trees, poems (God help us!),<\/p>\n

and mothballs for our heavy winter clothes.<\/p>\n

And are we lighter too. Do we deserve it?<\/p>\n

No. But the punishing and forgiving world<\/p>\n

will give it to us anyway and I\u2019ll give thanks<\/p>\n

though to whom or what it\u2019s useless to inquire.<\/p>\n

This is such a good approximation of a Beaver poem that it could actually be one and if I had had my Beaver collections at hand while writing this I would have nervously checked through them to make sure that it isn\u2019t a quotation, perhaps from a late book like\u00a0The Long Game<\/em>. At any rate it catches the Beaver tone perfectly with its sudden unusual perspective (\u201cour neglected hemisphere\u201d), its sense of the world as a place to be lamented and celebrated, its tremendous drive that spills across into (and weirdly animates) a bathetic conclusion. The only thing that doesn\u2019t seem Beaverish is the pun on \u201clighter\u201d in the twelfth line. There are another six poems in this mode. If I had to guess the impetus behind them I would say that they experiment with inhabiting Beaver\u2019s approach to living in the world. They temporarily eschew the elegant and subtle exploration of mind, thought and the real (and the balanced states of their inter-relationship) which mark most of the Emery poems, for an attitude of sudden brusque involvement resulting in a short, sharp lyric poem but one in which wider perspectives are included, not in a solemn, gestural way (as though a profundity were being offered, gift-wrapped, to the reader) but in a casual, tossed-off one.<\/p>\n

There is another group of poems spaced through the book which identify themselves not only in that they are all ten lines long but in that all begin with ellipsis points and an indented first line \u2013 a clear indication that these are to be read as snapshots of process, though they might also be rescued fragments of one single long poem. The first two are memorable for their presentation of differing but equally symbolic scenes. In the first the author and (presumably) partner are placed between \u201cthe receding arcs of sea and sky\u201d in front and \u201cthe green and terrible forest\u201d behind. The two exist, of course, on the liminal sand (described here, with a nice example of that distinctive kind of pun which I think is called paronomasia, as \u201cthe intervening sleight of sand\u201d) but they aren\u2019t static: \u201cour feet \/ lifted and set down, lifted and set down . . .\u201d. In the second poem, examples of hard-nosed industry \u201cthree men in hardhats \/ and orange coveralls\u201d on a bridge (already established in the book\u2019s first poem as being in opposition to the flowing element beneath) are contrasted with a mannequin \u201cforty feet below in a pink gown \/ and imitation pearls\u201d.<\/p>\n

The other poems of\u00a0Collusion<\/em>\u00a0continue to recall Beaver in that they seem to be diary-like meditations, occasioned by living in the world: \u201cAll morning it\u2019s been difficult to settle, difficult to harness \/ energy or purpose for all the things \/ I have to do.\u201d Their distinctive movement is to be strung between relentless denial and tentative affirmation. A couple of them describe dreams and three, late in the book, deal with memories. One of these latter is prompted by a bicycle ride (and contains the clause \u201cWe can\u2019t go back\u201d which is surely an allusion to Beaver\u2019s novel) another by an old photo and the third by recurrent domestic guilts induced by the humming monotony of an aeroplane flight. Compared with the issue of the monstrous evils explored in Uncommon Light, these guilts seem very minor: burying a younger brother up to his neck in the back yard, losing him at the Show, having a near disaster with his children in the surf. As the poem\u2019s last stanza says: \u201cThis light-weight guilt is carried on the wind, along with doubt, \/ longing, nothing more than dust, clouds, rain, squall after squall, \/ as if wind intended to drag the whole Antarctic north . . .\u201d But despite visits to the worlds of dream and guilt, these poems seem, essentially metaphysical in their obsessions.<\/p>\n

One late poem works hard to describe a state of what might be called \u201csignificance\u201d, experienced physically:<\/p>\n

I almost understand this resonance, this hum<\/p>\n

or echo which I can only picture as a frequency,<\/p>\n

oscillations expanding and diminishing<\/p>\n

from a single source. And the sometime static<\/p>\n

which crackles and interrupts, which implies<\/p>\n

another source, another thought or possibility. . . .<\/p>\n

There is a central statement, \u201cIt\u2019s not persistent but too here and now \/ to be dismissed as fleeting\u201d, and then life returns to the commonplace \u2013 a grandchild sleeps in the back of the car and the poet reads Mark Strand. Fittingly, exactly as many stanzas are devoted to the everyday as to the definition of the barely describable state.<\/p>\n

And this state, or something like it, is familiar from many of Emery\u2019s poems. In one of them it appears at dawn in hypnagogic and liminal guise and demands consideration despite the cruder intrusion of early-morning sexual desire: \u201cNo. Not here. Not now. There\u2019s so much to consider. The sequence of sounds, the unknowable and what it means, the time it takes \/\/ to cross an interval between two spots or states . . .\u201d One of the best poems is an extended attempt at description culminating in metaphors deployed as expression of both difference and similarity:
\n. . . . .<\/p>\n

My mind is silent too<\/p>\n

and still. I can\u2019t describe it. Not empty<\/p>\n

like some vessel, not grey and wispy<\/p>\n

like a fog: something more substantial,<\/p>\n

not set and settled but curiously serene,<\/p>\n

like breathing starlight . . .<\/p>\n

Perhaps, ultimately, a metaphor like this final one is the most powerfully descriptive mode though it is hedged about with problems.<\/p>\n

Above all, throughout Emery\u2019s poetry and repeatedly here in\u00a0Collusion<\/em>, there is a refusal to locate in this state some kind of transcendental ground. There is also a refusal of the next level of stasis whereby the refusal to accept a transcendental ground becomes a ground in itself. There isn\u2019t any celebration of uncertainty here, more a process of living attuned to what is happening as one\u2019s mind engages the manifold dimensions of reality. As the first poem in the book says:
\n. . . . .<\/p>\n

The glimmerings are flecks of time.<\/p>\n

I can\u2019t decide whether they are truly in the moment or<\/p>\n

moments out of time, essence or deviation from the path.<\/p>\n

There\u2019s no conclusion here, no resolution myth. Things rise up<\/p>\n

and fall away as if they never were, rise up again. I like the<\/p>\n

dancing light,<\/p>\n

the scattered cloud, the river that lies potentially between its banks,<\/p>\n

the speeding train. I reach for them. They reach for me.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

From Ali Jane Smith,\u00a0The Australian\u00a0,\u00a0February 9, 2013: Brook Emery\u2019s Collusion manages to combine equanimity and equivocation. Even as he wrestles with profound and complex questions, Emery retains a core of serenity. There are moments of deep contentment, \u201cas though the sun had circled thus for us\u201d, the warm and hopeful presence of a grandchild, sleeping […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":""},"categories":[4],"tags":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/johnleonardpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/310"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/johnleonardpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/johnleonardpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/johnleonardpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/johnleonardpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=310"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/johnleonardpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/310\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":311,"href":"http:\/\/johnleonardpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/310\/revisions\/311"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/johnleonardpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=310"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/johnleonardpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=310"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/johnleonardpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=310"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}