Maggie Nelson
Graywolf Press ($27)

by Christina Schmid

Maggie Nelson’s latest book, On Freedom: Four Songs of Care and Constraint, takes readers into the messy middle between liberation and obligation, where stories of damage and desire, complete with an ever-evolving cast of victims and villains, wrongdoers and the wronged, abound. Throughout, Nelson invites us to step out of dyadic thinking, suspend binaries, and hold space for discomfiting complexities and complicities. A supple thinker, she challenges us to stretch, asking in so many words, what would it take to hold this truth, and this one too, and that one over there? On Freedom is an exercise in “thinking aloud,” sifting and sorting, processing and parsing “the hold that certain ideas have on us, as individuals, a culture, a subculture.” Freedom is one of them.

Rather than a one-time, capital-L Liberation, the freedom Nelson has in mind consists of daily, mundane practices, the patient labor involved in honing a capacity for being free. This may involve, in the words of David Graeber that she returns to more than once, us acting—defiantly, irresistibly—as if we were already free. In the absence of readily available freedoms, as if becomes key: As if opens the door to speculation and to performative acts of make-believe. What might such acts of freedom look like? Not like hedonism or carelessness, not like denials of the material restraints of human existence, but like an ongoing rehearsal aimed at conjuring ways of being free that never negate “the web of relationality” we are all enmeshed in or ignore the pull of desire as life force and force field.

Nelson’s inquiry unfolds in four essays, one each on art, sex, drugs, and climate change. In each of these four sites, freedom is complicated: Creative license meets ethical accountability; the triumphant rhetoric of sexual liberation gives way to intimate disappointments, calls for safe spaces, and the wounded sisterhood of #MeToo; narratives of addicts as childlike victims collide with stories of transgressive if misguided drug-abusing villains; and freedom, untethered from any sense of reciprocal responsibility, looms large amid the ecocide known as global warming. When does a sense of entitlement to freedom morph into a convenient justification for causing others harm? When does the perceived justice of a cause grant immunity from facing the hurt inflicted on others, human and nonhuman alike? Nelson’s four chapters trace the contours, variations, and possibilities of this question in a song, a ballad, and a fugue, but it is the final essay’s title that most resonates: “Riding the Blinds” refers to the spaces in between train cars where freight hoppers hope to avoid detection, a precarious perch where the sound of metal wheels thrumming on the rails permeates bodies, and where passage means more than destination, more than arrival.

Parsing her prose into songs not only resonates with literary precedent but locates Nelson’s thinking in the body’s voice and breath. Raced, gendered, classed, abled, sexed and sexual, desiring and wounded, maternal and material, porous and open—the body, cathected to the comforts of a fossil-fuel powered way of life whose cost is catastrophic for the planet, is present always, not just as a theoretical reference point, but as the locus, the condition, the physical constraint of our experience: of freedom, unfreedom, and, in a riff on Aime Cesaire, a universal that is rich with the particular and vice versa. The body holds the knot, an entangled pursuit of shared vulnerability, a knot that weaves desire for freedom together with a longing for care.

Though wary of composing neat narrative arcs herself, Nelson is an astute observer of the stories we tell, blind spots and all, and of what mindset and structure of feeling they bring forth. “Concentrating solely” on “aspects of our disempowerment” does not “deliver us” to empowerment and freedom, she notes while writing about sex, consent, and #MeToo. “Each sexual exchange . . . is going to resemble a certain wandering in the woods, because of the fundamental unknowability of ourselves and each other, and the open questions of what any new interaction might summon. This inchoateness is not just a by-product of sexual experience. It is part of what makes it worthwhile.”

Rather than rely on ready-made scripts, she proposes we learn “to inhabit and articulate sexual experience outside the dyad of the wrongdoer and the wronged.” What if we dropped the need for storyline altogether and tended to the particular? Welcome to the messy middle, where practicing freedom promises an unending experiment.

In “Art Song,” Nelson reflects on the currency of a reparative aesthetic that aims to heal past rifts and trauma. Such good intentions are commendable, of course, but Nelson asks if they are a guarantor of good art. In a cultural landscape dedicated to repair, can there also be space for art that refuses to take up the burden of how your work may make others feel? Or for art that courts the unraveling of conscious intentions, eager to delve into the spaces beyond, in Erin Manning’s words, the triad of volition-intention-agency? How much freedom should creative license grant, and when do artists and cultural workers face the threshold of the forbidden, the taboo? Though Nelson finds clear words on recent art controversies, her restless mind keeps churning, asking, speculating. This, too, is the shape freedom can take.

A meandering meditation, On Freedom is not invested in presenting an air-tight argument to settle the matter once and for all; the text and Nelson’s thinking breathe. Unapologetic, she calls her writing “weak theory,” an approach reminiscent of Julietta Singh’s vulnerable reading, a porous and open-ended form of engagement forever at odds with fantasies of mastery. It bears comparison as well to Laura Marks’s haptic criticism that imagines an erotic shimmering in the space where words brush up against the very skin of the object under scrutiny, and to Dian Million’s “felt theory,” which insists on the significance of lived experience and felt knowledges passed between generations of Native women. Nelson’s book partakes in the project these thinkers share: to challenge the deracinated Enlightenment subject’s putative freedom, a freedom achieved only in subjection to an ideology of separation and autonomy. Singing of care and constraint in the same breath as she invokes freedom, Nelson invites us to imagine different desires, new ties of interdependence that we tend to eagerly.

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Jennifer Fliss
Okay Donkey Press ($15)

by Nick Hilbourn

Jennifer Fliss’s new collection, The Predatory Animal Ball, carries an eerie sentiment, like an abandoned location at midnight. Inanimate things take on the agency that people once held, concentrating space around them, and if humans enter they’re obliged to conform to the objects’ laws. In “Mise En Place,” for instance, a woman celebrates the birthday of her elderly father, who lives alone in a crowded house after the death of her mother. The story begins with the recipe for the dish she’s creating for the party, but quickly pivots into commentary: “1 tbsp paprika, and  few strands of saffron, sitting delicately in a white ramekin. The strands are small and fine like microorganisms, they are potent despite their size. If I look through a microscope, I wouldn’t be surprised if they are actually alive.” What starts as a throwaway observation quickly becomes the condition for her existence in the space.

The characters in Fliss’s stories deal with complex emotions by transferring them into physical things, trying to satisfy a need for intimacy. The narrator in “Mise En Place” sees her “father tracing the lace design with his fingers,” his fingers searching for some type of connection. After the party, the narrator says, “I drive my father home. Install the chair in front of the TV.” Thus “my father” becomes “a chair” in relation to “the TV”; an exchange has been made. In this world of relentless reification, Fliss’s characters relate to a given emotion as an object outside themselves, dismissing it without experiencing the severe stress were they able to feel the original, complex emotion.

In “Just the Air They Breathe,” for example, a woman’s melancholia becomes “a mysterious squatter . . . in the terrarium [who] was unsure of how she got there herself, but she went about her work anyway. She spoke to the plants in soft whispers. . . . She nourished the air around them and they, in turn, took it all in.” At the end of the story, the lingering absence is never addressed except as “a quiet breathing” that fills the house. This is where the weight of Fliss’s fiction resides: the studium, the “quiet breathing” that saturates spaces.

In several stories, narrators are lists, evidence, data, or schedules. “Degrees,” a story of extinction and environmental collapse, is an annotated list of increasing temperatures. At 200 degrees, the absence surrounding life supersedes it:

The empty desert expanse undulates under its breath. The scorched earth was a map of three-dimensional hieroglyphics depicting the life that was. The phantom rolls up the sand, balls it up, feels the grittiness of it, and drops it down, down, down to the earth, burying bodies—ignored carrion—creating dunes where there were none.

The background supersedes the foreground. “The phantom,” much like the “quiet breathing” discussed earlier, sashays in to fill an empty space without fanfare. This piece is amusing in its deadpan, understated description of the apocalypse, and throughout the book Fliss’s sparsity and sardonic wit come across like a defeated sigh, her stories moving like thick night fog. There’s no beginning or end here; rather, each story is a positionality within a changeless space where the reader is obliged to sit, be quiet, and inertly watch. This is no longer your space; in fact, it never was.

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Glenn Mott
Turtle Point Press ($18.95)

by Simon Schuchat

Eclogue, originally from the Greek, is a short poem on a pastoral subject. The Mustard Seed Garden is a Chinese painting manual from the 17th Century, explaining with model drawings the correct way to paint bamboo, plum blossoms, people, insects, and so on. How could these two things possibly go together? Glenn Mott, an erudite and well-traveled poet, has the answer—though pastoral specifically singles out shepherds and shepherdesses, and if the topic is not herding animals but rather growing plants, it should properly be called a Georgic.

Our mental space is, or ought to be, global. This book encompasses that mind. Mott’s previous book, Analects on a Chinese Screen (Chax Press, 2007), drew on his residence in modern China. It was a complete whole, built out of lines with their subordination and organization left, to some extent, to the reader. This paratactic way of structuring a poem draws on the classical Chinese tradition, where multiple poems reside in one text. Eclogues draws again on this technique.

There are twenty pieces in the book; the majority consist of a title in capitals, followed by a line. For example:

NOBODY

Is too good to be true.

Or

ARBITRATION

Ideally, each party will be slightly disappointed.

There’s an element of call and response, as well as the grammatical structure of topic: comment. In an ideal world, perhaps each of these elements might be printed on a separate page. In this edition, however, they are joined on the page, so that the sequential nature, the argument, is more evident. Mott has said that he came to this form through dissatisfaction with an earlier manuscript. In it he let in too much, surrounded the memorable with supposedly necessary furniture that might as well be discarded. His breakthrough was to keep only the lines he could easily call to mind. This principle of condensation was achieved, paradoxically, by putting space around the parts.

At the same time, narrative persists. This is particularly true when the poems are read aloud. The pauses between elements are simply breath, and thus they do not disrupt the flow of thought. That is, the book contains twenty poems, each of which are sequences of smaller poem—but isn’t that always the case: the poems come in stanzas that come in lines that come in words.

Though there are Chinese influences on this poetry, there are other traditions at work as well. Mott draws deeply and richly on the Western tradition, Greek and Latin, and the short form of the epigram, the way that remarks are transformed into literature. Writers and thinkers like Martial or Epictetus come to mind. Much of the thought relates to the pre-Socratics (so beloved of Olson, to draw another lineage).

The voice is not Chinese, and it isn’t ancient Greek either—it’s more “middle border high tone,” Midwestern regionalist, and frontier woodsman (even if Mott turns Buddhist monk at times):

YOU DIDN’T COME FOR ANSWERS

To a place like this.

And

WISDOM OF THE IMMORTALS

The sun doesn’t shine on the same dog’s ass every afternoon.

Mott has thought and written about our world and our place in it. Everything is included, all are welcome, but everything is what’s important. It’s funny, it’s wise, and, like the original Mustard Seed Garden manual, it’s a model for seeing and speaking and writing.

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by Marina Chen

Founded in 1966 by Robert Hershon, Emmett Jarrett, Dick Lourie, and Ron Schreiber, Hanging Loose Press has put hundreds of books and magazines into the world, much of it focused on emerging writers—including high school writers, regularly included in Hanging Loose magazine. The independent press that first published Sherman Alexie, Cathy Park Hong, Maggie Nelson, and many others, proves year after year that young writers are as important to them as their roster of professionals, even after six decades of publishing.

In the following interview, former HL intern and high school writer Marina Chen talks with the current co-editors Mark Pawlak, Dick Lourie, and Caroline Hagood about Hanging Loose history, philosophy, advice, and thoughts on literature and the writing youth of today.

Marina Chen: Hanging Loose has been publishing high school writing since the very first issue of the magazine in 1966, and for decades was the only magazine in the business doing that. Back then, what motivated the editors to include high school writing?

Mark Pawlak: I had just graduated high school when the first issue of Hanging Loose appeared, so we’ll need to hear from Dick on that count. But I will say that when I joined HL as an editor in 1980, one of the things that attracted me was its commitment to publishing teen writers.

Dick Lourie: Just before our first issue my cousin Martha, then thirteen, showed me two poems by a friend of hers, Deborah Deichler. “Knockout,” Bob and Ron and Emmett and I all agreed, so we thought OK, terrific poems, but really, by a high school student? Well, why not? A few issues later, we began the regular section.

MC: You’ve also published four anthologies of that high school writing. How did that come about?

MP: One frequent topic of discussion among the editors was how much readers liked the high school poetry, so we really should collect the best of the work and publish an anthology. But that idea always got tabled; our more immediate concerns were getting out the next issue and the individual authors’ books we had on the schedule. Eventually, I volunteered to take the lead in pulling the material together. Dick offered to help. And so Smart Like Me (1986), which gathered the best poetry from the first twenty years of the HL high school section, came into being.

Naively, we thought this anthology would appeal to a trade publisher; we made inquiries. In those days there were collections of poetry written for teens, but by adults. Although never explicitly stated, it became clear to us from the publishers’ responses that they were afraid such a collection wouldn’t sell well to schools and libraries. The poetry we’d collected was too raw, too honest, too frankly perceptive of the lives of teens, their parents, their teachers—their world. Censorship by local school boards combined with outcries from PTAs was no doubt also on their minds. But it was for just those reasons that we believed in our anthology project, so we went ahead and published it ourselves.

To our delight, it garnered very positive reviews: “The levels of insight and maturity are often astounding.” (School Library Journal). “Any teacher who’s worked with teen-age writers will be cheered and re-inspired.” (X. J. Kennedy). “Give it to old fogies who maunder on about what the younger generation’s coming to.” (Village Voice). And it sold very well.

MC: That response must have persuaded you that you were onto something.

MP: It certainly did. As you know, we’ve gone on to publish three subsequent anthologies, Bullseye (1995), Shooting the Rat (2003), and When We Were Countries (2010). I’m very proud of our role as forerunners in this regard, but it’s important to remember that innovative ideas are frequently of their times, floating in the cultural atmosphere, awaiting someone to pluck and develop them. With respect to poetry by young people, Teachers and Writers Collaborative started the same year as Hanging Loose. T&W hired poets to teach in schools and published curricula for teachers to use in teaching poetry, especially, although not exclusively, contemporary poetry. Many of the poets associated with T&W are friends of and published by HL. And like us they’re still going fifty-plus years later! So, we weren’t alone in valuing poetry written by young adults.

DL: Those early years in New York—Mark is right: it really was a movement, to have poets teach in schools, where they taught students and, in a way, mentored teachers by example. Organizations sprang up focused on poets working in particular states: both New York and New Jersey had “Poets in the Schools” programs, and the organizations were able to get grants from state governments. At various points in HL’s early years, Bob and I and Emmett all did poetry programs in schools. So, our direct contacts formed another conduit for high school writers to the magazine. Such programs still exist and there are still a few poets who can make a living by their work in schools, though funding for the arts has been cut in general.

MC: How have high school writers usually found HL?

MP: I think the answer has changed over time, but mostly it has been teachers who pointed students to HL, as Dick just mentioned. And the landscape has changed for teens who want to share their writing. There are many more outlets to publish their work, including journals specifically devoted to teen writing and summer writing classes and workshops.

DL: And I think the situation now is different from when Caroline was in high school.

Caroline Hagood: Yes, as Mark said, there was no “class assignment.” The idea of sending to HL was suggested to me by my amazing high school poetry teacher, Marty Skoble. I remember being so surprised that any magazine would be willing to consider the work of a high school writer. I think the way the climate has changed today is that now students might also hear about these kinds of opportunities on social media. I saw a Twitter conversation recently where someone was asking where she could send the poetry of her talented high school student, and I was so happy to see someone suggest Hanging Loose.

MC: How can young writers get involved? And for any prospective writers reading this, is there anything specific you are looking for?

MP: Our website has a page with guidelines for high school writer submissions. Our dear deceased Robert Hershon, a founding editor, liked to say, “the past is precedent.” Meaning, read a copy of HL magazine (there are 111 issues to date) or one of our high school anthologies.

DL: Yes, that’s really important. Poetry is like any other profession; you don’t go into it without knowing how it’s done. Poetry isn’t “expressing thoughts”—it uses thoughts and feelings to create art. That’s a skill. If you wanted to be an electrician, you might start as an apprentice. To be a poet, you start developing your skills by reading poetry. That’s the way you get a sense of it. So, I think it’s not necessarily something specific we’re looking for, other than some indication, in a person’s writing, of a familiarity with poetry, with how poets over the years have transformed their thoughts and feelings into poetry—in other words, keep writing and, just as important, keep reading.

CH: I am going to defer to Emily Dickinson on this one, in terms of what I’m looking for, at least: “If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?”

MC: It is an eternal human pursuit to want to know what came before. Especially for writers, knowing this is power and can enhance one’s writing. As a previous high school writer for Hanging Loose, your fourth high school collection When We Were Countries was a chance to meet my predecessors. How does being published in HL usually affect high school writers? What do they go on to do?

MP: As a former HL high school writer, Caroline can best answer how it affected her (Ghosts of America: A Great American Novel, her novel, was just published by HL). And in her essay in When We Were Countries, Joanna Fuhrman, who just published her sixth poetry collection with HL, writes about how it affected her. I keep a list of alumni of the HL high school poetry section who have gone on to writing careers. In just the past year, Donovan Hohn, for one, a New York Times bestselling author, published a new collection of essays, as did Sejal Shah, both to widespread acclaim. But there are many, many more.

But other alumni of the high school section go on to distinguish themselves in a great variety of fields as artists, journalists, economists, editors, scholars. Their subsequent career paths are documented in the contributor notes at the back of each anthology. They make fascinating reading, which brings me back to what the Village Voice said about “old fogies who maunder on about what the younger generation’s coming to.”

DL: And one of our early high school poets, Michael Rezendes, was part of the Boston Globe’s “Spotlight” team that received a Pulitzer Prize for their scathing revelations about clergy child abuse in the Catholic Church. Our very first high school poet, Deborah Deichler, became a painter and a professor at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts.

CH: I can’t answer for all poets who were published by HL in high school, but, for me, it really did contribute to my youthful belief that I could build a career out of poetry. I remember graduating high school thinking the world believed poetry to be as important as HL did and as my high school did, only to be quickly disabused of that belief. But I did go on to make a career out of poetry in a way, by getting my PhD in English at Fordham, and now by working as an Assistant Professor of Literature, Writing and Publishing and Director of Undergraduate Writing at St. Francis College in Brooklyn, as well as my recent role as the Faculty Advisor for Unbound Brooklyn.

MC: The rise of slam poetry and an overall growth of the poetry world available to young writers have caused a rise in readings and oral competitions. How do you think the relationship between written and spoken word poetry has developed and affected high school writers across HL’s decades of interaction with them?

MP: Now it’s my turn to sound like an old fogy. I believe competition in that public sense is anathema to poetry. Friendly rivalry, challenging one another to greater achievements as artists is something different.

As to the questions of “page versus stage,” I think there is a genuine tension there. A poem that is powerfully achieved on the page can also affect listeners just as powerfully hearing it read aloud. However, a good “stage poet” can put over a poem that falls flat on the page. And I recognize that spoken word poetry has expanded interest in poetry to young people who might otherwise have been put off by poetry in books or in the classroom. If enjoying a spoken word reading leads them to a deeper immersion in all kinds of poetry, all the better.

DL: The only thing I would add is that one important aspect of the “page versus stage” tension is the need for mutual respect. The only thing I object to is the occasional characterization of us “page” poets as a bunch of stuffy aristocratic types whose readings reach heights of boredom.

MC: What does HL hope to achieve with these four high school anthologies? Why is it important to share young work, for the poets and the readers, and why should young readers read each other?

MP: The readership of a poetry magazine like Hanging Loose is limited, so by its very nature an anthology is a way to reach a wider audience. Much of what passes as representative of teen life and teen issues in the media and on the Internet is commodified cliché. Real poetry written by one’s peers speaks to teens differently. Our anthologies can and do play a role to enrich teen readers’ lives and their imaginations.

CH: Reading poems from other high schoolers in Shooting the Rat was life-changing for me. These poems made me feel alive, electrified, less alone. I would also add that I don’t think it’s going too far to say that there are kids out there whose lives this kind of exposure could even save.

DL: And as history, reading through all four volumes gives a sense of how young people’s poetry, as a reflection of American poetry in general, underwent changes in style and focus.

MC: Over time, have the identities of HL high school writers changed as well? And how does this reflect upon HL as a traditionally safe space for young writers?

MP: Over more than five decades we have never needed to have a special issue of our magazine dedicated to LGBTQ+ writers because we’ve always been open to their work. Tim Robbins, then a high school student from the Midwest, started sending us poems with explicitly gay content in the early 1980s. I think he holds the record for the most poems by a writer of high school age to appear in Hanging Loose. He must have thought of HL as a safe place, and forty-plus years later he continues to send poems to HL. He recently asked me to write an endorsement for his first full poetry collection.

DL: And our late co-founder, Ron Schreiber was a militant, out, gay activist in the New York of the 1960s. He played a crucial role in mentoring young, gay writers.

MC:, The 2000s generation seemed particularly preoccupied with themes like reconnection of broken families, international diversity, and the immortal quality of first love—but most of all, the uplifting of one’s own voice. I also noticed the first hues of fierce racial-inequality-fueled rage that colors today’s current youth in When We Were Countries. Are these themes similar or different throughout each cycle of HL high school writing? What does this say about what high school writing offers to the literary community?

DL: Thoughtful question indeed. I think the high school poets and fiction writers today do reflect on how they live in the world that we, the elders have made (as each generation does) for them. To read their work is to read how they feel about where they find themselves now. I feel sometimes with a high school poet that I’m learning about someone in the most direct way. The poems bring us inside to experience and maybe understand this person so much younger than we are.

MC: Since When We Were Countries in 2010, HL has not published a more recent high school anthology. Have you noticed any particular sparks or new inspirations in the work since then? Should we be on the lookout for a fresh new voice bursting forth from the next HL high school collection?

MP: I have a very thick folder containing a draft of the next high school anthology—we’re just waiting to find the resources to publish it. The work of reaching out to the authors, updating their biographies since high school, etc., is very time consuming and the upfront cost of publishing a thick anthology is high. But I’m confident it will happen soon.

Rain Taxi Online Edition Winter 2021 | © Rain Taxi, Inc. 2021

Kate Lister
Thames & Hudson ($35)

by Greg Baldino

The year was 1881 and teenager Elizabeth Burley had just leapt into the icy waters off the coast of Dover. Though an act of desperation, this was no suicide attempt—she flung herself off the Granville Dock to evade a pair of men who chased her with the clear intent to violate the agency and safety of her body. There was no point in calling for the police; they were the police. Suspected of being a "fallen woman" under the provision of the Contagious Diseases Act, she was to be subjected to a forcible vaginal examination for signs of sexually transmitted diseases; only seventeen years old, she took her chances with the Channel rather than face such invasion. It worked, because after seeing her go into waters cold enough to freeze her to death if she didn't drown first, the pursuing officers went on their way.

This is just one of the many stories in Harlots, Whores & Hackabouts, Kate Lister's five-thousand-year history of sex workers and the efforts to control, coerce, and abolish them. In her scholarship, Lister puts the empirical reality of sex workers front and center, debunking centuries of effort to cast them as vectors of disease, strife, and immorality, while also not playing into the other side of that coin, painting them as victims of vice in need of salvation.

Beginning with accounts of transactional sex in the Epic of Gilgamesh, the book covers a global range of cultures from the flower boats of China to the molly houses of London as it progresses toward the present day. Patterns emerge, and history shows itself to repeat as concurrently as it does consecutively. Although it takes different forms, the most prevalent strategy since the courtesan Phryne stood before the judges of Athens has been an attempt to find and enforce the right level of desperation. As the book documents, this strategy never works; it only pushes the trade into areas more dangerous and unpredictable for the workers themselves.

It's a disturbing history, but also a fascinating one. And it's a history beyond what many might assume, one of gay men and trans women, of artists and immigrants. Historical figures pop up in unexpected roles throughout. Lushly illustrated with photographs and artwork, Harlots, Whores & Hackabouts honors this history in its visuals and its design as well as its content. A significant effort is made to apply the names of sex workers to their images whenever possible, restoring humanity to people often labeled only as "a courtesan" or "prostitutes" in history books’ captions.

One of the most prominent revelations in this book is how much sex work has been suppressed from the documentation of history itself. Far from being a temporary aberration of social values, sex work is instead revealed as ever-present in the cultures we think we know. It's not a glossy romanticization, either; the book doesn't shy from portraying honestly the dangers and discomforts of those for whom sex work is their life’s work. In this, it is also a labor history, and a history of the devaluing of women's lives. Sex work is work, but work made unsafe by the design of those who would control it.

This design nearly killed Elizabeth Burley before her eighteenth birthday, but in the last hundred years it has come under greater opposition than ever before. The act that authorized the pursuit of young Burley in the first place was vehemently opposed by Christian philanthropist Josephine Butler, who considered the regulatory legislation "surgical rape." Butler was one of the first major advocates for sex workers in the modern age, writing and campaigning on behalf of their rights, dignity, and agency. Butler's efforts would be followed by sex workers confronting clergy in the streets, occupying churches, fist-fighting cops, and organizing for advocacy and self-defense—a struggle for worker rights that is far from over.

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Chris Stark
Modern History Press ($25.95)

by Shannon Gibney

An impressive work about family, survival, and what one character calls the “spiral” of all stories, Chris Stark’s Carnival Lights is part novel, part Minnesota history, part spiritual tome, and part brutal account of white racial and sexual violence. Centering on several generations of one Ojibwe family in both the northern and southern parts of the state and spanning the years 1860 to 1969, the book deftly shows how whites used land theft, intimidation, and sheer force to try to exterminate and remove Native communities, but also how the victims resisted and fought to keep their ways of life.

Stark sets her main plot in 1969, as two teenage cousins, Sher and Kris, flee their home on the reservation to escape toxic family dynamics and rape, landing in Minneapolis. “The girls arrived in the city with $12 and two empty stomachs, their grandfather’s World War II pack, two stainless steel cups, some face makeup, gum, and a lighter.” The young Ojibwe women navigate the treacherous city streets as best they can, but it feels as if they are being hunted by sexual predators at every turn. Sher and Kris are seen as not people, but objects to be plundered, used up, and then cast aside. At the same time, in Virginia, Minnesota, their Aunt Em has been kidnapped by men who are selling her “upstream,” to Thunder Bay or Toronto. She manages to escape, and then embarks on an equally harrowing journey to find her nieces.

Even through so much devastation and loss, Carnival Lights asserts that the land—and everything living on it—remembers. At one point Sher recalls finding her father frozen to death in a field:

The trees, their outstretched arms and fingers cradling delicate lines of snow, heard and saw all of it, and it became part of them, recorded in their beings, in their flesh. Ring after ring, year after year, the Standing People recorded the story of the land. They absorbed, held, witnessed. The Standing People. The libraries of the earth. The collectors of knowledge, their limbs arching over the land, over life. Holding. Bending. Protecting.

The Standing People bearing witness to horrible acts of violence against the Ojibwe is one of the central themes in the book, and it provides a sense of accountability, if not consequence, for the ongoing and pernicious attacks.

Another potent theme in Carnival Lights is that history lives on in the present, passed down from generation to generation. What lingers by the river where white men drowned a young, Ojibwe man in 1891 haunts a woman walking there decades later. In 1969, a young Jewish boy in Minneapolis remembers being raped by a Catholic priest in an orphanage after World War II—an experience that happened to his father, not him. This is all drawn together succinctly when a woman contemplates her grandchild’s propensity toward movement: “Her grandma turned to watch her eldest grandchild run into the woods. She lit a cigarette and asked the mishoomis—the trees—to help the young girl with the burden of the past that she carried, passed down through blood.”

Even in the midst of endless catastrophe, Carnival Lights offers readers a window into Ojibwe cosmology, values, and ways of being. While this is not the same as justice, it presents readers with other ways of being and seeing the world, which is healing in itself. This is not an easy story, of Ojibwe women who were targeted, violated, and even killed, but it feels like a true and necessary one. And it is also a story of some who lived and of the lost histories they told. As Sher’s grandmother says:

“Women are strong. Aren’t we, my girl?” She cupped Sher’s round face, pressing dirt into her cheeks and chin. “You, in particular. My grandmother told me stories about old-time Indian women warriors, fighting alongside the men. Sometimes fighting the men, eh?” She laughed. “The Christians didn’t like those stories to be told. They want their women to be obedient.” She swiped dirt on the girl’s nose. “That is you. The heart of a warrior.” Her hands turned to the earth. “Remember, my girl. No matter what, not all is lost. Nothing is ever gone for good.”

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Jenny Qi
Steel Toe Books ($16)

by Jessica Johnson

The title of Jenny Qi’s Focal Point refers to a term in the lexicon of optics, the “point at which parallel waves converge and from which diverge.” Picture (with your phone or your mind) the diagram: straight lines traveling from a (convex) lens on the left edge of the page toward a single place where they meet and begin traveling toward the right edge, growing further and further apart. In this collection, the “point” is Qi’s mother’s death from cancer, seen from the position of the daughter who then becomes a cancer researcher.

The helplessness of grief is the crux where meaning comes into focus. At the end of the title poem which opens the book, Qi names what her mother can’t see, but what she can: mice, some of whom Qi the scientist injects with cancer and “harsh” medicine, and some of whom she shields to prevent them from “watch[ing] their sisters die.” She writes:

I see my mother in those graying eyes,
eyes I refused to donate because how would she see,

and I think how cruelly futile all this
erratically focused empathy, how brutal

to learn why I couldn’t save
what I couldn’t save.

In hindsight, memories from before the death are travelling inevitably toward eventual illness and loss. All that comes after—thoughts, sensations, problems—can be located in relation to the experience of the same loss.

Throughout Focal Point, images and stories from Qi’s job, relationships, travels, memories, and dreams converge and diverge. The possibility of being in a condition other than alone sharpens, then blurs; the question of solitude is especially poignant in poems like “Biology Lesson 1”:

Cells need touch—
isolated cells wither,
float away
in a blood-red sea.

This is the first in a series of short, numbered poems that renders the plain facts of cell biology in a manner that is straightforward, but telling. These poems crystallize the way Focal Point relies on image in service of story. Throughout the book, each experiential cross-section is illuminated by the story as a whole, and each, in turn, builds the story further. The relationship between the parts and the whole of Focal Point is one of its main pleasures, and the interplay of these inevitably makes one think about the implications of the focal point metaphor. We begin to consider the terror contained on the right side of the focal point diagram: the idea of infinite divergence.

As Qi attends to the everyday experience of estrangement—even, at times, from poetry itself—her tone is often matter-of-fact, like the distance of a microscope’s ocular lens from the thing looked at. But the gaze in Focal Point has a way of turning toward the quick, the heartwood, the place that is alive and tender. Qi tends to leave the image alone, letting it be final and, in the context of the poem and the collection, full. This trust in the image to carry sometimes painful implications is the book’s sharp edge, placed against the skin of memory. It reminds us that in microscopy, the focal point is not only the point at which waves converge and diverge—it’s the place where the image is created, the place where we can see.

Rain Taxi Online Edition Winter 2021 | © Rain Taxi, Inc. 2021

You Nakai
Oxford University Press ($74)

by Patrick James Dunagan

While the piano and the organ may superficially appear similar (both do employ a keyboard), this is a misperception. The piano is a fundamentally percussion-based instrument, whereas in terms of sound functionality, the organ aligns with the family of wind instruments. There are no hammers hitting wires in an organ as in a piano, so while having a distinctive sound, an organ may be easily altered to mimic sounds of other instruments. This is perhaps the most basic of the discoveries offered in You Nakai’s Reminded by the Instruments: David Tudor’s Music, yet understanding the differences and similarities between instruments is the foundation of Nakai’s impressive overview and of the many more tantalizing discoveries to be had.

Reminded by the Instruments is not a biography per se, but rather an elaborately detailed consideration of Tudor’s music as a biography-of-sorts. This aim is pursued with full diligence by way of examining the many instruments (primarily electronic) Tudor utilized to achieve his works. Nakai emphasizes that one key instrument Tudor relied heavily upon from the start, and learned much from, was himself:

Born in Philadelphia on January 20, 1926, he was usually remembered as an extraordinary pianist who was instrumental to the music of many Americans and European composers in the 1950s, influential to many more. It was often said that his virtuosity—as a pianist as well as a thinker—had inspired composers around him in New York to experiment with how they wrote their scores, which led to the development of so-called graphic notation—a form of musical score which requires the performer to be involved in the process of creating the performance score.

Composers such as John Cage, who wrote works for Tudor in the 1950s, “later portrayed Tudor as a black box whose internal mechanisms were unknown, but nonetheless always output extraordinary results from any input material.” As Cage recalled: “One assumed he could do everything. (In fact, hearing him perform was proof.)”

Tudor’s music, with its striking contrasts of bumbled-sounding knocks and bangs against whispery snaps and sizzles, might strike many an ear as nearly comical, yet his intent was ever-serious. Nakai delves into the occult roots of Tudor’s music, demonstrating a debt to the spiritualist Rudolf Steiner who “took great pains to coordinate the metaphysical nature of music with the physical mechanism of the human body,” in part by combining the “great significance in the fact that the inner ear is placed in a fluid” with the fact that “when one breathes out, the fluid in the brain descends to the diaphragm area through the spinal column, and when one breathes in, the same fluid is pushed back to the brain.” This “formed the basis of Steiner’s view of the human body as a musical instrument.”

Not surprisingly, as a result, “when composers began to regard him as a musical instrument, Tudor was delighted.” This reminded him of “the theory of the respiratory mechanism he had read in Antonin Artaud’s writing, which was also reminiscent of Steiner’s teachings.” Artaud’s idea, known as “Affective Athleticism” was “precisely what Tudor was looking for: the art of creating temporal continuity, which instead of being grounded in the psyche of the performer, composed the psyche as an effect of bodily action.” He soon found that “unlike the difference between the worlds of organ and piano, the difference between the instrument and the instrumentalist appeared to blur.” His approach to instruments grew out of his own sense of himself as instrument. As Nakai notes, Tudor “expanded the act of composition through his particular approach to the performance of music. The title of ‘composer’ did not indicate any accomplishment but lack of a better word.” His desire was to have the instrument compose itself. “With electronic instruments, Tudor had found a way to produce materials himself that would nonetheless behave as an ‘other’: he could quite literally let the instruments take the lead.”

Nakai acknowledges early on that writing about Tudor felt like “a giant puzzle,” since “a life inevitably takes on the appearance of a puzzle for anyone who tries to read it.” And while he allows that “a book that tries to show the way around a labyrinth ends up creating its own labyrinth,” he also asserts “if there is one thing absolutely certain about this book, it is that it could not have existed if David Tudor did not deliberately leave an incredible amount of materials and take great pains to preserve as much detail of what he did as he could—without telling other people about it.” The validity of this statement is borne out by the numerous sketches of scores and arrangements included, all of which came from Nakai’s extensive dives into the several archival holdings of Tudor’s work around the country.

Besides written work, Tudor also preserved the many electronic instruments he purchased and/or built (the majority of which Nakai includes photographs of). While Tudor rarely left a totally clear indication of exactly what he did in every performance, or even precisely which instrument(s) he applied and how, Nakai’s relentless pursuit allows him to reconstruct much, if not all, of what Tudor was up to on such occasions. This required an impressive amount of backward-looking detective work, with Nakai drawing upon every clue possible, from receipts to audience/observer commentaries along with Tudor’s itineraries and his own (usually quizzically misleading) recorded responses to queries.

Nakai’s title comes from these lines of Walt Whitman’s “A Song of Occupations”: “All music is what awakens from you when you are reminded by the instruments, / It is not the violins and the cornets, it is not the oboe nor the beating drums, nor the score of the baritone singer singing his sweet romanza, nor that of the men’s chorus, nor that of the women’s chorus, / it is nearer and farther than they.” This is clearly a nod to music’s abiding mystery and power over one’s consciousness. Reminded by the Instruments leaves little doubt of the utter sublimation Tudor achieved through his instrument.

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Muriel Rukeyeser
Selected by Natasha Trethewey
Ecco ($16.99)

By Warren Woessner

In selecting 75 poems from Muriel Rukeyser’s prodigious body of work, former U.S. Poet Laureate Natasha Trethewey took on a daunting task. Rukeyser was born in 1913 and died in 1980, one year after her collected poems was published. She was an active journalist for left wing organizations and throughout her life she was artistically (if not personally) witness to five wars and decades of feminist, environmental, and racial progress and injustice.

Trethewey anchors her selections for this new and timely volume with Rukeyser’s longer poems. “The Book Of The Dead,” about the Hawk’s Nest Tunnel Disaster, may be the best known of these and occupies 45 pages. This poem tells the story of an attempt to widen a hydroelectric tunnel after pure silica had been discovered, the exposure to which led to the rapid deaths of hundreds of workers, many of whom were Black or recent immigrants. Many were buried in mass graves. The sections are each individual poems that record “Statements” by the miners and their family members, as well as Congressional testimony. They read like found poems:

George Robinson  :   I knew a man
who died at four in the morning in the camp.
At seven his wife took clothes to dress her dead
husband, and at the undertaker’s
they told her the husband was already buried.

The poem does not mention the Tunnel Disaster directly, but is more of a call to continue to battle the forces of injustice everywhere: “What three things can never be done? / Forget.     Keep silent.     Stand alone.” Another long poem, “Letter to the Front,” pertains to the Spanish Civil War, which began while Rukeyser was in Barcelona, but contains stanzas that could have been written today:

But our freedom lives
To fight the war the world must win.
The fevers of confusion’s touch
Leap to confusion in the land.
We shall grow and fight again.
The sickness of our divided state
Calls to the anger and the great
Imaginative gifts of man.

Rukeyser can walk that talk. She was arrested early in her journalistic career while covering the trial of the Scottsboro Boys and again later during a protest against the Vietnam War. The poem “The Gates” describes incidents in the 1970’s when she traveled to South Korea to plead for the release of the poet Kim Che Ha, who had been sentenced to death for criticizing the current regime. The collection includes further poems about her anti-war activities, as well as about her sexuality.

The one drawback of this new volume is that Trethewey’s introduction is too short. A reader new to Rukeyser’s work would certainly want to know more about her life, especially since she did not tread the well-worn path of academic advancement. The central message of her work, however, is summed up in her short poem “In Our Time”:

In our period, they say there is free speech.
They say there is no penalty for poets,
There is no penalty for writing poems.
They say this.      This is the penalty.

In under 200 pages, The Essential Muriel Rukeyser lives up to its name, presenting the positive force of her mission concisely. In this it mirrors much of the poet’s own brilliant work, as captured in the opening lines of “Wherever”: “Wherever / we walk / we will make // Wherever we protest / we will go planting.”

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João Almino
Translated from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Lowe
Dalkey Archive Press ($14.95)

by Douglas Messerli

In this 2017 novel, translated by Elizabeth Lowe into English as The Last Twist of the Knife, Brazilian writer João Almino establishes a series of difficult hurdles for himself, almost as if purposely creating nearly impossible, Oulipo-like challenges. The form of the work is a journal kept by a 70-some-year-old narrator whose memory is slowly slipping away and who suddenly decides to leave his wife Clarice and—despite the warnings of writers such as Thomas Wolfe—attempt to “go home” again, to the Brazilian backlands of the northwestern plateau where he grew up.

Our hero, who perceives himself as a kind of agèd Don Juan, imagines that he still might fit back into a community where he and his family were always perceived as outsiders. He purchases his old family homestead near the isolated town of Fortaleza through his childhood girlfriend Patrícia, the daughter of the formerly wealthy landowner of the region and the man who is also, somewhat inexplicably, our narrator’s “godfather.” How he might imagine the two could reignite his one-sided childhood passion after all these years of absence is never explained. Even on the airplane on his way back to this world, our “hero” flirts with the passenger seated next to him and religiously takes her number as if she might be an attainable conquest. We realize almost immediately that our narrator has lost all sense of himself in time and space.

In many respects it is appropriate that the narrator is returning home, for, as Almino reveals, the character himself is regressing to the mental capabilities of a child. Although he recalls some incidents in full, most of his narrative is abstractly presented, the story consisting of names and vague events. Moreover, in his fragmented journal entries he often forgets what he has previously written and gives highly contradictory accounts, leaving the reader with a strong sense of skepticism and even distrust. He is the very definition of an unreliable narrator.

As these scattered entries over a brief period build up, the reader begins to perceive truths which the narrator has not yet unraveled, taking even some of the energy away from what would otherwise be a kind of slow detective tale. The narrative, accordingly, is filled with repetitions, gaps of information, clues that are rather obvious to us but seemingly incomprehensible to the narrator, and very little of the rich detail that so enlivened the great South American fictions of the 1960s and ’70s. A typical passage reads like this one from May 22:

Arnaldo lives on a little ranch very close to the one I bought; I can’t remember if I already mentioned this. It’s been years since I last saw him, but now we frequently communicate on WhatsApp. I still think of him as my childhood friend, a better companion than Miguel, Clarice’s brother, because he used to go everywhere with me, and I was always ready to tag along when he did his farm chores or when he went hunting for tiús and preás.

In short, on the surface the narrative actually says little since the narrator cannot make sense of his own experiences; yet given the clues he strews throughout his confused memories, we learn a very great deal. We ourselves are accordingly required to fill in the details with a far richer narrative that the fictional author himself might be able to provide. By the time our not-so-very-bright storyteller finally understands that the past “does not substitute for the present, the inherent difficulties of the unknown or the uncertain promises of the future,” the poor hero has no present and very little future left.

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Rain Taxi Online Edition Winter 2021 | © Rain Taxi, Inc. 2021