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 03-25-2015
 

Poems - Bio - Essay - Reviews - Interviews - Reading

Joy Katz

Which From That Time Infus'd Sweetness Into My Heart

When the lead crystal hangs dully,
           In the wondering as I write this,
                     During the carboniferous period,
                               Having finished the meze,

After the dog goes back to bed,
           In the continual hum,
                     After we buckle on our parachutes,
                              As ash settled over Brooklyn,

When the Moors ruled in Europe,
           Next summer maybe,
                     After the morning hosts uncross their legs,
                               Every four to six hours,

That becomes a basket tossed weightlessly
           On the day we adopted a boy,
                       When I step off the quickly dropping elevator,
                                After the seclusion of the cellarage,

The night before I left for college,
           During intermission,
                     When someone with a clipboard called our name,
                               At the ideal time,

Pending fire department approval,
           When I turn to the sink for a minute, the light switch,
                     Often, hungry for marvel,
                               After nothing in process can come transforming,

And then, one day,
           What seemed fair in all the world,
                     Before the tap water discolored,
                               During the oiled sound of a dog dream,

In the sun's year on earth,
           Oil, boil, squeak, uplift
                     In the evenings,
                               In the far back of the drawer,

During the cocktail hour,
           Eventually will I
                      After I have come down the hill and up the hill
                                Eventually,

After we have had a few lessons,
           At night my mother,
                     When she first entered the air,
                               In the equal sign of an allowed hour,

When the power went out,
           Every so often,
                      After the woken up and gone returned
                                When I asked her how she saw herself,

After my son has kissed me the more times,
           That becomes a basket tossed weightlessly
                     As the opposition receives non-lethal assistance,
                               In the wondering as I write this,

On a seventy-six-degree day,
           This hour, for example,
                     Now, passing between my shoulderblades,
                               Before the jury deliberates,

After four minutes (at sea level),
           As I grow bigger in the wanting,
                     As I ride around on blue ikat,
                               At the urgent intervention of ground troops,

When my father returns from Africa,
           On the anniversary of
                     When he gets his genius back,
                                After three sets of repetitions,

As you began treading these long thresholds,
           As Ho Chi Minh witnessed our names,
                     After the woken up and gone returned
                               Before the music stops,

When I try remembering her voice,
           In 1978,
                     "What next?" you say,
                                In the middle of a budget battle

That becomes a basket tossed weightlessly
           As a baby is handed through the air to us,
                     In the final seconds of the fourth quarter,
                               Halfway through the preface,

After they set us on fire,
           It was time for a
                     Tomorrow,
                                When the sugar is dissolved,

Before the poet began his third ode,
           Till at last, pop!
                     When I understood there was a chance,
                                -Which intifada was that?

Again.       Again.       Again
           (in the patience of),
                     Before you can say it's cool as measuring salt,
                                Whenever we rushed to the embassy,

When it was noon,
           In the middle of the night,
                     In that hour of my life, to have
                               A moment, so plastic,

As I stood at the foot of her bed,
           A basket tossed weightlessly
                     Long after the data is useful,
                              While thou on press'd flowers dost sleep,

As he meets with the rebel leadership,
           Midway through the onrush,
                     As the lead crystal spins dully,
                               Until she solved the difficulty,

Some thirteen years ago in a gale of wind,
            On a foil packet of shampoo,
                     After a prayer with no words,
                               When a spoon leaves a firm imprint,

During the last known hours,
           As the meltdown hit groundwater,
                    When we signed off on everything,
                              And then, a face: the woundable face of a boy.


Mother’s Love

 

I

Give the child up, says the warm blanket

Give the child up, says death, says
ruination, says torture, give the child up we will care for him
say the men with carapace faces

You can grieve, says the net
you are my favorite, says falling out a window

Grief has rules, says the raven, grief has grades,
sidelines, crowds to cheer you on
say the friendly faces smeared with dung

you can ace it, say the men with beetle-shell faces

II

The baby is tearing up tissues one by
one     each
in pieces with a strengthless
ripping

On my eyelids the fibers linger

Pale filaments of fairy dust, the hairs
of donkey ears
creatures under spells

The fairy makes a sound like cellophane

The baby answers in lighter-clicks
pah of little flame

The baby looks upward into a weather system
it settles round his head, a crown

He makes a sound like eyeliner coming wet and thin onto a brush
He makes a sound that wet and silken     
you are getting very
young     you are getting very
                                                             very


Wake mother wake this is how they take your baby
when you are drowsy with enticement—

III

His voice comes like a veil onto my eyes

Lightly a mother’s bridal veil crumbles

The sweetness has come up to my collarbones
shows yellow under my chin
The mother is marked, tired. Tired and marked.

“Let’s play on the bed”
(Don’t speak, it will pull out the slow drip
anesthetic of his voice)

He pulls a book off the nightstand
I am helpless
We are addicts, an old boyfriend would say
This is not that. But it is
I am helpless

My hair fills with sparks
 
He is eating the rare book
curls the corner back so prettily

So what, say the hairs on my arms
so what, says the water rising in the room
He is melting all the books, tasting them
eating the corners—

In between, that sweet voice of no-words-yet

His sounds turn words to eyelashes, a fine net
a white powder

IV

The baby pulls tissues from the box

Out!   and then
the next
one he pulls

that one     one more
with equal attention to them

all the pleasure is up to my skull
again the feel of my hair, new-cut, on my back
a rabbit asleep there

He pulls      pulls
a white, still rabbit from the box     he would
hold it up till it became vapor

The air gathers in pleats of vapor

I lie back

We are pulled together toward—
Are we are alive on a planet

“My son and me”
(try to speak)

The words heavy as cured meat     can’t push them
outward into the street the sun

The baby holds up an erasure
tears it, tears off a      room

V

floats over the edge of a breath
of a stand of milkweed

His breath exists as sand, slipping over my elbows

Water is pouring over the bed
Where is any fierceness

Traffic holds the house in a five-point harness

click

There is no traffic
no door     just the edge of an infinite pour

not even that

open your eyes

Anne says: “it is like mother’s love”
(heroin)

What is it
I asked her
what does it feel like?

VI

Left alone with the baby is boring

woodfloors knees clockfalls make rounds
of hours

               Then the light, milkily, comes

We are sugared in a medium, he and I
 
He is smiling
Happiness is on me like a scratch in a car door

The floor is dirt and chalk and cool as a henhouse

He has crawled into in the bathroom

                                                      “Can you open the door?”

                                                      “Can you close the door?”


The tub’s cool slope
frames his head with stone

I smell like done bread
Turn over the loaf, tap tap—
hollow sound—door open.      He is smiling
    
A fishing line, clear, thin
draws through my legs then tight across my chest
a line fine as rapidograph
constant, narrow, even, drawn
round my wrists, shoulders, I am bound

back to front, tied up lightly in
 
VII

in what?
The light

is beautiful again.
Outside in the stopped air the animals have stopped.

The baby points at the light.
 “?” he says     
Answers sparkle and turn like coins on a line
Look at this look

how you are a fish-mother, silvery and still
on the pond-bottom
can’t breach the surface where the boy
churns up hard light—

There is a spreading through me like snowmelt

He is in the milky world of the bathroom, the daytime
dry chill, he is suspended in marble

All at once he points at me

Then he is out the door, stepping onto a silver wing

 

How to describe to you this height, this opening?

 

Death Is Something Entirely Else

Department of Trance
Department of Dream of Levitation
Department of White Fathom
Department of Winding
Sometimes my son orders me lie down
I like when he orders me lie down      close your eyes
Department of Paper Laid Gently
Department of Sound of Sheets of Paper
                                                                    he covers me with
then sings
I like best the smallest sounds he makes then
Department of This Won’t Sting
Am I slipping away
Department of Violet Static
as if he were a distant station
Department of Satellite
My child says you sleep
Department of Infinitely Flexible Web
and covers my face with blankness
Department of Tap-Tapping the Vein
Department of Eyelash
I can’t speak
                       or even blink
                                               or the page laid over my face will fall
Department of Clear Tape in Whorls and Double Helixes on the Wall
He says mama don’t look
Department of You Won’t Feel a Thing
I cannot behold
Department of Pinprick
He will not behold
Department of Veils and Chimes
of Lungs Afloat in Ether

I like this best
Department of Spider Vein
when I am most like dead
and being with him then, Department of Notes
Struck from Thin Glasses Successively at Random
I must explain to my child that sleep
                                                              is not the same as dead
Department of Borderlessness
so that he may not be afraid of
Department of Fingertips Lightly on Eyelids
so I can lie and listen
not holding not carrying not working
Department of Becalmed         faint sound of him

I am gone

His song is the door back to the room

I am composed of the notes

                                 -from All You Do Is Percieve

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Poems - Bio - Essay - Reviews - Interviews - Reading

Joy Katz is the author, most recently, of All You Do Is Perceive, a Stalecher Selection at Four Way Books and a National Poetry Series finalist. Her other collections are The Garden Room (Tupelo) and Fabulae (Southern Illinois). Her honors include an NEA fellowship, a Stegner fellowship, and a Pushcart residency at Jentel. She teaches in the graduate writing programs at Carlow University and Chatham University and lives in Pittsburgh with her husband and young son.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Poems - Bio - Essay - Reviews - Interviews - Reading

Left Behind by Joy Katz, first published at Poetry

When my mother died, eight years ago, I stopped reading poetry. A strange thing for a poet to say, but it’s true. In fact, it wouldn’t be overstating it to say that I hated poetry after my mother died.

Poems felt false. I resisted, especially, the kind of piece whose impulse is to resolve. These poems, many of which were sent to me by well-meaning friends, reduced death to a salvo. It was unbearable to be confined to the limits of their “meanings” at a time when the territory of mourning was expanding before me, and it appeared to be infinite.

My discomfort with language spread from poetry to moment-to-moment thinking. People said that I would find a metaphor for where my mother was. I understand this often happens for grieving people. But when my mother died, I grew suspicious of metaphor. Metaphor insisted: your mother might be the sea. I tried to imagine her as the sea. I tried to feel around in my soul for whether my mother could ever become the trees. But I couldn’t. Metaphor said: you are deficient, you have not found a place for her.

I could not imagine what form she might take partly because I had not settled for myself that she had “gone.” Even today, I sometimes hesitate at the verb. Occasionally the people who wanted to comfort me in grief seemed discomforted themselves. Their faces were tense, as if anticipating an unreturnable emotional volley. I tried to find an expression that felt honest and, at the same time, safe to use after a casual “what’s new?” There wasn’t one.

I remember once, when I was 12, trying to reckon with the idea that my mother would one day not be here. I promised myself that when the time came, I would say “dead,” because it was the true word. I understood “passed away” as a pretend phrase adults use when speaking to children and the infirm. Decades later, when I came back to claim the truth, I discovered that “died” is only a syllable from the slipstream, useful for emails to one’s employer, but otherwise featureless as a light switch.

Poetry felt drained of its possibilities by the time I stood graveside. My disorientation with language was complete as my mother’s coffin was being lowered into the ground and the rabbi read out her name: Elaine.

Elaine. Something seemed off to me about this. A mistake. Maybe even a lie. I don’t know why, but I was absolutely certain of one thing: That is not her name anymore. It was as if someone had whispered this message into my ear. It did not have to do with anything poems had said, or anything people were saying after the funeral, as we were spooning egg salad and potato salad into bowls. “Elaine is with Tom now,” someone told me. And “Elaine is in a better place.” Not Elaine, I thought to myself, as if it were an obvious error of fact that any proofreader would catch.

The next week, while going through my mother’s things, I found an old etiquette book. In the chapter on condolence, there was a drawing of a woman’s hands, narrow, graceful, cartoonish 1950s hands, holding a teacup. The grieving person, said the book, will forget to eat, but she may accept a cup of bouillon. Reading that, I felt, truly, like a pale gold light moved over me. I felt the weight I had been carrying ease just a bit. The etiquette book was not elegiac. It did not offer beauty, or a “message.” Its author spoke from a time when people thought about grief and knew what to do when it happened, a time when grief was an ordinary household condition. The grieving person, the etiquette book explained, is ill. The assessment was as flat and serene as a sickroom tray. This language had possibility. The etiquette book offered a calm voice, recognition, an assurance that I wasn’t falling through space.

Several months later, I was sitting in a theater watching Sarah Ruhl’s play Eurydice. After marrying Orpheus, Eurydice dies. In the underworld, there is a chorus of stones that addresses the audience.

Eurydice wants to speak to you.
But she can’t speak your language anymore.
She talks in the language of dead people now.

This was it. Further to the communiqué I had received at my mother’s grave, and to my problem with poetry while mourning.

The play said: elegies are false. They think they can talk to the dead, but dead people speak in the language of the dead, and we can’t.

Eurydice is about the playwright’s own bereavement. After dying and traveling to the underworld, Eurydice sees her father, but she does not recognize him. An ocean of sadness opened up in me as I watched. This play understood what the loss of a person means. I couldn’t speak to my mother not because I didn’t know where she was, and not because I had too little faith or imagination to envision where she was. I couldn’t speak to her because I could not recognize the Her she had become.

For me, the vital part of grieving was not to try to “resolve” or cross this distance. It was the distance. Eurydice led me back to poetry because it is not an elegy. It is about being left behind.

I began to think there could be a poem about death that was as large as this distance. Or that a poem about death might enact a failure of language that seemed to me the truest part of my mother’s absence.  

In the years since, I have found poems into which I can take my remnant grief. It took me a while to sense what kind of writing I could trust with it, because my relationship to poetry was shifting. Owing to my mother’s death, I had become uneasy with closure and impatient with poems that offer epiphanic “truths.” Poems of sorrow, especially, needed to do something else.

The ones that sustain me, I find, have to do with living people, humans who mourn, rather than with the departed. These poems are not “like” grieving—they are not lamentations—but instead open up the isolating process of mourning. They translate sorrow through poetic form rather than confining it to a metaphor. Here are a few of them.

 The narrator of Ai’s “Cuba, 1962” is a plantation hand who discovers his lover dead in the sugar cane. First he cuts off her feet with a machete—“what I take from the earth, I give back.” Then he takes her body to market with the crop.

Whoever tastes my woman in his candy, his cake,
tastes something sweeter than this sugar cane;  
it is grief.
If you eat too much of it, you want more,  
you can never get enough.

I couldn’t have imagined there was anything surprising to say about death. But this poem surprises me by rhyming grief with greed. It shows me a stage of mourning I passed through without realizing: punishing aboundingness. When my mother died, so many people brought cakes to the house, the soft, airy kind that always seem to be frosted a lip-staining blue. I ate and ate. The cakes made me sick, and they never satisfied. The person speaking in “Cuba, 1962” is a laborer, but the labor in the poem is sorrow. Sorrowing is work, and it does not satisfy. At the end of each day I did not know how far I had come or when I would be done. Grief was infinite, and yet no amount was enough.

“Cuba, 1962” feels true to me because the pain in it is not assuaged. The poem is brutal, and it is a love poem. It is almost a reproach of sympathy-verse. So often the “comfort” in grief poems seems like pretense. I feel easy around this poem; paradoxically, the way it forsakes comfort comforts me. It reminds me of the condolence card I got from my mother-in-law: Dear Joy, she wrote, Do you feel like you have a hole in your heart that nothing can fill? Her question held a mirror up to my pain. This twinning of grief was generosity itself, in the form of a question I was not obligated to answer. Do you feel this? Not death feels like _________.

Christina Davis, in her incantatory poem “Furthermore,” focuses on the body after the death of her father. I love the ancient sound of lines such as these:

[…] to have for a body

the going away of the body, to have for eyes
the going away of the eyes. And for hearing,

a silence, where once
were people.

What the poet has left of her father—what she gets to keep—is even less substantial than a memory. Her father has become an abstract process, the-going-away-of. And there is more transformation: the body is also the poet’s body. All she can see with her own eyes is the going away of his.

“Furthermore” is the opposite of poems that make the site of mourning an object, such as an ocean or a tree. In those poems, an image becomes a reliquary, a stand-in for a person who was once able to see it. Images can be objects of faith: a poem can make a tree more real than a real tree (to misquote Marianne Moore). But in this poem, I find the lack of image more faithful to experience.

In a way, “Furthermore” argues against the faith poems place in images. A passage in Psalms, echoing this poem, explains: “Eyes have they, but they see not; they have ears, but they hear not.” In the psalm, the Jews are being instructed to reject idols. Instead of worshiping gold effigies, they are supposed to rely on a God whose presence is abstract. A process. Not wind or vapor, but the fact that wind and vapor are created.

How to turn, in need and sorrow, to a process, where so recently there was a living body? In return for my mother, I had going-awayness and, after a while, having-goneness. Davis’s acceptance of this transformation, in “Furthermore,” strikes me as a strong act of faith.

Mary Szybist’s “On Wanting to Tell [         ] About a Girl Eating Fish Eyes” questions poetry’s faith in metaphor, even as it is full of metaphors. “On Wanting to Tell” is really about a helpless way of seeing that happens in grief. Death creates an intensity of perception that causes objects of the world to change:

You died just hours ago.
Not suddenly, no. You'd been dying so long  
nothing looked like itself: from your window,  
fishermen swirled sequins;  
fishnets entangled the moon.

“You’d been dying so long, nothing looked like itself.” In death’s slow approach, starlight became sequins. This is a romantic metaphor, spun of sweet sorrow. But “On Wanting to Tell” is not the kind of poem that turns starlight into sequins. It is not sweet, either. Death has come finally. Metaphor disappears.

Now the dark rain  
looks like dark rain. Only the wine  
shimmers with candlelight.

In mourning, it would have been a relief to find, even for a minute, that the world was just the world again, and nothing was “like” anything else. An ordinary minute in a universe where my mother wasn’t dead, and the rain was not charged with loss. But this moment, when the rain is simply the rain, is not a resolution. The world of this poem is not normal. We know this because in its first lines, before any mention of death, there is a little girl going around eating eyes.

—how her loose curls float
above each silver fish as she leans in
to pluck its eyes—

Is a girl actually going around the room and pulling eyes out of fish and eating them? Is “eating eyes” a metaphor? It is unclear. All we can tell for sure is that the speaker of the poem is at a dinner party where she turned from an ordinary wine-drinking person into a person-who-is-still-alive. It is a very, very odd moment. She speaks to the dead person, but wishfully, not with any investment in communicating:

If only I could go to you, revive you.
You must be a little alive still.

At the end of the poem, the girl who has been helping herself, apparently from platters of eyes, is asked what they taste like. She responds: “They taste like eyes.” Metaphor declined—no explanation, no truth revealed, no diversion from the weirdness.

Szybist’s voice throughout the poem is pacific, hypnotic. And there is tenderness (awful tenderness) in the description of the girl slipping eyes into her mouth with “soft,” “rosy,” chewed fingers. The creepy girl hovers in the uncomfortable place between metaphor and reality as the poem wonders about the border between still-alive and no-longer-alive.

Ted Berrigan’s poem “People Who Died” does not want to set me up for philosophical understanding. It does not have flashy chops. It moves obviously, deliberately, like someone laying down a weapon in surrender. The poem, as the title announces, is simply a list.

     Pat Dugan……..my grandfather……..throat cancer……..1947.

     Ed Berrigan……..my dad……..heart attack……..1958.

The people who died are Berrigan’s family and friends. The recitation is chronological, so it intermingles the legendary and the obscure:

     Woody Guthrie……dead of Huntington’s Chorea in 1968.

     Neal……Neal Cassady……died of exposure, sleeping all night
                                            in the rain by the RR tracks of Mexico….1969.

     Franny Winston……just a girl….totalled her car on the Detroit-Ann Arbor
                                    Freeway, returning from the dentist….Sept. 1969.

    Jack……Jack Kerouac……died of drink & angry sickness….in 1969.

It’s not that the poem refuses to confront death’s mystery or that the experience of grief is missing from “People Who Died.” Quite the opposite. Grief is in the poem’s form. It is in how Berrigan trips up, interrupting his list, pausing and then continuing, as though snapping out of a reverie. “Jack……Jack Kerouac.” In the hesitation, I feel a tension. The poem doesn’t tell me how to interpret this pang—I am free to take it as sadness, or as an emotional double-take. The ellipsis could be a crack, just a flash of the infinite territory of sorrow. The details of their relationship aren’t important. The epic of Kerouac’s life could have crushed this poem. “Drink & angry sickness” compresses a life into a teaspoon of radioactive material. It satisfies the part of me that wanted adults to tell it straight.

The poem closes: My friends whose deaths have slowed my heart stay with me now. The pitch of the last line is not so different from the rest of the poem. It is a gesture of acceptance, not a reach for the lyrical sublime. It is a low-key observation.

Whose deaths have slowed my heart describes the cadence of this poem, calm as a resting heartbeat, or a train on a long nighttime stretch. My friends stay with me now limits the poem to saying something about Berrigan. “People Who Died” makes no pronouncement about my relationship with my own people who died. But because the poem is so modest, I feel invited into its ongoingness, the train that carries all the dead and the living.

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Poems - Bio - Essay - Reviews - Interviews - Reading

A Review of Joy Katz's All You Do Is Perceive by Kay Cosgrove, first published at CutBank 

 

Some thirteen years ago in a gale of wind,

            On a foil packet of shampoo,

                        After a prayer with no words,

                                      When a spoon leaves a firm imprint,

During the last known hours,

            As the meltdown hit groundwater,

                        When we signed off on everything,

                                     And then, a face: the woundable face of a boy.

(“Which From That Time Iffus’d Sweetness Into My Heart”)

So concludes the first poem in Joy Katz’s latest collection, All You Do Is Perceive. This first poem, set off from the rest of the book, reads as an invocation to the muse, who, in this case, happens to be the adopted son of the speaker. Written as one long, breathless sentence, “Which From That Time Infus’d Sweetness Into My Heart” establishes the arc of the book as akin to “a basket tossed weightlessly” (line 13). The poems float from page to page, linked by their shared perception of the world through the eyes of a speaker, who, in turn, sees like a child again. One can feel the joy bursting forth from the pages of this collection, and as readers, we get to share in it through the language of the poems, like children in awe.

Take, for example, the poem “[Noon, F Train].” In it, Katz creates a simple, beautiful portrait of a daily life. Nothing much happens in the poem: there is a woman, arguably the speaker, and she rides the F train home, reading a book. Written in a block of prose, “[Noon, F Train]” unfolds like a movie clip before the reader’s eyes, as if we are there with her on the train. Though the echo of Eliot (“there is time enough…”) might be a bit heavy-handed as an allusion, this repeated phrase evokes a mood that allows the reader to see this ordinary scene through new eyes, to “pass up into the world and leave nothing behind…” (“[Noon, F Train]”).

Much of the book reflects on being a woman in the world, specifically, a woman in relation to a man and/or a child. The speaker both identifies with and makes a distinction between herself and the other ‘characters’ in the collection, the man and the child, who are perhaps representative of the family unit. There is the relationship to a beloved: “his song is the door back to the room/I am composed of the notes” (“Death Is Something Entirely Else”), the relationship to the son: “we are sugared in a medium, he and I/He is smiling/Happiness is on me like a scratch in a car door” (“Mother’s Love”), and the relationship to both of them: “how she must hold to everyone and swim them to the same shore” (“He Laughs Too Hard About The Wine”). In each poem, the speaker, at times in a playful tone and at times rather gravely, highlights these relationships in order to underscore her femininity – the defining difference between both the beloved and the son. This accounts for a different perception of the world, as in the poem “The Lettuce Bag” (“If labias were in/season, their tender interiors, their roundness, would be touched by/the grocer’s mist”), or the fourth stanza of “The Imagination, Drunk With Prohibitions”:

Womanhood is more embarrassing than manhood.

If the woman is old, breakfast is hopeless.

If breakfast is brioche, it becomes less frightening.

Insouciant is more French than nuance,

disappointment more French than matinee,

London more suave than Paris.

(“The Imagination, Drunk With Prohibitions”)

There is even something childlike in the more serious meditations on womanhood and motherhood, something that insists on finding delight in the most unlikely places. Katz establishes this child-like wonder largely through her playful use of anaphora and repeated images. Katz succeeds in using the phrase “Department of” twenty-one times in “Death Is Something Entirely Else”, and in “Mother’s Love,” she similarly repeats the opening few words again and again so that the poem begins to sound like a song. Less original, but just as striking, is the ending of “Just A Second Ago”, which relies on anaphora to establish an eerie tone of possibility: “just a second ago/while you were crossing the street/while you were finishing your lunch/while you were handing me your terrible secret—“ (lines 25-28). Finally, there is the sky, the air, the natural world we inhabit, and the language we use to understand nature, as in the poem “We Are Walking Into The Sunset”:

Look, the sky has become stained glass made of meat!

You keep talking, as if in utter faith that life will go on forever.

Yet that in itself is lovely. Keep talking. What is more of a pleasure to

See, a moon as big as a bison head or the face of a friend, talking?

(“We Are Walking Into the Sunset”)

Another level of perception present in the collection is the perception of the world through the eyes of a writer, specifically, a woman writer. Again and again, Katz acknowledges that she is at work in All You Do Is Perceive, that she has “a few minutes left to write” (“The Composer”), that “mornings [she] wrote and workmen/raised up their nets” (“All You Do Is Perceive”). The speaker seems to be trying to reconcile the world with her place in it, a task that might be impossible through poetry:

I get a great, blank feeling, driving. I am a girl, driving.

Poems aren’t labor, progress, robber barons—not poems. Four men sit

in recliners on a grand side lot. Lush weeds, what grows without regard.

Girls’ names no one thinks to pick: Lorraine. Here is the street where

I lived. Where I can be—nothing. Four p.m., light rain, no one asks

what I am writing. A room livingly painted sends its notion into me.

(“To A Small Postindustrial City”)

All You Do Is Perceive explores a way of being in the world that relies on consciousness alone, on paying attention to even the most mundane aspects of life, such as carting the empties to the dump (“Big Baby”) or admitting that being “alone with the baby is boring” (“Mother’s Love”).  In this collection, there is joy even in sorrow, and Katz teaches her readers to notice, to be alert, “to prefer autumn’s bigger name, fall, and/its battering change” (“Big Baby”). All of the poems, as with all of the aspects of life, accumulate one on top of another. Some are happy, some less so, but, through the eyes of a new baby, a son, they can be beautiful, like a basket as it comes crashing back down to earth:

That becomes a basket tossed weightlessly,

As a baby is handed through the air to us,

In the final seconds of the fourth quarter,

Halfway through the preface,

 

After they set us on fire…

(“Which From That Time Infus’d Sweetness Into My Heart”)

 

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Click here to read a review of All You Do Is Perceive at Pank

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Poems - Bio - Essay - Reviews - Interviews - Reading

An Interview with Joy Kats by Elizabeth Hoover, first published at Post No Ills

ELIZABETH HOOVER: Four Way Books recently published your third book, All You Do Is Perceive. How did that book lead into your current poems about race?

JOY KATZ: My book wonders about perception. We are most alive when we are perceived—even, misperceived. Misperception is a form of love in these poems, except one: “A Lynched Man Came with the Mail onto My Desk.”

This poem is about an image from Without Sanctuary, an exhibit of lynching photographs. I don’t know why I wanted to write about it. Writing the poem, I hit a limit of perception. I wrote about the photo’s visual composition; I’m good at that. But it feels awful in this case. When I look at the photo just as a human, I feel pain. But what is my pain exactly?

In his essay on Without Sanctuary, critic Hilton Als says that writing about those pictures forces him into a “niggerish point of view.” As a black man, he feels constantly watched, “niggerized.” For my part, I can’t not look at the lynched man from a white perspective. Am I “niggerizing” him? No matter how much empathy I try to summon, through all of my ways of seeing—artistic, intuitive, human—there are limits to perception. Why should my gaze confer dignity? Maybe I am merely gaping at a “blockbuster disaster movie,” as Als refers to the collective effect of the pictures. “All you do is perceive” becomes a problem. That problem was the door to this new work.

HOOVER: In your poems, the speaker encounters resistance when she brings up race. You write, “People go quiet who know about it/ when you try to ask about this white.” Why do you think whiteness is a taboo subject?

KATZ: It’s only taboo for white people. Kids of color are raised talking about race. I was raised to pretend it doesn’t exist. If you’re a person of color, race affects your life every day, from the minute you’re born. If you’re a white person, it’s easy to not think about because our race doesn’t limit you in stark, everyday ways.

I am always aware of my inexperience navigating race in everyday conversations. (Elizabeth, you are white, and you’re interviewing me about being white. Shut up!) I know someone reading this must be rolling her eyes. The poet Reginald Dwayne Betts has said: “Don’t write about being white.”

I didn’t want to send my son to a school with all white kids and I live in a segregated city. Trying to figure that out, I thought about race ten times an hour. When I brought up the subject with people of color, the conversation felt natural. When I broached the topic with white people, they would get a look on their face like I was standing there with my blouse unbuttoned down to my waist.

HOOVER: Why did it become so important for you to write about race?

KATZ: I don’t want to raise my son as a symbolic white. I have seen how that hurts kids of color with white parents. Writing is how I am thinking through this, how I’m trying to change my life.

I use the phrase “This White” in the poems to mean the white I was raised in. I need to know how it happened, because I cannot raise my kid inside it. I need now to be a different kind of white. I don’t want to write poems that gaze at an Other with wonder or narrate white guilt. I feel freest in my poetry to interrogate, skewer, love, and fray “this white.” Wildness can come into poems about “this white.” I can’t make whiteness go away, but I can find out how it came to envelop my life, and try to fray it. Maybe I can poke a hole in it big enough to fit myself through and stand on the other side. It is hard to perceive something that has been invisible to me for so long.

HOOVER: In terms of white poets writing about race, Tony Hoagland springs to mind. Do you look to his work at all?

KATZ: I perceive Hoagland recording the whiteness of generations, and implicating himself, without falling into the guilt trap. His poems are full of white-maleness and are cognizant of that. His poems are not timid. Hoagland’s frankness and boldness are models for me. And his Americanness.

Hoagland said that his controversial poem “The Change” may be for white people. Taken out of context, the idea is troubling. I don’t want to write poems for “whites only,” and I don’t believe that’s what Hoagland was doing. But—could it be useful if one of my poems made clear it was talking about, or to, a white person? It’s a risk, because intentionally white spaces are so awful. Klan rallies, skinhead blogs. But I recently drafted a “Poem for White People.” The decision lifted a burden off the poem. I could record a tension I felt in talking specifically to a white person. It’s a poem anyone can read, but if you’re a person of color reading it, it’s clear you are looking on as an observer at a certain conflict. It lets both of us off the hook—me and a reader—so I can concentrate on the language of the poem and not be inhibited about its content.

Writing to a white person, explicitly, is a strategy I’m experimenting with. In my poems, I try to find ways to record white anxiety and self-consciousness. A fundamental meaning of the poem comes from the title, “Poem for White People.” The poem functions in part because of where you stand in relation to it. I needed to make that clear. A poem can orient itself toward white people the way a side of a mountain is oriented toward a town. I think that’s Hoagland’s approach (in his poems on race, I mean). My “Poem for White People” operates more in the spirit of Frank O’Hara’s “personism.”

HOOVER: Do you look to any other white poets writing about race?

KATZ: There aren’t too many white poets working in this area. Todd Fredson is writing about his experiences in Ivory Coast during the buildup to civil war. Tess Tayor writes about the history of slavery in her family. Martha Collins also investigates race through her family. Personal history is one way in, for white poets. Jenny Browne uses her white privilege (legibly) to make observations about race. The poems are funny, meditative, intelligent. I love Ailish Hopper’s lyric poems that inhabit racial consciousness. CD Wright’s One Big Self is a huge influence. The introduction sets Wright up in relation to the situation: visiting maximum-security prisons in the South. A white professor among mostly black incarcerated people. Imagine all the ways that writing could have failed. The book turns on its introduction, which is gorgeous and moving. Wright pledges “to be wakeful.”

I am excited by the irreverence in work by contemporary playwrights of color. I love Qui Nguyen’s The Inexplicable Redemption of Agent G, Young Jean Lee’s Songs of the Dragons Flying to Heaven, David Henry Hwang’s Yellow Face. All, hilarious, disturbing, smart. These plays say the worst things; they don’t tread carefully. I have to be careful talking about race, but self-censorship is problematic. I don’t want to shrink from what poet Khadijah Queen calls “the profane frequency.” I don’t want to make tentative poems (except to make tentativeness the subject of a poem). Ideally, anyone can say anything, but how?

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Click here to read an interview with Joy Katz at The Paris Review

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Poems - Bio - Essay - Reviews - Interviews - Reading


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