Antidotes for an Alibi
Amy King's first full-length collection, Antidotes for an Alibi, insists that we examine the deceptive clarity of our actions and the goals that motivate us. How does one actually get from "A" to "B"-and is there ever really a "B"? What color is the white space between "A" and "B"? Upon closer inspection, surface realities reveal themselves to be porous and fragile, layered with textures and grains that lead the eye on varying pathways. So what are we to do in a world of newspaper narratives that instruct us toward tidy endings, murmuring that such endings are possible and even inevitable?
These poems greet us with leaking giraffes, dogs that lick lye, the Lone Ranger, the inhabitants of Dishwater Island, an unmarried wife and a Sikh cab driver, all acting within a familiar environment of telephone messages, factory work, walks through woods, red robins and hummingbirds, war zones and American histories. Both the characters and their shifting frameworks combine and overlap to point out the strangeness we tend to overlook for clarity's sake. King wants us to reconsider the possibilities of current events, to see that Truth is no longer a series of fixed notations in black and white, but is a shape-shifting, multi-faceted chain of perspectives. Her poetry celebrates the multiplicities that sing within the surface of every object and action; she aims at delectable surges, so that readers may touch and revel in the uncertainties of a complex world in motion.
I admire Amy King's poetry tremendously for the way it manipulates apparently plain language into thoughtful audacities. But her work is never in love with its own spiky cleverness. Quite the opposite: it is marked, even at its most pointed or witty, by an austere refusal to giggle at its own surprises. I first came to understand King's poetry, quite appropriately, by the accident of seeing what the British call "English mosaic" on a lamppost at the northeast corner of Eighth Street and Broadway in Manhattan. "English mosaic" is what happens when someone willfully creative takes pieces of porcelain, china, earthenware - ordinary, rare, or irreplaceable - smashes them (that violence being essential to rebirth) and forces the pretty shards into new relations to one another. That lamppost seems the perfect tangible representation of King's work, which takes up the tactile and moral world we perceive, holds it tenderly for a moment in a cherishing embrace - the better to dash it against a hard surface and rearrange the new fragments in strange, indelible ways. Reading King's poems makes the eyes smart in every sense of the phrase: readers are compelled to see as possible juxtapositions they never would have envisioned on their own. "English mosaic" also describes the cool fun King has with plain nickel words, artfully reshuffled. Hers is not a surrealist's art - she does not embrace chaos - but she does want to make readers feel that the comfortable rug and chairs they sit on have somehow grown ambulatory and are threatening to walk outside into the yard to sniff the air. Nothing is quite safe; nothing remains the same - deliciously so.
-Michael Steinman has written and edited six books, including The Happiness of Getting It Down Right and The Element of Lavishness, which was selected as a NYT Notable Book in 2001.
Amy King grew up in Georgia and now spends much of her time in Brooklyn and Baltimore. She teaches English at Nassau Community College on Long Island, and her first collection, Antidotes for an Alibi, is available through Blazevox [books].
MORE RESOURCES:
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Poetry with a passion Honolulu Advertiser This was the venue for October's First Thursday Slam Poetry event. Over 25 poets read their work. Poems ranged from graphic to heart-wrenching to beat ... |
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Poetry and Popular Culture
Is poetry too complicated for the average reader? Is it too cryptic, scholarly? If you ask a large group of average people what they like or don't like about poetry, you'll get a few different answers, but there is an overwhelmingly common category of responses.One of the main reasons that people say they aren't addicted to contemporary poetry is that they feel it is too cryptic.
Three Poems: Phantom of the Rocks; Lady from Lima & Bell Ringer of de Copan
Phantom of the Rocks[Huancayo, Peru]Night falls deepUpon the traveler!Low, over the AndesBy Huancayo-;They know a legend,Not of this earth,Where evil lurks(Over Palla-Huarcuan!..
Way of Life: Rhymes of the Inca [four poems: see in Spanish and English NOW!]
Way of Life: Rhymes of the IncaPizarro(Spanish conquistador ((1525))The blind follow the blindThe dumb follow the foolBut the cleaver, like 'Pizarro,'(who could not read or write)Followed human-nature?And ruled the Inca world!Thus, Atahualpa was Beheaded out of pride and Indolence-: one might say,And ignorance ruled? .Note: don Francisco Pizarro #689 5/27/05Cepeda the Sly[Lima, Per-l546 AD]Cepeda the Sly-, judge With two sides; one false,One pride-both mixed with lies.
Mechanical Poetry; Part Two
What do you do when you want to write poetry? I hope your answer is "I start writing." Even writing a bad poem is better than waiting for the "right words.
Here And There
My eyes opened. I am still alive;Living on planet earth.
The Poets Corner [Three Poems with a review]
The Poet's Corner[Three poem/ see review of poetry under the poems]The Poets CondorThe condor fly'sAmongst the hillsIn open skiesOf San Jerrnimo,Near Huancayo?Forbidding anyTo near his path-Lest he dareTo risk a attack,Near Huancayo!..
Five Mixed Poems, with Notes [now is Spanish and English]
1.Night in Jamaica [Peruvianism: 1810]It was a rainy night they sayWhen don Simon BolivarSlept in the arms of beautiful-Luisa Crober(of Jamaica); thus anAssassin missed his markWhen he stabbed Major AmestoySleeping in the darkIn Bolivar's hammock!.
Birthday Messages
I WANTED TO SAY IT WITH A BUNCH OF FLOWERS A CARD WOULD HAVE SUFFICED.I WANTED TO SAY IT WITH A PACK OF SWEETS A' HI' WOULD HAVE SUFFICED.
Joined
JOINEDHeart beat of manpounding - yet unheardjoined becomes thebeat of a nation.Words of man written - yetunreadjoinedbecomes a proclamation.
Robert Burns Love Poem: A Red, Red Rose
Robert Burns, a poor man, an educated man, and a ladies' man, is representative of Scotland, much like whisky, haggis, bagpipes, and kilts. He lived a life shortened by rheumatic heart disease, 1759-1796, but his life journey through poverty, informal education, disappointed love, nationalism, and literary and financial success can be identified by all Scots and common men the world over.
San Francisco [Almost a Sonnet]
(The city by the bay of Northern California, near which the Pacific Ocean resides; the year is 1967)Mid October seemed like some spring day,When through the poised waters, dry as lead, The ferry, like vague shadows that stand the dead,Slipped down the curved coast of Frisco bay,Rounded the Golden Gate,-and San Francisco lay,Before me, that gay city, pink and red,Hippies covered Haigh Asbury's homeless head,-My home, to be, I found stirring and grey.The waves busted on the wooden-sides; fishermenNearby with long necks, looked and cast again.
Daybreak at Pikes Creek [a Poem]
Daybreak at Pikes Creek[Summer of 2005]Daybreak by Lake SuperiorRising out of the woods like:A swamp mistI'm waiting for breakfast(at the B&B)I pace the groundsThe scent of green shrubbery:Trees, flora, flowers-rain Intoxicates me-Branches like big brown armsDescend?The embankment, to the rightBlue eyed, like mine-reflect From the creek beneath me(my wife says 'be careful'she went to get the camera)The greens and blues touchMy face and blue jeans-Reflections mirrored like Musical notes of a symphony(I'll see them later in pictures)For now, it's daybreakIn Minnesota.#813 8/26/2005Note: the author, Dennis Siluk, took his wife Rosa [me: on my birthday] to Lake Superior, this summer, and I adored the biggest lake in the world.
Two Poems on the Traditions of Peru [in English and Spanish]
Atahualpa's Game[Peruvian]Sometimes, it's not wiseTo share your wisdom---as did, Atahualpa (The Inca King) in the Game of chess; thereafter,He was condemned to death.6/6/05 #713Note: Atahualpa, was the most famous of the Inca Kings, in the 16th century of Peru, I do relieve, and was held for ransom by the Spaniards.
The Butcher of Lima and Footprints to Mantaro Valley (Two Poems)
Footprints to Mantaro Valley(Peru; in English and Spanish)In what retreat art hid?-Where falling mountains groanIn shadow and amongThe rapids of the Rio?Is not your name Mantaro Valley?Beyond the footprints of the Andes--?I can hear your voice in echoesI can hear thy voice, divinely low.I do but know thy by a glanceAs the clouds above me know? .
Farewell to Lester Graybill
I never met a man, who could shake my hand, and make my heart feel like a hearth afire.I never met a man, who could smile so easy, real honest.
Commuting Hell!
It's dark, it's cold, its' just six thirty,thoughts of sleep still dull my brain,As I huddle down, inside my coat,a commuter clone, just waiting for a train.Insidious rain, just drizzling down,through weak light of creeping dawn,Paper sandwich bags and old coffee cups,blowing past, look so forlorn.
Motiff
Have you ever experienced infatuation with someone you know is not a good match for you? Or how about an interesting relationship that roots itself deep in your memory..
Bleed
now is not the time to openopen that great door againnot the time to be more tolerantnot the time to play to winnow is not the time for justiceevolution mercy choicesnot the time to pet the puppiesyipping with pathetic voicesnow is not the time for kindnessnot the time for compromisenot the time for loving blindnessnot the time to close my eyesnow for one too many peoplenot that i have gained no goodheart has sown but flesh is reapingtears to mind and wasted bloodnow my inner wolf seeks equalsonly those whose chords can howldeadly whether lone or socialdefending young or on the prowltell me not that you would dieupon the spines of my displeasurelive for me and for you will icherish each cell as if a treasureput me not inside a cagebut roam with me through snow and sunbe by my side or breathe my dustfor i shall bleed again for noneNiki LasherArtist, Writer, and Webmatronhttp://www.kthulah.
Four Poems: Grendels Nature...the Racetrack...Counting days...[Now in English and Spanish]
English Version1) Grendel's DivorceYou must know that I do not hateAnd that I hate you,Because everything dead has twoSides;A sound is one arm of the quiet,Ice has its warm half.I hate you in order to start hating youTo begin life againAnd never to stop hating you:That is why I do not hate you yet.
Preserving Dignity
No one should have to beg or crawl before humanity. No one should have to scheme to procure philanthropy.
