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| Convalescence At Its Best Internal West by Adam L. Dressler The deserving recipient of the 2000 Paris
Review Prize in Poetry, Priscilla Becker’s “Internal West” is a
stunning study in heartbreak and the struggle to heal. The poems are like
quiet houses, constructed of straightforward language and streamlined
structures, in which a spiritual violence takes root, blooms, and is
examined as one would a cherished pet. The narrator’s relentless,
inwardly probing voice is present throughout, honest and utterly credible,
even in its most leaping assertions. This credibility is established, in
part, through the voice’s seeming inability to contain itself; it is
constantly, helplessly, letting things slip—but on purpose. This central,
seductive paradox is never dull; Becker carries it out with all the colors
of a vivisection.
The book’s first poem, “The Backyard,” is one of many
post-love poems in which the examination of the self and of the past
relationship are virtually indistinguishable. Here is the poem in full:
One day the sky grows up and
stops The diction, with the sole possible exception of “heed” is
down-to-earth, as is the majority of the form, the only exception being the
beautifully indented, gorgeous last line, whose weight and magical import
almost demand the different treatment it has received. The tonal confidence
of the poem’s assertions, i.e., “That is how we know to come inside,”
“I know the shallows of the lake like the rats know it,” “I sit in
water until my body turns / to lamb,” etc., is achieved, in part, by the
powerful line-breaks. They keep the reader surprised, off-balance, in need
of the guidance the poet’s almost visible hand provides. “Trust us or
you might fall,” these line-breaks say.
So when what would otherwise be a jarring turn comes, it does so
quietly, matter-of-factly, and in its attempt to not surprise, to not show
off, attains a level of undeniable truth. For example, “The swamp grass /
waves itself away. I know the shallows / of the lake like the rats know it,
like the weeds. / I may have been cheating on you then.” The first three
lines are so peaceful, so lulling, that the fourth is unobtrusive. This
calming effect is achieved here, as throughout the book, through simple
diction, repetition (“know...know...know”), and delicate rhymes
(“how...know...shallows,” “waves...away...lake...may,”
“weeds...cheating”).
The use of “may,” in the seventh line, is at the heart of Ms.
Becker’s style. This monosyllabic, off-handed nod to indeterminacy
creates a stark distance between the narrator and her actions. This
distancing, from facts and emotional consequences, has a chilling effect
that deepens, ironically, to a point that demands the reader’s sympathy.
For example, “Sometimes I sit in water until my body turns / to lamb,
until I’m certain I have something / to care for. Here, the self is
ultimately reduced, under the pressure of its own gaze, into an
indeterminate object, a “something.” The “you” is also something
other, more referent than person, more apostrophe than addressee. As the
narrator of a later poem of the first section notes, “Please understand
that when I say you / I might mean a number of things.” Thus,
“Backyard” establishes the book’s central theme: the end of a romantic
relationship, and the loss of self it inflicts upon the narrator and her
vision.
This loss takes many forms, and the book’s deceptively simple
structure can be deciphered, to a degree, by looking to the various losses
as categories of suffering, as the common denominators the poems of the
different sections share. The book has three sections: A.(40 pages),
B.(12 pages), and A (12 pages). One might at first surmise
that the sections’ pattern serves as a kind of structural rhyme scheme,
with B. representing a variation and the second A. a return.
But as always with Ms. Becker, it’s not that simple. The structure
represents more of a process, a filtering of the first section through the
second to create the third.
The poems of the first section, although emotionally distanced from
the events of the relationship, are more scattered in their range of
topics—they include childhood and reworked/newly invented fairly
tales—and in their approaches than those of the other two sections. It is
as if, still fresh from the pain of the breakup, the narrator is seeking
various ways to approach it. Often, a hard-as-nails, biting voice surfaces,
such as in the last stanza of “Preparing for Export”:
You see this life is lived At other times, vulnerabilities are readily admitted, such as in
the first lines of “Reformed Cloud Watcher”:
It would probably hurt to tell you
now It’s funny how the same things seen In section B., time has moved on and has become a central motif, as evidenced by titles such as “Much Later and Very Far Away,” “Foreverness,” “Until Such Time As,” “Later Still,” and “Things I have Decided Since.” Gone are the poems that go over a page, gone the few that treat childhood. All of this section's poems, all brief, deal with the self, the “you,” or both, without exception. But while the passage of time may have given the narrator a more concentrated vision, it has brought no cease of suffering. These poems are filled with the heartbreak of ill communication, of the poor substitute language is for the real thing. As she writes in “Until Such Time As,” “And sometimes a face will lose its name / or word replace a figure or feeling.” The failure of language is this section’s sub-theme, and it works to brilliant, if brutal effect: here, writing isn't therapeutic; it’s like picking a scab. And this action is very much like the motion between the section’s poems; whenever there is an ending note of peacefulness or something even approaching healing, it is disrupted by the next poem. For example, “Until Such Time As” continues, and ends, with the lines:
It’s the old contradiction: if she were “over it,” would she still be talking about it so much? As if to remove any doubt, she quickly dispels this “middle feeling” with the direct, depressing opening of the next poem, “Overture To An Hallucination”:
Although section B.’s motifs of time and failed language are carried into the book’s final section, their presence is softened somewhat by the resurfacing of the childhood and fairy-tale motifs of the first. To, or through, these motifs of the other two sections, the third adds, though almost grudgingly, moments of emotional connection between the narrator and her past actions in the relationship. For the first time, she is willing to entertain (if only through the filter of a third-person fairy-tale) some remorse. In “Late Summer Express and Star,” she says:
What an elegant allusion to the reticence and emotional detachment of the first two sections! This thawing, however slight, seems to allow the narrator some small sense of closure and healing. This culminates in the section’s and book’s final poem, “If You Think It Takes Longer,” which seems to address a new, and very present “you,” perhaps a new lover, who represents a definite shift from the phantom that has shadowed her thus far:
This is still a far cry from strolling hand in hand through fields of daisies, or an unbridled declaration of undying love. But a happier or more hopeful poem wouldn’t be desirable, much less credible; it would be a fluke, a cheap Las Vegas mirage in the very real, very stark landscape of the book. The strength of this poem, like all those of “Internal West,” lies in the narrator’s ability to hold herself up to her own relentless gaze. One can only hope that Ms. Becker’s own powerful vision will not be dulled by her well-earned acclaim, and that her other books will hold themselves to the high standard this debut has set.
Adam L. Dressler graduated from Harvard with an A.B. in Classics in 1997. Since then he has ridden the economic wave from dot come to dot gone, and in the fall will be attending the MA program in poetry at Boston University. ____ |