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| Death by Repetition Black Series by Adam L. Dressler It really is a shame. Would that her editor
had taken Ms. Sheck aside and
said, “Not every poem can contain the word ‘light.’” In fact, of the
39 poems that comprise Ms. Sheck’s “Black Series,” 30 contain the word, and
many more than one instance. Other popular terms include “wind” (appearing
in 22 poems), “air” (19) and, of course, “dark” (21). What begins as a book
of magnetic poems, in which the soul is pitted against the world of
technology, ends up feeling like a magnetic poetry set.
Before the repetition grows boring, almost self-mocking, there are
worthwhile moments. The book’s opening poem, “The Store Windows Glitter,” showcases Sheck’s talented use of line-breaks and
enjambment:
But the poem also contains weaker moments, of the sort that
ultimately ruin the book. Take, for example, the third stanza:
As if the limited vocabulary of the book were not trying enough,
even the themes repeat. For example, the sixth poem, “The Mannequins,” takes
up the topic of the first poem. In and of itself, this presents little
problem, especially in the context of a series. But the second poem does not
distinguish itself sufficiently from the first. The issue of man vs.
mannequin is still the prevalent theme, although the treatment of the issue
differs slightly between the two. For example, toward the end of the first poem, we find the lines:
The former’s image is one of liberation, the latter's of
containment. Red has been exchanged for white. But more significant
differences are not to be found. Moreover, other references to these same
mannequins pop up throughout the book. The eighth poem, “Bridal Veil,”
includes the line, “Far from the rigidity of mannequins,” while the poem,
“Wall Writing,” includes, “I pass the store windows, mannequins and flashy
glass.” Rather than adding a sense of cohesion or unity to the book, these
repeated references to an unaltered, singularly interpreted object give the
book a disconnected and ultimately dull feeling.
There are several other topics, repeated in various poems,
throughout the book: Medusa, caves, computer screens, and so on. But as in
the case of the mannequins, it is unclear as to why the poems are placed so
sporadically throughout the book. Even if no paring down were possible, why
not simply have the poems serve as various parts of one long poem?
One answer might lie in the overall structure of the book. Perhaps
there is a progression, a clear direction from one theme to another, that
requires the use of repetition and reminder. But unfortunately, no structure
is apparent, let alone one that would justify this placement of identical
topics at various points in the book. I suppose an argument exists for this
kind of randomness; perhaps it is supposed to mirror the sensation of
displacement and directionlessness felt by the human soul in a world overrun
by technology. But even if such an argument were credible, it would only
lend reason to the structure/non-structure of the book, not merit.
Another problem that plagues this book is how it over-extends
itself. For example, in the poem “Driving Home,” we encounter the line,
“Once the night was medicinal. Doctorly, it leaned.” If only the metaphor
had stopped here, had been allowed to resonate, to gain power from its
understated declaration. But the metaphor is carried on in the lines that
follow:
I felt its starched coat against my cheek, its
stethoscope By spelling things out, by calling on the expectable vocabulary of
the medical profession, (“starched coat,” “stethoscope”), these lines dilute
to the point of negation whatever influence the first line may have
otherwise had.
As the book progresses, or, more precisely, as the page numbers
increase, these problems of over-extension, lack of structure, and
repetition combine, and to such a noticeable degree, that one (even a
reviewer) is strongly tempted to simply put the book down. Take, for
example, the following stanza from the poem “Dark Lullaby,” which occurs
about three-quarters of the way through the book:
You may well wonder, as I did, if there is anything to be gained by
reading further. Sadly, the answer is no. No great truth, no moments occur
that are elucidating enough to explain what has come before or why. The
ultimate irony is that the poems of this book, which decry the advancement
of technology and ignorance, resemble the output of a computer whose
vocabulary and sense of purpose verge on nil.
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Reviewer's Bio Note _______________________________________________________________
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