I read this book back in August and I have waited several
weeks to review it. That should give you some taste of the problems with this
work, since it would require me to revisit its horrors. Who knew 86 pages could
make one doubt the entire enterprise of verse so mercilessly? I have managed to
resist the philistine machinations of the invisible hand so far but Shaghayegh
Farsijani makes me really doubt the purpose and presentation of poetry in a
world gone prose.
But for your sake, dear readers, I have
finally worked up enough courage and boredom to share a warning about this work
with the rest of the world. But first, I think it is important to summarize all
the things I did instead of writing this review. First, I worked for a company
processing insurance claims on behalf of colleges and universities. Then I
wrote a novel. It’s only 68,000 words long, but that is decent. The Great Gatsby
only clocks in at 48,000 words. After that I got drunk a few times, mailed
biohazardous materials through the mail, read want-ads, chained myself to the
endless ride of the Red Line, got a haircut, clipped my nails, harassed Tea
Party congressmen on Facebook, applied to a job at Simon and Schuster, froze on
top of a pizzeria in Adams Morgan, and looked at paintings with proto-hipstersin them and others ripping off Michelangelo in the National Gallery of Art. All
of these were infinitely better than reading and trying to review Lacking Lips
of Time.
I do not
believe in Cartesian dualism and all subsequent theories of the soul, but if
there is any argument for a mind-body distinction, this book is evidence for
it. Something inside me was crushed while trying to read the lines poetess Shaghayegh
Farsijani assembled. It obviously was not my body which was harmed, since my
skin seems pretty good. Irish Spring fresh and clean and all that. Maybe I incurred
irreparable damage to my liver and brain cells while trying to assimilate these
words. It is entirely possible. In which case I deserve more free drinks from
all poets everywhere. I read this collection while riding the subterranean
rails of DC and after every enjambment, I felt like hurling the thin volume
across the train. Thankfully I had the restraint to keep from injuring poor
taxpaying commuters who would be furloughed soon enough. If the work was any
longer though, I would not have had the temptation at flinging it. The book would
have been too heavy to toss. A real
tome. It would have just been an anchor around my neck and sunk me to the bottom
of the burnt orange carpets of the Great Society-inspired train.
I would advise
the purchase of this novel for educational purposes only, which of course is no
endorsement at all. A person should just read better books and assimilate
lessons about writing that way. But I am trying to be kind here and come up
with some redeemable feature so we can go on with the illusion that all will be
saved in this universe. That Pelagian dream: all will be repackaged and no
feelings will be hurt. So sayeth me. I guess I just feel bad for the trees
involved in making this book. I wonder if any chipmunks or other woodlandcreatures lost their abodes over these poems. Their blood in on Shaghayegh
Farsijani’s hands. I say that in all seriousness because these poems are a
blight that only needs curious hands to open the pages and reproduce.
I should
have realized I was in trouble right from the start. You cannot judge a poetry
book by its cover, but an obscurantist dedication is a warning sign of future
horrors. When the author writes “Dedicated to the natural jewels of love in my
life: H2O and the Emperor, AKA my Mother and Father,” you can be sure you are
dealing with someone who has no regard for the reader, and who thinks their
parents are too dull for simple names. There must be a whole mythology built
out of them, least the poet be seen as dull by extension through some kind of
genetic fallacy. Decent poets do not do this. I should say, confident poets do
not do this. They do not mention their parents at all and if they do, they
state it in direct terms. Mother. Father. Mom. Dad. Perhaps they go into ethnic
territory, Madre. Padre. Valide. But that is it.
I could have
realized I was in trouble when I read the biography on the last page as well. Shaghayegh
Farsijani is a Persian American, which is no trouble in and of itself. But then
the bio states she decided to embark on a journey to “write with a deeper focus.”
Anyone who declares they have to do anything for the sake of focus, especially poetry
writing, only admits they need to focus some more. And what does this poet need
to focus on? It is hard to say, I suppose everything except symbolism. That could
use less focus in this work. There is nothing but symbolism. There are symbols
within symbols and when you open them up to find another meaning or some kind
of reference to the outside world, guess what? There is another symbol sending
you back to your search on wobbling ground.
Poetry
can be divided into the good, the bad, and the ugly. One thing that can be said
in the favor of ugly poetry is its honesty. You look at it on the page and itjust falls apart. It is nasty. It is not composed. It is even beyond simple
defenses like “raw,” “primal,” and “experimental.” Ugly poetry has no
direction, no music, no understanding of how to handle the page. The lines have
just gotten out of bed and beg for forgiveness. But ugly poems rarely band
together and form books. That is another one of their redeemable qualities. An
editor is not lead astray and given the illusion of a possibly decent work.
They see a wreck for what it is right up front. Bad poetry like this Lacking
Lips of Time is different. Bad poetry makes you hope for some pay off at the
end. It leads you to believe some kind of subversion is in store. Irony will
come raining down and the previous problems will be washed away through a
clever twist and radical subversion. In the end though, there is no twist.
There is no salvation. There is no subversion.
Bad poetry
turns you, the experienced reader of poetry, into the average person encountering
modern poetry for the first time. You begin asking yourself all kinds of tenth-grade
falling asleep in the back of English class questions. What is this? A poem?
Why does this stuff not rhyme? What is going on here? Why is this line written that
way? Why is this so strange? What does this mean? Bad poetry’s chief sin is
pretension and the chief sin of pretension is it makes the audience see the
strings holding up the actor pretending to be an angel. Bad contemporary poetry
like Lacking Lips of Time, tries to imitate Rilke and Ginsberg to poor affect.
Everything is murky. The poems make vague comparisons and its images fail to
advance anything. There is no depth and not enough framing before descriptions
get surreal.
Here is
some evidence of the crimes which Shaghayegh Farsijani’s work embiggens:
She
speaks of a “Mango time” which has a “spell” that can be “unlocked.” I am not
sure what this tie might be. Letting my powers of free association roam, I know
that Seinfeld showed us how Mangos can cause erections and that there is a house on a Mango Street. I suppose erections are a kind of spell and that
houses on Mango Street can indeed, be unlocked. Farsijani mentions “The geranium ocean of your
hips,” which I have nothing for. Or “Here your cardamom sonnets have no shouts.”
I have mixed cardamom with tea, which is good. That is all I can grasp here.
Why the sonnets should or should not have shouts because of the cardamom is not
clear. This onslaught of reason continues onward and produces monsters which bring
forth such phrases as “The Bohemian moon passes through your cellar of pregnant
sadness.” WTF was invented for these kinds of turn of phrase, first to express
shock and then to condense it without wasting more time.
At other
moments, the book gives the reader, that is me, lines like “The justice of
pocket love” which has a very different meaning for me than I think she, the author,
intends. In addition there are neologisms which are completely unnecessary. “De-clothes,”
is an instance of this. We already have undress and disrobe, which were probably
radical words when lazy monks churned them out in medieval monasteries. At this
point they suffice without any need for further fruitless experimentation. This
of course, only applies to Farsijani’s work when she is experimenting. When
Farsijani is clear, she is dull. Overall the work is monotone in mood with no
variation in perspective or energy. The line breaks and line breaks show very
little difference. I am willing to entertain the idea this might be the fault
of a printer who has taken liberties to double space everything.
Besides
the images in the poems which are confused and tired like a typical Tea Party
voter, there are actual images in the book to contend with. These just might be
the worst thing about this collection. They come in three colors: black and
white and blurry. They just sit there across from the poorly crafted lines
without adding anything. The poor things. They were born from an earnest pen, and
then copied for the public to see despite being obvious and clichéd. Eyes,
roses, and bottles of wine predominate. Each illustration raises an important
question. Who really needs pictures in a poetry book? These images belong in a high
school art show, especially after a lesson on Magritte.
How the
hell did this get an ISBN?
