American Hybrid of Images and Emotions

As soon as I finished climbing the stairs to the second floor of Prairie Lights Monday night of April 27th, I knew that it would be a challenge to find a place to sit. People were trailing back behind the seats, standing in single file lines. I worked my way up front slowly but surely, and I created a seat on the floor in front of the seats. The room was not loud, but there was an excited murmur emitting from the crowd. I saw a small woman dressed all in black embrace a smartly dressed man, and from their body language I could tell they were writers. They shared a glance between them that was knowing; as if because they both had to communicate with words to everyone else, they found ways to go beneath the words with each other. Shortly after this exchange, the woman approached the podium.

The woman, Cole Swensen, was the co-editor of the book American Hybrid which was the subject of the reading. She read a short opening paragraph, which she revealed was something she wished she had put in the book but had thought of it too late, about the experimental nature of poetry. She also introduced the two other speakers for the event; James Galvin and Mark Levine. She said that the unifying theme of the evening was to be the work of writers who were somehow connected with the University of Iowa or Iowa City; either because they taught there, went to school there, had held readings there, or were going to teach there.

James Galvin was next up to the podium. He was a soft-spoken man, and tended to let his statements and jokes sort of trail off for the audience to take or leave. He began his portion of the reading with an explanation of how the rivers in his native state of Wyoming sometimes run underground, then flow back out again. He then led into his first poem by joking, “This doesn’t have anything to do with that; I just wanted you to know.” His poem was indeed about the river, and his low gravelly voice seemed the perfect match for the vivid scenery described in the poem. Galvin then read a piece titled “Nature Averts Her Eyes,” which described an earthquake and several small incidents occurring during the earthquake. One recurring incident was of a woman peeling an orange, which had strong resonance throughout the piece. The speaker described the woman’s fingers as kinds of beauty, and talked about the glowing of the fingertips that touched the orange. Galvin also read pieces from the book by other poets, one of which, Robert Hass, had a poem which stood out. The poem by Hass had the audible effect of a cell phone with poor reception when read aloud, and the repetition of the lines punctuated the effect.

Mark Levine, the third reader, announced to the audience upon arriving at the podium that he would begin with one of his poems, read some work by others, and then end with his poem in order to create his own hybrid; the crowd chuckled appreciatively. He started with his piece “Chimney Song,” which had a lot of simple rhymes, creating a kind of schoolyard song effect. He read several poems by other authors, but the one that most stood out was “Variations on the Dream of the Rude” by Susan Stuart. This poem had repetition of Christian imagery and themes, such as the tree which becomes the cross which is like a man. One particular line, “from the man, a God took form,” stood out in that it reversed the usual beliefs of religious peoples.

At the end of Mark’s reading, Cole took the podium once more, reading the last selected pieces and thanking the owners of Prairie Lights. It seemed that only about ten minutes had gone by since she was last standing there, yet an hour had somehow slipped away. The poetry had a trancelike effect that was only broken when the audience’s applause concluded the event. As I descended the stairs of Prairie Lights and walked out into the night, I felt somewhat bewildered about the state of mind I was left with. It wasn’t so much of an intense intellectual experience, as an enchanting emotional and imaginative experience.

Laura Jackson

Dobby Gibson

At Prairie Lights. It is April First. I am waiting to hear Dobby Gibson read.

Originally, I was planning to write my review on Big Poppa E; however, my cousin called this morning and asked if I was aware Dobby Gibson was in town. He’s an acquaintance of hers, she says, from the year she spent in Minneapolis; she says his poetry is “quietly unbelievable.” I promise I’ll go.

At the bookstore, I am inundated with bearded gentlemen and cardiganed women that I know. I smile and whisper “hello.” I note for not the first time the slightly absurd backdrop in front of which poets perform.—we are in the self-help section, abundant with capital letters and alternate question mark/exclamation point sequences: You Mean I’m NOT Lazy, Stupid or Crazy?! and Don’t Call ME a DRAMA QUEEN!, etc. A woman takes the microphone. She introduces the poet with a quote from the movie The Last Days of Disco: “Tall people tend to have great personalities…” And indeed, Dobby Gibson is tall—his lankiness is the first thing I notice when he strolls to the podium. I’m not great at estimating heights, but I would guess, if forced, that he is at least 6”3. And I’m not great at guessing ages, but I would guess, if forced, that he’s in his late thirties or early forties. He wears hip-ish square black glasses and a starched white shirt; his manner is scholarly and coolly aloof. He speaks for a few moments about his new book, Skirmish.

Gibson opens with a poem entitled “What It Feels Like To Be This Tall.” The piece establishes him right away as an outsider, not only in the poetry field (the poem contains a snide comment about academia) but in and throughout his own life. I am drawn immediately to his poetic voice—plain, simple, very close to everyday ordinary speech. He seems to have been influenced by Frank O’Hara or perhaps William Carlos Williams (and indeed cites O'Hara as a major influence during the brief question-and-answer session at the end. ) His manner of speech, and his word choice in his poems, is soothing and familiar.

He follows this with a series of poems, each simply entitled “Fortune,” inspired by a severely mistranslated manual. The “Fortunes” are short pieces of deft beauty. I notice that the last line of each is something seemingly ordinary that, by virtue of being the last line, becomes extraordinary: “You will get your wish, but / it will arrive too late.” “You wear expensive shoes, / which you sometimes use to kill spiders.”

In the middle of his between-poems chitchat, a mentally challenged women interrupts his banter. She mumbles something indistinguishable and then says, “April Fools!” Gibson seems first surprised, then flatly unamused; he moves quickly to his next piece. I think about this for a second—in his poetry, Gibson seems somehow cool and open-minded; however, in reality, he was pretty clearly flabbergasted by this slight obstacle. In other words, he reacts radically differently than I would expect him to react if I had never seen him, but only read his poetry. This is an unusual benefit of live poetry readings, I think—you can observe the poet in action, and glean new information from his appearance and his behavior, information that you would never have access to otherwise and which can be enlightening when reading or hearing his poems. By watching Dobby Gibson in action, I feel like I have new insight to his character and thus to his poetic voice—an awkwardness, a certain defensiveness. I may be wrong about these qualities, but I feel as though I know the poet and his poems better, simply by seeing him in real life.

Gibson reads some prose poems, and then one last “Fortune”—a breathtaking piece about the sacredness of everyday life. I think about what my cousin said—Gibson is somewhat “quietly unbelievable.” He’s not an ostentatious poet, he doesn’t seem to be competing for attention; rather, he speaks to his audience of mundane wonders, the true wondrousness that can be found beneath the banality of our lives. I’m glad I went.

Madeleine Wurm

The Reviewer Listens to a Poet Contemplate the Third Person

At 6:59 p.m., Prairie Lights is already brimming full with hopeful poetry lovers, sullen required attendees, and everything in between. Why ever they came, they certainly did come on Thursday night to see Jill Bialosky read from her newest collection of poems, Intruder. They sat cross-legged in the aisles and stood at the back, peering over shoulders. Many of them carried notebooks—possibly for personal use, but more likely to record some proof that they attended. Many classes at the university require that students attend poetry readings, and as a result the audience reeked a little of assignment. It is not all the time that an odd crowd takes over the personality of a performer, but I confess I worried a little how Jill Bialosky would handle us.

The answer was gently. She approached us calmly and gave us near constant smiles and eye contact that she maintained for the entire hour. It was a little reminiscent of a nice aunt or family friend. To introduce her work, she softly described her writing process and the way it lead her to dealing with identity: the “I” in poetry, she said, could be the poet or a character, that is, autobiographical or simply universal. To investigate, she found herself with the construction of “a poet” rather than an “I” in her work. In fact, the personal pronoun does not seem to appear in Intruder at all. Instead, Bialosky uses “she” as the poet and the character, with titles like “The Dream Life of the Poet” or “The Poet Contemplates Her Calling.” The concept seemed intriguing and worth exploring, but it read a little like The Poet Trying to Tackle a Theme Halfway. Instead of breaking down voices and exploring the difference between the “I” voice and the character voice, she simply merged them into “the Poet,” a character that is based on the “I.”

The most memorable poem seemed to be “The Poet Discovers the Significance of the Old Manuscripts.” The on-class-assignment students, who up until this point had been scribbling (or at least doodling) in their notebooks, sat up and listened to this one. Here, “the poet” discovers erotic Chinese poetry that she describes as “cruel.” Bialosky read, in her soft-spoken way, about how the “epic masterpiece…wanted to devour its reader with desire…They’d been drinking…days of unwrapping long beautiful robes…cut her with a knife.” A girl in the front row had been lulled to sleep (which I could understand, given Bialosky’s gentle, melodic voice) but her head snapped to attention here. Silence followed this. “Strange poem,” she murmured.

It was odd that she characterized these erotic Chinese poems as featuring “blood and darkness” but still having “gentleness in tone.” This is exactly the way I would characterize Bialosky’s poetry. Despite being “devoured,” drinking, and being “cut…with a knife,” there were also “long beautiful robes” and “epic masterpieces,” not to mention the sweet little voice that read it.


Despite her efforts to interact with her audience with warmth, eye contact, and more introduction than was even necessary, the audience sat in almost audible silence during the question portion of the reading. They either were so in awe that they could think of nothing to say, or they simply felt awkward. Either way, Bialosky quietly wrapped up the reading, notebooks were closed, and the audience went home.

Was she, as Booklist suggested, a creator of “stormy poems of love, disruption and resignation?” Perhaps not. Did I fully understand her takeover of identity as “the poet?” Definitely not. But were the poems aesthetically pretty and gentle enough to be enjoyable? Perhaps so. As a whole, Intruder left me feeling as ambiguous as her third person narration.


Reviewer: Nora Heaton

Surprises in a Burgundy Tassel

Craig Arnold steps from stage left and jumps into the microphone, poetic images issuing from his mouth – no introduction necessary.  He stops and his oratory spell is broken into a full smile.  After iterating his gratitude for being back in Iowa City visiting Prairie Lights on February 27, Arnold jumps right back into his vocal groove reading a selection of poems from his new book Made Flesh. 

 His rhythm varies from staid, tapping his foot for emphasis, to frantic: words quickly falling out of his mouth with gestures punctuating his speech.  Nimble is the word that most comes to mind, while listening to him.  He speaks very quickly during some parts, but his annunciation never suffers, always making the sounds clear and precise.  Without taking into account the wonderful imagery conjured by his voice, listening to Arnold is enjoyable in itself.  The alliteration, assonance, consonance and rhyme make his performance a treat to the ear.  More than once, I found myself a little confused at what was actually happening in the poems, instead lost in the simple pleasure of its sound.  However, there were a few unmistakable images that really stuck with me.

One of my favorites was the scene where a young man tells a friend of his romantic feelings for her, only to be rebuffed with “don’t be silly”.  He sits and focuses only on a burgundy tassel that’s hanging on the table, the image that he will link with this moment forever.  Though part of a longer, more complex narrative, this scene stuck out to me so much because of its meticulous detail.  I was thrust into the intense feeling of the young man who has spilled his heart but is ignored, so he focuses on something outside himself rather than take a closer look at his present emotional turmoil.    

Following the reading, when asked why use poetry as the form to convey what could be prose, Arnold responded that he liked the groove in poetry which can be subtle or blatant.  He likes the rhythm to be irregular enough to surprise and delight, which exactly sums up the experience I had at his reading.    

                                                                                                                                        -  Shannon Green

Guns, Snapshots, and the Cost of Shame

—by Kathryn M. Duffy

Listeners never know quite what to expect from the poetry readings at Prairie Lights bookstore on Dubuque Street in downtown Iowa City, but it’s clear that the poets are there to please. “It’s very moving to be here,” said Robyn Schiff at the reading of her debut work Revolver on November 18. “It’s stirring to call this my home bookstore.” The new director of the University of Iowa Undergraduate Writer’s Program, Schiff packed the house on November 18; Richard Deming and Nancy Kuhl likewise delighted readers on December 8. “I am honored to read where so many great poets have once read,” said Deming, a lecturer at Yale University, before offering selections from his recent book Let’s Not Call it Consequence. Kuhl, a curator of poetry at Yale’s Beinecke Library, seemed equally excited as she smiled at listeners while waiting to read from her new collection, The Wife of the Left Hand.

The poetry in Revolver, well, revolves around Samuel Colt’s trademark gun that had the capacity to shoot continuously without immediate reloading. Appropriately, her fast, repetitious reading mimicked the sounds of the gunshot: “I shall reign. I reign. I reigned.” Audience members nodded, sensing the connection. Schiff also discussed a counter energy in the collection she calls the “knife poems” which include “Multipurpose Steamship Furniture by Taylor and Sons,” “Lustre on the House America has been Waiting For,” and “Silverwear by J.A. Henkins.” Her poems not only comment on the social aspects of American life surrounding war, but they also bring other literary voices such as Annie Oakley and Mrs. Winchester into the conversation. Ultimately, Schiff’s performance relied on the dexterous deliverance of vowel and consonant repetition, and oftentimes listeners were more entranced by the sounds of her poetry than the actual meaning of the words.

Similarly, Kuhl discussed how living with Deming in New England influenced her “house” poems, citing photographs of the places they lived as an inspiration for “Snapshots.” She studied how memory is constructed in accordance with picture: “Like I could know everything this moment had to offer…Finally I might have understood that the room had a trick door and he was a flash of light.” Kuhl maintained a continuous tonality to her voice, and, as with Schiff, her reading style complimented her subject matter. Like the character in her title poem, Kuhl “speaks bluntly, does not embellish, or beautify.”

Deming, whose performance was marked by witty commentary, directed his speaking with the wave of a hand as if he were conducting an orchestra. Reading in a style more similar to Schiff’s, Deming’s delivery is like the short punching vibrato of rap music: “Place your face against cold floor tiles black and white.” He also discussed how his education and mentors affected his writing. Commenting on a particular teacher, Deming received several laughs from the audience when he whispered, “I stole some lines from him—don’t tell.” In reading “What is the Cost of Shame,” Deming surprised attendees with the simple eloquence of his words as he skillfully slowed his tempo while approaching the final lines of the poem: “Because what can come between us is philosophy, unearthing, until the walls revise that insistent elsewhere.”

While these poets differ in their thematic elements and reading styles, they obviously share a common love of reading and performing. Schiff said it best, though, about what it’s like to be on stage performing for an Iowa City audience: “It feels like five minutes could have passed or three hours. I looked at my watch, but I was faking it.” The audience laughed, and with that Schiff earned a new group of following readers.