Dennis Hinrichsen

[I Thought My Marauding Days Were Over]

“Plummeting sperm counts, shrinking penises: toxic chemicals
threaten humanity”
—Erin Brockovich, The Guardian (March 18, 2021)

Björk sings to keep me awake // to let me know I belong beneath
the lava field the sky is now—so many hot orange zones—I feel I am
besieged by end times // a toxic forever chemical kind of feeling
I have touched so much product since I’ve arisen I must’ve eaten
some harm down to the groin where sperm is dying—
I’ve had that cancer—the chords are cut—still—the reactor burns—I
am sarcophagus // but I don’t worry the half-life because they are better
than plutonium and Jesus—the fluoropolymers—they do not break
down // I ingest by pan (dearest Teflon™) // by clothing and pizza box //
—O dear beautiful lonely alternate selves—O dying human race—
I learned today we are nearly one half Viking so I know we still maraud
interior coasts of the body because we are dressed for it—
the gold there ours (always)—by liver—by blood—by thyroid—
our horned and fearless daring burning away in snowflake Vahallas

[be] [held]

—had my ass pinched in Ybor City once—it was Mardi

Gras—the other one—but still a question lingered—was I body delectable?
a cinematic lie because in the film of this (the poem) it won’t be me wearing

those camo cargo pants—it won’t be my hair—linen shirt rolled sloppily
at the sleeves—but someone taller tanner blonder—modestly

ripped—with perfect teeth
(my life so boring I have to put it in parentheses

to get it right—going out for milk—playing hide-n-seek with the cat
who is dead now these last four years—I don’t even purr anymore

at what I know is not her shadow but an orphan sock—the real motif
indicating deadening time—the Dalí corrosive

body can tell you that—body with its failing gridwork—body just another
burning shell—I can’t stand this anymore—this being alone—

invisible—untouched—so—cut!—next scene…)
camo pants again—

desert sand—I’m in New York City now—on a blocked-off street
as Gay Pride motors by—gym shorts and blasting Harleys—

when one of the Colombian dancers breaks free as if from a flock
of scarlet macaws and runs to where I’m standing—

cinéma vérité this time—
Naked City vibe—I had the ass I had the stance—and touches my arm then puts

his lips—I was beheld—to this pliant cheek

[mosaic] [Self-portrait as Whitman’s 29th Bather] [with Killing Clothes and a Hammer]

sees world—desires world—that’s the substrate vector—why
deny it // beautiful boy bodies—like all things—glistening
with wet // the little streams all over their skin
just as easily the lithe sheer of waists—sledge
and massive arms—our looking too then a hammering //
we environ the anvil—hand and brain wanting it all—
the repartee and titillations—cloud scuff—purr
of river // the secular spiritual foreplay descending—
trembling—being acted upon // this body (debris)
a mosaic (I am dying)—white belly open to unswept floor //
here—the last frenetic eating—at time—and at the edges
of time—the systemic failures—hunger and money // there—
my richness defined by what I so casually (carelessly)
throw toward you—world—the adored—throwing this love away

[called back]

inscription on E.D.’s grave

“Antarctica’s ‘Doomsday Glacier’ Could Meet its Doom
within 3 Years,” by Mindy Weisberger (Space.com)

I’m taking a piss in a·mrst near Dickinson’s grave—maybe Concord—
Thoreau’s—I can’t recall (we put in there once—Ripple and I—we were
canoeing—and irrigated some corn)—and if this is just the brain
in meltdown—another functional nightmare—it’s okay—you have to kill
all the gods to keep on moving—even if it’s just yourself—your super power
metaphysical rage with nowhere to go so it just squats inside the minutes
where dark matter really resides—mad eyes some days—wild hair
calling you forth // —O Barber-gods where are you now to trim and groom me
so I can be pretty again—a magnetic field finally with somewhere to go—
a thing still to be—even if it’s just a river in Massachusetts—that I can
believe in—or a sky with jets still in it—there’s a military base nearby—we’re
walking—Ripple and I—always walking—letting sounds wash over us—winged
knives laser and glide—until one of us has to piss again—sense of what is glacial
in us—our reconnaissance—dear friends—coming your way—letting go

[readymade] [With an iPhone in It and Two
or Three Plums]

lonely I am reading phone—lonely I will be—these nickel reels
that thrill as they unspool—

wishing I was there (I am not)—
wishing I had drink in hand (I do not)—

spooning out an avocado—heating beans—I am preparing
lunch now—last night’s dishes stacked—

ticking like a readymade
so that as I retrieve a fork it is an exercise in terror (domestic)

I set against this other terror—complicity—
shirt Sri Lankan—pants Vietnamese—

the one or two women
from among the millions toiling on my behalf

muttering names under their
breath—harsh

names—mine again—their sweat and tears
falling into the fabrics (I love buying shirts)—

smell of their hands…
I am squeezing a wedge of lime now—grating garlic.

There is a moment I would like
to share—it is a memory—

initially mine—but now surveilled—consumed.
It concerns a friend I love—he is failing—

death is in him like a leaf—or paddle into a river—
one heron angling crosswise.

He saw this once—shallows to deeper shallows—
and was moved by it—

and so I will pause here now (hearing voices) (reliving joy)—
obliterating all my coolness

the piecework bits of my barely manageable brand.

I know—laughable—but I do make choices—possess
consciousness—I get dressed

in the morning—desire touch…

screenshot— I am walking now

with avocado waste to backyard compost—building soil.
I will throw some clippings on it.

I must be godly mixing earth and spirit—
micro arcs in the metaphysical wheel—

the hammering tongues of all the worms (i.e., the truer gods)
just another bag of hammers—blind—

as text is blind—they cannot see through to me—
I am lure—I am rafter and nail—

I POST—husk of light eating light

in digital self-obituary—
body like a shingle pegged to a falling down wall of time—spirit

in the analog flux of it—this stroll to the house—muttering
words at a tree—repeating them later—they have

resonance—they are like plums in the mouth—plums spirit will never share

 

Dennis Hinrichsen’s tenth book of poetry, Flesh-plastique, will appear from Green Linden Press in March 2023. His awards include the Wishing Jewel Prize from Green Linden Press for schema geometrica, as well as the Grid, Michael Waters, Tampa, Field, and Akron Poetry Prizes for earlier collections. He lives in Lansing, Michigan, where he served as the area’s first Poet Laureate.

Editors’ Notes (Posit 32)

 

Welcome to Posit 32! Depth and moral courage inform the formal and substantive genius of the poetry, fiction, painting, sculpture, and collage gathered here. This is art and literature that grapples with the current state of our selves and our world: the countless ways our possibilities for living are impacted by the pandemic and the abuses we wreak upon the planet and each other — while also exploring timeless human preoccupations such as beauty and desire, aging and loss: the “inevitable / And irresistant. Ubiquitous and sacred” (Andrew Levy, “Nicked”). Here is art that “renounces renunciation” (Laura Moriarty, “Which Walks 5”) to demonstrate the “embracing // moveableness in holding on still” (Rahana K. Ismail, “Burn on my Mother’s Forearm”) — shaped with a passion for the stuff of its own making, including “words . . . like plums in the mouth—plums spirit will never share” (Dennis Hinrichsen, “[readymade] [With iPhone in It and Two or Three Plums]”).

With their elaborate agglomerations of shape, color, and texture, Ron Baron’s vases fashion beauty and vitality from sorrow and loss. Assembling remnants of discarded household objects into vessels whose curvaceous contours and expressive handles strongly suggest the human figure, Baron celebrates the resilience of the human spirit. Standing tall and proud with their ‘hands’ on their hips, these figures are survivors, emerging from adversity to confront the future. At once exuberant and touching, these works speak to the potential of damage to generate the forward-looking self. These unities assembled from mementos of individual loss are also testaments to collective perseverance, with special resonance for our atomized isolation in the early days of the pandemic, when the series was conceived.

Michael Brosnan returns to Posit with a suite of elegantly crafted poems confronting the challenge of meaning-making when “[y]ou and I, we are here for a spell. / And we need to speak honestly” – and, to be honest, “our story is in tatters.” As cleverly structured as they are direct and plain-spoken, these poems deftly and probingly enact what they address, applying a disciplined practice of attention to the humble stuff of dailiness, “seeking new possibilities / in a small illusion with unambiguous lines” in order to come to terms with the fact that “we sip from words that sound like glory, / then rest on eternity’s pouty lip.”

C Culbertson’s poems create a magical space where body and intellect, emotion and abstraction commingle and sing. Culbertson’s enigmatic, sonorous formulations are as haunting as they are elusive. This gifted poet’s “thrown fragments, gathering what lush silences” manage to be at once rich and spare in an “attempt at articulating the attempt, not so much in discontinuities but // startling constants, infinite // palpable bitter its indulgent // sighs but still brackish, & / tender / heat.” “Inclined to embrace the sensuous agonies of the world,” Culbertson’s intrepid verses “trace an intensity” whose “reverberations of affect echo” in the heart and mind of the reader.

Elisabeth Adwin Edwards perfectly observes and renders the extraordinary/ordinary moments we all experience, and the questions and realizations they engender. Roaming in CVS for the obligatory 15 minutes after a Covid vaccination, she notes all the reminders of how we are limited by our capitalist consumption and its personal cost: “How many / gradations of gray / eyeliner all // the shades / of a depression,“ as well as the cost for our planet: “You say Someone //could build a raft /from these pallets/ of bottled water // if they drank the bottles first.” Then, in the face of personal loss, the stray bits of knowledge that we come across take on new meaning. We “learn that the tissues of ankles are the softest part of a body. How fragile the seams holding us together, how easily we come apart.” Even when mourning, the body reminds us, or we remind the body, that we still live: “At home I masturbate using those shorn and throbbing fingertips, the ones on my left hand, because coming means I’m alive. I’m doing everything I can to stay in this body.”

Sean Ennis’s almost-hopeful, witty but painful story of a narrator trying to cope with his partner’s mental health and his own insecurities works on several levels. In a conversation ostensibly about movies, “Grace and I talked about the type of story we’d like to see told.” Since “[t]here are, of course, multiple frameworks available to choose from,” the reader is treated to a story about the characters, but also about the act of writing itself. Everything in the marvelously unpredictable movement of this narration is tentative: the flowers that were not planted, the narrator’s struggle to make a living (“I’m becoming more non-profit”), the not-so-good meals he cooks, the “tiptoes on a sticky floor.” Ennis cleverly uses language to both shape the story and to show how language changes us as we think it, as well as how it could change us, if we’d let it: “It was a new day, but fragile!”

In poems that juggle and encompass magical shifts of time and perception, Peter Gurnis weaves the history of a place and time into the here and now, even as his narrator claims to tell time by the living detail: “I pay attention to lilacs, and such-like native fruit. / I pay attention to the birds.” In these poems grounded in a seemingly mundane domestic life, going to the post office, sitting at home, and even a simple walk engender questions of marvelous transformation. “What if you could only think of the name for a river by going on a walk? What if you could only think about a river by falling into sleep?” Gurnis’s narrator becomes absorbed into the language and events of the past, invoking Henry (Thoreau?) and further back, Increase Mather. He recounts memories and dark events: “a handful of feathers coming out of a loving mouth,” a child who “coughed up a handful of soot,” as well as “Invisible Furies” like “the Capitalist . . . or an indefatigable lynx,” but “This is but a speculation.” Yet, what happens in the brain also happens, doesn’t it? “For example, once / I saw a tanager being eaten by a hawk. And in the evening, he nailed /on the wall: / a landscape of greenish yellow, dark blues and black. / While his wife watched from a chair. / And the cat slept.”

Sue Havens’s ceramic sculptures have an almost icon-like presence. These are shapes that stay in the memory, in rich and various patterns and colors reminiscent of beautiful sea creatures like the nudibranch or different species of coral. Finding inspiration in such sources as thrift-store finds, miniature golf architecture, kilim rugs and tree bark, to name a few, Havens creates sculpted and drawn environments that incorporate layering, tactility, and the accidental. Havens is seduced by the world in its myriad forms and textures and her work offers the viewer a kaleidoscopic record of this world, so that, as she says, “content might be remembered, discovered, and felt.”

Dennis Hindrichsen’s pure honesty and explicit eye detail the brutality of loneliness and growing older, as well as our sure knowledge that we are destroying the planet, “besieged by end times // a toxic forever chemical feeling” in which “I am sarcophagus // but I don’t worry the half-life because they are better than plutonium and Jesus—the fluoropolymers—they do not break down // I ingest by pan (dearest Teflon™) // by clothing and pizza box” while exploiting people: “shirt Sri Lankan—pants Vietnamese—//the one or two women/from among the millions toiling on my behalf//muttering names under their/breath—harsh//names—mine again—their sweat and tears/falling into the fabrics (I love buying shirts).” We may say we love the planet, although it doesn’t seem to stop us from our shallow pursuits. Yet these poems also celebrate desire, “the substrate vector—why / deny it,” and the moments when love strips away our façade, as, for instance, for “a friend I love—he is failing— /death is in him like a leaf—or paddle into a river—/one heron angling crosswise. //He saw this once—shallows to deeper shallows— /and was moved by it—//and so I will pause here now (hearing voices) (reliving joy)—/obliterating all my coolness.”

In language heady with compassion and love, Rahana K. Ismail’s lyrical visual images of daily life and the natural world speak to the profound connection of the physical and metaphysical. In “Burns on My Mother’s Forearm,” “[a] moth alights on the clabbered cloudlet skin. / Brown sleep sprawled on wings, an embracing //movableness in holding on still, a cotton-woolled /confession smudging the edges…” And in “Crochet,” a troubled girl is set a frustrating task: “Having the amaranth yarn make the first hole is to open another hole another /hole another hole,” which becomes a moving meditation on loss and the learning of it. “Carrying loss is to open loss like a package: a snarl of yarn or a window you climb over/ when the bars fall away, the room you hear the ill /-oiled swing of a sewing machine, / the foot treadle groaning a rust-ridden elegy. To be unable to search for my sea-glass / quietude in the red-oxide drone.”

Jean Kane’s prose poems consider the limitations and possibilities of autonomy under existential threat. Cryptic and compressed to the point of codification, Kane’s potent, razor-sharp prose is reminiscent of Emily Dickinson’s virtuosic linguistic and conceptual puzzles. Evoking the emotional complexity of a father’s transition to death and a “Skewed History” of abortifacients as instruments of free will, these dense works are bookended by a meditation on the anxious vulnerability of being the “Unmasked” prey of human and virus alike, and a fantasy of what it might mean to “Unclench” and “soothe [the] knots” of the constraints of personal identity itself. Like two sides of the same coin, “Unclench” and “Unmasked Hours” evoke self-exposure’s potential for anxiety or liberation – to suffer “pit panic” or to “float walking under a bank of air,” “open and open without expulsion into the blue over bare trees.”

Francesco Levato’s fascinating combination of glitch technique and erasure strikingly portrays the social isolation of our attempts to cope with Covid and the disruption of the psyche the pandemic has caused. Words selected from pages of Jack London’s novel The Scarlet Plague reiterate our fear of death, while the distorted objects themselves, as well as the fractured movement in the glitching process, symbolize a reality that has undergone a profound change with chilling effects. Levato’s titles, too, lend weight to the seriousness of this societal earthquake and its repercussions. “Barcode, Notepad, Hospital Bracelet” evokes the dangerous and deadly consequences of the pandemic; and the allusion of “In Flag on Pole, Inert” is followed by text that suggests a society unprepared: “the way to kill it / went no / farther. /they /were /unable to move /and / years in discovering how.”

Andrew Levy invites the reader into the process of his brilliant and multiplicious thinking, which ranges (and sometimes rages) from postulating other strange and wonderful modes of being (“Nonhuman / intellectual property? //The other side of an opposable thumb”) to work that sharply makes plain the bitterness and absurdity of our inescapably political existence: “I gave a check for ten million to my friend who has been without any means of existence. // My own spirit observes the indifferent, the debris of a good atrocity.” Like a dark film, devastating and elemental, Levy’s language surprises us into a truth: “Gunmen break open / An alien distance,” as his elegant imagination leads the reader to an altered perspective: “And yet, from his writing desk, / Disenchantment inhabits the subject. Its rigorous /architectural elastic symptom.”

In this selection of poems and related artworks, Laura Moriarty heeds the exhortation of Yoko Ono’s Walk Piece to “look out / as the broken world // breaks again” in order to contemplate the variety of ways in which both world and artist are “drawn to bits.” The active reader has much to unpack in these formidable intellectual and prosodically dazzling excursions, richly conceptual and studded as they are with word play, double entendre, rhyme, and rhythmic riffs. The works of an artist “inwardly // directed to / arrange and play / as we (rapt) / are carried off,” these poems and multimedia creations emerge from a practice of “daily acquisition” not only of “beads… balls . . . brass. . . [and] steel” but of observation, insight, and recollection. Moriarty creates incantatory assemblages capable of managing “what we want: // an engine of past time, / creation, and abstraction // whose apparatus / reflects the precision of // wrapped glass / collapsed threading through / the fastness // of everything as everything / found or findable // resolves into action.” By “resolving the ‘made place” / into the made real day,” Moriarty is committed to bending art to the monumental and necessary task of changing reality itself.

Begun at the outset of the pandemic, the collages in Jill Moser’s Nude Palette reveal both shifts from, and continuities with a body of work dedicated, in her own words, to the “teasing of form and gesture each insisting on the other.” In these collages, initially assembled from fragments of past work in collaboration with poet Anna Maria Hong, Moser’s dense, vividly chromatic biomorphic forms evoke poured and pooling fluids, gels, bubbles, cells, and bodily organs layered over and contained by geometric structures in a saturated matte palette that glows with vitality. Any departures from Moser’s earlier work are in keeping with the circumstances of their conception in the early days of quarantine — from gesture to form; from line to solid; from dynamic to static (or at least contained); from a contemplation of signification (often in a tonal palette) to being (in the vital tones of Spring). But perhaps the seeming shift from gesture to form is better understood as an evolution of focus — since form, as Moser has remarked, is simply gesture suspended. And in fact, many of the ovoid, stacked shapes in these works are familiar from earlier series like Syntax, Topographies, and Naming Game. In some ways, these biomorphic forms appear as isolated and confined within their shelters as we all were during lockdown. But just as collaboration was their origin and animating impulse, these collages enact the collaborative interdependence of form and color – thereby celebrating deeper, if quieter, dimensions of connection. Texturally rich and dense as buds, these lovely works salve the anxiety of trying times by reminding us of the beauteous “thereness” of what is, ripe with the potential of what will be.

Julie Marie Wade’s Jeopardy poems contain multitudes. Playful, sly, carefully constructed verbal puzzles, they are also sophisticated meditations on the academicization of insight (“this phenomenon is college, where the lexicon begins to bloat at prodigious rates”), as well as frank considerations of desire and its elusions. This is the work of a writer who has “been studying Beauty all this time—assaying so as to essay? probing so as to poem?” – where the beauties in question are sexual, intellectual, and linguistic, as this excerpt from an extended abecedarian demonstrates. Noting the “little irony of our language that vexes as it woos” and musing about the nature and intensity of paradigm shifts in which “it’s your old version of reality that’s fading now, losing consciousness,” Wade notes that “sometimes a shift is a harsh slip. Sometimes a dig is a cruel joke. Sometimes what I actually know amounts to a weird log cabin made of used Popsicle sticks…”

Thank you for being here!

With love and gratitude,

Susan Lewis, Carol Ciavonne, and Bernd Sauermann