Dan Chiasson’s Natural
History proved an interesting read, especially in contrast to the
historically fictional poems of Ellen Voigt’s Kyrie and David Roderick’s Blue
Colonial. It’s almost ironic, then, that the word “history” would be part
of the title of this collection of poems published in 2006. I find that “natural”
definitely captures more of the essence of Chiasson’s poems than “history” does—unless,
of course, we’re simply focusing on the author/speaker’s personal history,
which seems to be the case here. I really liked the way Chiasson so heavily
used imagery, often turning to the inspirational scenes of forests and rivers
to express emotion in his verses, while sharing with us bits and pieces of his
life, often even using his own name in poems such as “To Dan Chiasson
Concerning Fortune,” “To Helena Concerning Dan Chiasson,” and “After Party,” to
name a few.
I felt that “Purple Bush” was remarkably abundant in imagery
and figurative language:
“The whiff of an extinguished candle
will sometimes
cause a miscarriage.
Eels must travel far upstream to where
the river
becomes a ribbon to spawn.
In that shallow water their babies risk
exposure to
the harsh midday sun.” (89)
These first three stanzas of “Purple Bush” work intensely
with pictures from nature to weave a story of the unborn. The words themselves,
whether heard aloud or in one’s mind flow so gently from the page, only
facilitating the creation of this marvelous tapestry. Though he used a rather
overused source of imagery, Chiasson was definitely right to use forests and
rivers and wildlife as he did; without it his poems would have lacked the
earthiness that brings his words to life.
One of Chiasson’s poems that really struck me was “The
Elephant.” Though I don’t fully grasp the meaning of all of his short couplets,
I could definitely relate to Chiasson’s experience of being (somewhat
unfortunately) compared to Wallace Stevens and Randall Jarrell, even though in
his mind he resembled more the great TS Eliot, “a man of Europe, a man of
cultivation” (88). The juxtaposition of self-concept and public image here was
brilliant in my opinion, especially when set in the midst of a metaphor in
which Chiasson likens himself (and perhaps other writers as well) to an
elephant, “an image of humility” later stripped of all pretenses with the
words: “That’s not humility you see on our long final journeys: it’s
procrastination. It hurts my heavy body to lie down” (88). Perhaps I was initially
drawn to this specific poem because, since the cover of Chiasson’s book itself
depicts an elephant, I amateurishly linked the two and gave this poem a special
meaning over the ones surrounding it, but I did the metaphor very meaningful,
and it made me wonder what kind of animals and what other writers I might liken
myself to as a writer, or if I should also feel this strange link to elephants
as my soul in animal form.
I can safely say that I enjoyed Chiasson’s Natural History. Like him, I want to be
able to successfully incorporate imagery in my poem and to find the exact words
to fill the lines so that my words flow as effortlessly and gracefully as
Chiasson’s did.
Works Cited
Chiasson, Dan. Natural
History. Northumberland, England: Bloodaxe Books Ltd, 2006. Print.
"Purple Bush" held a special place for me, also, as far as imagery goes. While I admittedly tend to lean toward nature images, this one was specifically beautiful. The lines you quoted were very interesting to me because we talked last week about how miscarriage can be a sign of stalling societies. These unborn are never un-unborn, to use a double negative. And the things that kill them aren't tangible, physical things, but superstition and the ripple-effect of the sun. No one is to blame for these deaths, but they are to be taken both as a matter of course and as a part of the tragedy that we call life. His use of eels instead of fish was also fascinating to me, because that image of a fish swimming upstream to spawn is so central to my own home. I wonder if he used the eel to mirror the "ribbon" of the water of a stream?
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