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I Heart Your Fate, Wave Books, Anthony McCann

Anthony McCann

New Anothy McCann

Humor in poetry, like a good comic, should come at you from many angles. At a reading, a purposeful pause after an unsettling line should elicit a perplexed guffaw; on the page, a strange but eerily true juxtaposition should startle you from your silent reading with a snort. That Anthony McCann titled his new collection I Heart Your Fate indicates a wry sense of humor from the start;  McCann delivers on this impression, offering observations such as “Can organized body hair still be alive?” and “We’ve all stared, forlorn, at a disemboweled couch.”

But this is not a book of one-liners. A melancholy tone mellows these poems, so for every disemboweled couch (itself sort of melancholy in its hangdog humor) there are moments of canny reflection: “This world: so crowded with me-ghosts of me”; or, stark images with the power to gut (lines from Post Futurism(2)):

the city’s wild, northern rooms

filled with piercing light

like sterilized Containers

of Brooding Arctic Milk.

Good Silver Doves

in whirling squads

plunged into the roar

while out beyond

Dawn’s swayback

hills                        pale windows

paved the void.

McCann is also talented at reclamation. He takes over-poemed words such as ‘moon’ and ‘heart’ and ‘bird,’ bled of their meaning through overuse, and sings them back to the reader through bizarre position and repetition (lines from the title poem series):

The night is air travel – my heart seen from space

Dead car in the snow, stuffed with old brooms

Each now is a dot, a sentence – in place

I stack up my feelings like table-free rags

Tossing chairs from the roof – the snow in my hair

Or asleep in the tree in my little boy suit

Man-sized birds pass over the barn

So I crossed out the moon, the trees and the barn

That last line can be read as self-referential – as if McCann is purposefully moving through a laundry list of words and symbols struck meaningless, only to engulf them in a coating of the absurd. It’s not all absurdity, however. Birds,  which wing through the poems of many poets, make frequent appearances in McCann’s collection as well, and sometimes hit a mark that I cannot describe as anything but beauty (lines from Omoa (Time of the Grackle)):

Any sound

that falls now

from your mouth

becomes land or

food for birds.

This, despite the implication of Grackles as pests: they perch in the Omoa poem like spectres. In the poem Of The Mockingbird, McCann returns to wry observation, using the birds to slide in a dash of commentary:

They uncork their

wingèd heraldry

to pop

across the wires:

the whole regal and bionic

jingle of the world.

The world’s jingle: as if there is one universal commercial that we all populate  with our cacophony. That the sound of this idea would be both regal and bionic feels correct. That it might be played back to us through the mimicry of a mockingbird provides a weird mirror for all of our human pomp and noise.

This is Anthony