THE FIRST impression is discouraging. You have to question the relevance of a man whose cover illustration is called (deep breath) The Great Blue Heron And The Great Rainbow Trout Yogi In Phenomenal Space, Mental Space And The Space Of Consciousness.
Sure enough, in Rain On The River (Canongate $124), the American poet Jim Dodge does spasmodically write like a 1960s relic under the influence of the Maharishi and certain non-prescription pharmaceuticals. One abbreviated meditation entitled Life Of The Spirit reads in its entirety: 'A salmon leaps. Transcend what?'
The reader's response may well be, 'so what?' but at least Dodge takes risks, never degenerating into predictability. Indeed, it is hard to guess what he is going to come up with next. One moment he is reworking Greek mythology (Eurydice Ascending); the next he is confronting a shop assistant who wears a look that says 'God, I wish my period would start' (The Cookie Jar); and the next he is watching a bullfrog having sex with a rock (Unnatural Selections).
Dodge's style oscillates intriguingly between luxuriance ('extravagant pleasures lusciously prolonged') and brutal economy ('The hardest work you'll find in this world/Is digging the grave for someone you loved'). Dodge can be deeply serious but overall the atmosphere is exuberant. The selection has the feel of a wild party. Do not miss it.
Make a date too with Marcia Southwick, who invites you to A Saturday Night At The Flying Dog (Oberlin College Press $168). In the title poem, a riot of straight talk and slang, the author recounts how, when out on the town, she is hustled 'big-time' by a hitch-hiker who insists on walking her home. Southwick threatens to kill him then runs like hell, illuminated by the moon, 'purse and skirt flapping/into a wall of spruces'. This terrifying experience reaffirms her love for her partner Murray - a beatific vision in an 'aqua and white-striped bathrobe' whose gold filling shimmers when he smiles. A beautiful poem.
Southwick recalls the former New York State Poet Laureate, Sharon Olds, in terms of structure - her poems are chunks without stanzas - and attack: she goes straight for the jugular. But unlike Olds, Southwick is never earnest.
