beauty is truth but ugliness means well (some personal thoughts about Donald Gardner’s poetry)
Just to get this out of the way: this is not a review of Mr. Gardner’s work in the broader sense. My English simply isn’t good enough to confidently convey what I think about his poetics, and my understanding of his place in the international literary landscape is woefully inadequate to do him, or it, any justice. But I strongly feel I want to do SOMETHING after reading through the volume he sent me after a very friendly back and forth during us (Onno and mine) putting together our very first issue of Double Dutch magazine, and, more specifically, Mr. Gardner’s shared little corner in it. His ‘New and Selected Poems’ struck more than one chord with me, and I really want to tell you which.
Truth be told, though, before we decided on asking our current Dutch national poet laureate Babs Gons for a contribution I didn’t know about Mr. Gardner, or his work, at all? Only that he was the one who had translated her verse into the English language. I guess that’s one of the perks of starting a literary and art magazine, eh? Feeling richer for it already! Even if it did cost me 50 bucks. Making him the only paid contributor to our magazine so far. Money very well spent, mind you, because it warmed me up to him a bit. Fortune favors the bold, no? He asked, and I was willing to. It’s that simple. He further wrote to me how he preferred to change to informal communications between us a.s.a.p., which is highly appreciated, but by searching for more relevant information about him and slowly learning about why he’s become the cultural icon that he is, I found that addressing him in any other but a polite way since then became anything if not harder? Sorry sir! But maybe I am just old fashioned that way. Me, I don’t see anything wrong with being polite. It’s a way to show respect, nothing more. And respect his work, that I have come to do during these last few days. Here’s a first example of why:
Originally published in the volume ‘Peace Feelers’ (1969)
Apart from containing THE most beautiful sentence in all of his ‘New and Selected Poems’ (for a hint see the title of my first ever piece of this kind in English), there is a… vulnerability and confiding honesty on show here that makes the reader feel like a good acquaintance being told about this unfortunate episode the day after. Over a cup of mheh but scorching hot coffee. Out of a not so very clean mug. After reading it I almost felt lacking for not being there to help him get back on his feet and wanting to know how he managed to do so at all. This might not be a unique story telling technique, but it IS done perfectly. The same, seemingly shameless intimacy rings true in this one:
Originally published in the volume ‘The Wolf Inside’ (2014)
Having been published 45 years later than ‘Indirections’, ‘The unwelcome dinner foto’ proves two things (at least to me): not only does Mr. Gardner continue inviting us over, knowing full well that our (the average readers’) loyalty as someone who can be trusted with such one on ones tends to be a fickle one at best, especially when it’s called upon for decades, but also, and maybe even more impressive, that the bond suggested has now grown to a point where he doesn’t feel the need to make a lot of work of hiding the rather obvious reason he decided not to go to this reunion. A reunion he, I think, very much did WANT to go to initially. It’s just… They just HAD to put that part about the deadline and having to pay otherwise in there, didn’t they? Rubbed him the wrong way. Fuckers. And in the end he showed ‘em by not going. Which is regrettable, maybe, in hindsight, and could have been handled more… maturely, yeah…, sure! But fuck THAT, eh? … Friend?
Yes, …, sir, and thank you? Thank you very much for this little masterclass. The next one I want to mention is a poem I intend to include in our issue nr. 1, seeing as it classifies beautifully as a verse that we love to showcase: heart punching and angry, but without… explicit anger as such, if that makes any sense? In this poem my by now imaginary friend of old has gotten older still and is tired. So, so tired. Too tired to raise his voice. I imagine him calling me on the phone, completely spent, talking quietly, just wanting to hear a friendly voice for a bit and telling me:
I want to get on the first plane, since half a continent has come between us over time, bring some of my wife’s special homemade, dark roast, slow filtered, Himalayan brew and… be there for the guy?
It doesn’t matter, not one bit, if these were the actual last words the poet’s mother spoke before she died, if the poet broke a hip or just bruised it, or maybe didn’t take a dive in the shower at all. That discussion is the most boring one in all of poetry. Furthermore, I’m fully aware, believe me, that I’m projecting all kinds of intentions on mr. Gard-, Donald’s verses. It’s obvious I chose a couple that spoke specifically to my taste and preferences when it comes to style and technique. But that’s just it about being able to read such a well put together overview of one’s entire career, isn’t it? I feel allowed to. Encouraged. I feel I’ve earned it. And that’s brilliant. My specific friend from between these two covers might not be perfect, I mean he never asks about ME, ever, can be petty, obsessive, and has a tendency to contemplate himself into some severe depressions if he’s not careful, but at the same time he’s inherently good hearted, and, which is truly the most important and in every day (some claim real) life seems to get increasingly rare these days: I believe. He. Means. Well.
I’d like to end what’s becoming a wholehearted praise of his work with one of… Donald’s uncollected, early poems. I haven’t mentioned him moving to the Netherlands in 1979, and decided not to include poetry that touches on his time in this tiny country of ours, while, believe me, there are a lot of beautiful examples of those to choose from. These, however, are not what define the poet in this case, or his work. For me, that is. What DOES however, and again, highly personal in no small part, is our kinda shared… route, you might say, through Poetry? Be it on levels that couldn’t further apart in international scale and cultural importance, true, thanks a lot, but still! I pretty much started out slamming my poetry, with some Nation wide success (having studied ‘Writing for Performance’ for two years and rightfully getting kicked out of said university way too soon for being stupidly stubborn), before signing my first publishing deal in 2005. Donald too started out speaking his mind on stage, in the 60s that is, and happened to do so with contemporaries the genius likes of which included other Icons like Ginsburg and Gregory Corso. … Helps me relate even more, is all? I can picture us now, Donald, you as loud as the youthful are still very much supposed to get fortunately, up there on stage, in those 60s, roaring fire of the truly righteous in your eyes, getting into that… quintessential beat rhythm and proclaiming your fucking heart out while Allen and I, the guy you met that very night, are standing in a corner, smoking a joint and nodding, ours closed, to every emphasized syllable:
