JUSTIFIED SONNETS by JAMES MCLAUGHLIN

JOEL CHACE Reviews

Justified Sonnets by James McLaughlin

(The Knives Forks and Spoons Press, Newton-Le-Willows, United Kingdom, 2013)

Here is “Sonnet Seventeen,” from James McLaughlin’s Justified Sonnets. 

             Sonnet Seventeen

/          when                              the

tower                                         fell

did                                             tiny

petals               turning              from

lemon

to                             blue           begin

to                                                form

\

|                                  in                    |

an                              instant         did

all                                                 look

up                                                 and

gaze                     \                          at

salvation                                            /

                        

This poem is a striking example of McLaughlin’s radical structural methods in this collection. On the literal page, in two dimensions, each of the seventy two poems is 14 lines, precisely the same overall size as its seventy one companions, and perfectly proportioned or balanced  --  justified not only left and right but also top and bottom.  Thus, a set of seventy two identical rectangles.  However, McLaughlin’s most remarkable formal accomplishment  --  thanks to his use of vertical lines and forward and backward slashes (his “punctuation”), as well as spaces, gaps, whitenesses within the text  --  is transforming each two dimensional rectangle into a three dimensional entity, a cabinet of thought and emotion.  Each sonnet expands outward, toward the reader, or  --  perhaps more accurately  --  pulls the reader into its surprising depths.  Especially in the first half of the sequence, this effect is profound, indeed.  And one can find no clearer illustration than “Sonnet Seventeen”:  26 words scattered into the frame; spare and gorgeous, a poem that draws the reader into its bare, ruined, but possibly redemptive landscape.

Yet, among the ruins, where is redemption, consolation, and how to reach them?  For that matter, how to justify the creation of sonnets or any poems?  What good reasons exist for such an endeavor?  In an absolute sense, there are none, especially if a writer’s intent is to convey the rightness, the good sense of the world around us.

                        ...I frame knowledge to

the               point of ignorance \       (Three, 7-8)

                    

                    

   

                                              ...let me

have     little     knowledge     of    this

particular subject      /     let me make

many   basic   errors  in  the  use   of

language       /     goad    this    prose|      (Three, 10-14)

                                ...intellect worms

–  almost           grasps for            life|      (Seven, 13-14)

deliberation                              fails the

ability                        to attain…                  (Ten, 11-12)

                                           ...more than

ever   the  sun   fades  too  fast   on    a

memory              |             from nowhere

comes                      illusion             then

justification            /         wide ranging in

its landscape             |       is it always so

important to be right…                                  (Nineteen, 2-8)

can    we    ever    reshape    design     –

model    pieces    of    air    into    boxes |      (Nineteen, 13-14)

Since these poems so explicitly acknowledge the limits of language, McLaughlin (especially, again, in the collection’s first half) more than earns the right to argue that, in an absolute sense, there is every good reason for launching sincere, courageous poetic explorations out into the mess and glittering swirl of the world.

studious                                 observation

compelled to form                         images

\ and   ideas   in   the   mind                    /

wonderful      things…                                     (Twenty Five, 8-11)

                                                     we try to

grasp           daggers           before    us   |

tiny                               dots of light dart as

images                     forming a circle   |  or

close        in                    |       many things

remain incompletely   /                  present      (Thirty One, 9-14)

|   a          desire          seems          to

hold    the eye    |                    much is

much      /                    of so much    /

extraordinary        |   listen can I         |                (Thirty Three, 11-14)

Given the inevitable inadequacies of any medium, including language, any artist may feel tempted not even to make an attempt, at all.

...resurrected            under leaves and

branches    \    or rejoice       in       this

broken lime           ray and           font  |

luxuriating                   on dust             /

wondering      at      nothing      at      all               (Eleven, 10-14)

                                           corpse like I

slide         into         the         estuary    /

become part of           nothing              |               (Twenty Three, 9-11)

|  to      withdraw                  reason and

make        notice        of        nothing    /

nothing    in     particular     along     the

river  bank    /    nothing   of    note    by

the        forest floor…                                            (Twenty Five, 1-5)

But this poet resists such temptations.  For he understands that artistic failure never results from not solving the world, but that such failure comes from not confronting the mysteries around and within us.

Needless to say, such great mysteries include memory and loss.  In McLaughlin’s sequence, along with the particularities of the surrounding natural world  --  flowers, birds, streams, sky  -- a “lost one,” a particular person, now gone, haunts the speaker.

                                              ...you gave

me      a frigid look…                                            (Four, 5-6)

                            love is such a gambler

|    I   saw   that                 in your eyes   |              (Four, 13-14)

                                                    was I

that      broken      crow      you      took

home               and cried            over  |               (Twenty, 12-14)

                                     perhaps one of

several       actions       or       courses

/                         a toss coin                 |                (Twenty Six, 12-14)

                                             I was       /

we were      -      too irregular,          too

slippery    –    over                used        |                (Thirty, 8-10)

                                             once more

take        my                  arm    and    die                (Thirty Six, 13-14)

Time and its assassins stun us with losses.  And for remedy?  --  time, of course, and ever unreliable memory.

                                                      when

I                                            look    back

there                                  are uncertain

lines                                                                         (Ten, 6-9)

                                                a thought

signifies             memory    again    and

again         |        all seems at variance \

knowledge               ceases               to

understand                                                                (Thirteen, 2-6)

                                        from nowhere

comes                       illusion          then

justification                                                                 (Nineteen, 4-6)

                    

Time, memory, and words can console, but not enough.

*****

Joel Chace has published work in print and electronic magazines such as The Tip of the Knife, Counterexample Poetics, OR, Country Music, Infinity's Kitchen, and Jacket.  Most recent collections include Sharpsburg, from Cy Gist Press, Blake's Tree, from Blue & Yellow Dog Press, Whole Cloth, from Avantacular Press, Red Power, from Quarter After Press, Kansoz, from Knives, Forks, and Spoons Press, and Web Too, from Tonerworks.