Exploring Literature RJ McCaffery Praising Superheroes and the Social Eye: A review of Two Poems by Shannon Sassi and Susan Berlin Publishing poetry on the web has sparked a number of debates including over the quality of the work and its effect on the public’s perception of poetry in general. Granted, these debates are to be expected as the information revolution unsettles traditional publication venues and teaching establishments. Nonetheless, I am surprised at the venom evidenced several of these debates, either held in web forums or published in essay form. Also in my casual perusal of the web, I seem to most easily find negative commentary, essays which condemn this or that practice, as if by singling out a few "offenders" or condemning some "schools" of poetry, the entire body of poetry might be cleansed. . .why does it seem that no one is thought a fool for condemning out of hand, but praising results in questions of credulity or lack of judgment?  Granted, in our society it’s difficult to praise what we admire, for that requires a certain amount of exposure, both of our aesthetic and ourselves. As I would like unabashedly praise two poems, it could prove useful to briefly touch on why we (or I) read poetry (of all things). We read for many reasons, but a useful umbrella to import for this essay might be the stated mission of the BBC, to Educate, Inform and Entertain. The Education offered by a poem is perhaps the most complex of these three elements: for a poem invites our imagination to participate in the work and thus forges a sense of community (albeit small) from our own sense of the world interacting with the poem’s sense of the world: the classic pattern of observation, contextualization, understanding. The poem is a dialogue or prompt, exposing us to and reminding us of a greater world.  The poem's education can be factual, moral, spiritual, and it's method (varying by reader of course) can either positively affirm or challenge us by its opposition to what we hold true, also the poem can recontextualize what we know, offer us a fresh way of looking at the world. Information is crucial to this process as the poem must answer basic questions (or pose them) to direct its half of the conversation, whatever that might be. A good poem offers us the correct information for the task at hand, it is memorable, illustrative and applicable to life as we know it.  I don't mean to suggest that a certain checklist must be ticked off for every poem in every style, but that the poem must give the reader enough to realize the poem's goals. Lastly, Entertainment, pleasure, or, to use a less academic term, joy is the most elusive and ephemeral of these, but also the most crucial. . .that we be affected by the poem. We should broaden this last category from simple entertainment/joy to the whole complex and subtle range of emotional identification; some poems provoke laughter, some whimsy, some reflection. To this end, I’d like to discuss two of poems which I admire and appreciate, Shannon Sassi’s "The Superhero’s Shrunken Tights" and Susan Berlin’s "If Not October". These two poems are lucid, musical, and evocative, at the same time they’re complex statements about human life, economically crafted.   I think you’ll find that any "difficulty" in these poems is not due to incomprehensible language or allusion to unknown or obscure references but due to life’s ironies and paradoxes which we all encounter. I’ll begin by quoting the poems in their entirety, then discussing each one. I’d encourage readers to read each poem aloud as this allows for the full play of sound to take shape; also, the pacing of the poem, how it unfolds, depends on speech and it's aural/oral qualities, not the eye's scan.   The Superhero's Shrunken Tights Now that he has the day off, there's laundry, and bleach pocks the satin of his only purple cape. No one told him not to mix whites with colors. And now his cotton tights (chosen for comfort), shrunk four sizes too small, just make it past his knees. He struggles to make them fit. Run ruined and torn, his iron thighs and hips naked. If only he hung the tights from the rod above the claw foot tub, instead of the dryer. With one hand, he can stop a train from derailing, lift the twirling tube of a tornado off the ground like an elephant uprooting a tree and wield it like a funnel of cotton candy. Can I really do these things? He thinks, peering through the blinds, from his fortress on the hill. He can't let the public down, but when he turns to the mirror, his chin's seeing double and his hair is all wrong. Sucking in his stomach, his shoulders slump. The flesh jiggles when he moves. He can't imagine a superhero having such doubts, but still he's afraid to leave the house, with his ruined cape and twisted tights. He starts sleeping late, and the world calls with its looming disasters: a school bus dangles from a crumbling bridge, while a bitter scientist fine tunes a sinister robot. And at this moment a giant burning rock hurtles toward the earth, as he huddles beneath his sheets and thinks, who will stop it? Who will? Shannon Sassi The sonic complexity of these lines are belied by their apparent simplicity; a fine web of full and slant rhyme, augmented by assonance, runs through the poem. These sounds contribute to the pleasure of reading the poem; the order suggested by their repetition lends rhetorical weight to the psychological drama of the superhero’s doubts. . .Consider the five dominant runs of complimentary sounds in the first stanza alone- Day cape make naked make Whites tights sizes thighs tights dryer iron Off pocks not cotton rod Comfort shrunk hung tub struggles colors just run above Laundry only chosen told no Narrative, the poem begins clearly; it’s the superhero’s day off. We have little trouble imagining the type of hero- the cotton tights and satin purple cape, the iron thighs are all we need to produce a "Superman" type of hero. Now that he has the day off, there's laundry, and bleach pocks the satin of his only purple cape. No one told him not to mix whites with colors. The idea of a superhero doing laundry is compelling: after all the cartoon battles are fought there is still the domestic day to day work which must be done to sustain us; here the superhero seems isolated and inept. The structure of the first sentence, three clauses, line up the action like an inevitable equation – now that he has the day off, there must be laundry, and therefore, bleach pocks. The laundry mishap can’t be qualified as accidental. The line "No one told him. . ." is floated out like an excuse the superhero offers up. One has to wonder if the superhero has always been alone, if someone had previously done his laundry for him. Certainly this is suggestive of a backplot, but the poem need not dwell on this. The accident is not confined to his cape- And now his cotton tights (chosen for comfort), shrunk four sizes too small, just make it past his knees. The parenthetical is suggestive of a mental reflection- much akin to the "No one told him. . " line. The visual absurdity of the tights, four sizes too small, actually being stepped into by the superhero is a great touch. You can see him- a huge naked man, feet together, half bent over, trying to squeeze into what must look like a child’s pajama bottoms. Of course, because they are part of his costume, his identity as a superhero, he tries them on anyway despite the evidence of his eyes. What’s more, He struggles to make them fit, Again, this seems childishly willful, him tugging the tights up, flexing his feet. But which of us, having shrunk, say, a favorite shirt doesn’t tug it on, hoping it will "stretch", that the damage will somehow be undone? In this way the poem, on the primary narrative level, deals with "reality", the human psychological reality of everyday experience, even though the medium is fantastic. The superhero’s reaction goes further than most, as the tights are so obviously shrunken, but his struggle (and denial of touch, his senses) leads to them being: run ruined and torn, his iron thighs and hips naked. Belatedly, the superhero remembers: If only he hung the tights from the rod above the claw foot tub, instead of the dryer. And this too seems to reinforce his newness to washing, his lack of ordinary skills. The next stanza begins with a sentence asserting the superhero’s power for dealing with flashy disaster: With one hand, he can stop a train from derailing, lift the twirling tube of a tornado off the ground like an elephant uprooting a tree and wield it like a funnel of cotton candy. The section serves to establish his superhero credentials; we are dealing with a Superman-type – imperviousness coupled with immense physical strength. They are offered (recalled to mind by the superhero) as a defense against the washing gone awry.   The lines also, as defense, reflect back onto the earlier washing mishap- the superhero struggling into the tights seems more absurd after the information that he can so casually deal with the terrifying (a train bearing down on him.) Its important to note the suggestive detail of these lines. The isolated elements all have a wholesome Midwestern feel to them: the disasters are runaway trains and tornadoes, while the elephant and cotton candy are suggestive of small town circus or carnival. In the context of an idealized American society, these details have a greater correlation with a "Superman", a more perfect man, rather than a more psychologically contorted urban hero, such as "Batman" or "The Punisher"; while this subtlety is not essential to tracking the major thematic movement of the poem, these word's connotations economically reinforce the poem's themes.  In this sense, here and elsewhere, the poem is actively harnessing all associative elements at its disposal, it becomes as Coleridge said, not simply prose, which is words in their best order, but poetry, the best words (most apt) in their best order.  The Superhero's surge of power, identification, self worth, is immediately underscored by his doubt: Can I really do these things? He thinks, peering through the blinds, from his fortress on the hill. There's an immense change in tone from the epic wielding of a tornado to the prosaic humbleness of "Can I really do these things?".   The "fortress on the hill", common in the parlance of superheroes, now, in the context of this poem, suggests isolation and loneliness as the superhero "peers through the blinds", afraid to be seen. The poem continues the psychological teetering as the superhero recalls duty, but that duty is characterized and defined by failure: He can't let the public down, Even recalling duty, which should be a joy, the superhero is concerned with the failure in that duty, that is, his "letting the public down" becomes more important than the service or the challenge.  This brief buoying (if such) is immediately is undercut by his naked vulnerability. but when he turns to the mirror, his chin's seeing double and his hair is all wrong. Sucking in his stomach, his shoulders slump. The flesh jiggles when he moves. Without the tights, the tapering of herodom, he seems weekend. The poem slows to short sentences, one per line for the final two lines of the stanza, suggestive of the superhero spending a long time in front of the mirror and noticing each fault as a separate progressive thing, rather than a group of flaws. The next stanza completes the downhill slide, He can't imagine a superhero having such doubts, but still he's afraid to leave the house, with his ruined cape and twisted tights. He starts sleeping late, and the world calls with its looming disasters: a school bus dangles from a crumbling bridge, while a bitter scientist fine tunes a sinister robot. And at this moment a giant burning rock hurtles toward the earth, as he huddles beneath his sheets and thinks, who will stop it? Who will? The superhero begins to see himself as an individual, slumped shoulders, jiggling flesh and all, and less like a category "superhero";  it's depressing and pathetically human that this robs him of his unique value.  He begins to doubt himself and starts sleeping late, a classic symptom of depression.  The catalogue of disasters taken straight from cartoons: the dangling school bus, the scientist and his robot, the asteroid, invites reimagining in light of what the poem has done with the superhero himself.  I wonder at the complexity of the children in the bus, the scientist's mania and the natural disaster about to occur.  The cast out quality of the list is another deft touch, suggesting dozens of other disasters, some from the cartoons and comics, some more mundane; and yet the poem ends with the meteor, the heavenly sword of Damocles hanging above us all, as the superhero is reduced to our mortal number, huddling in his bed, waiting for someone to save us.  For me this poem offers a way a reimagining my popular conceptions of Sunday morning heroes. The poem accomplishes this by painting the unusual with a recognizable human element, then faithfully following that out down the road of deterioration.  It functions as parable and cautionary tale, but has the quirkiness and memorability of anecdote.   Lastly, I'd say that it takes some courage for a poet to mobilize serious themes via what's traditionally considered "low-culture" mediums; the danger is that the audience, associating the poem with childish things, does not read into the subtly of the rendering, or the truth it contains.  This poem reminds me of both Aaron Ansett's "Claw" and some of Tim Siebel's cartoon poems.   Susan Berlin’s "If Not October" operates on a different narrative principle: instead of musing the fantastic into the knowable, the poem presents us with a series of persons interacting. If Not October Late August afternoon: a man comes out of a square grey house in a grey suit, as if subtracting some of its gloom. He pauses on the steps to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand, blows his nose into a plaid handkerchief, cuts across the grass and is gone. Three cars are passing by. A widow, nearly invisible at the wheel, notices his stooped stance, his drawn look, and assumes his cat has died. That's how her Harry looked -- couldn't bear to face her -- when he left his favorite hat on the hook and her alone with the lifeless thing for hours. The middle man, in a grey jogging suit, honks when her car stops for no apparent reason; while, in the last car, a girl with bilateral scars on her wrists, considering another attempt, is distracted for a moment by what she sees: some guy sweeping out of that small dead-pan house like her father did, more like a visitor than someone who lives there, all emotion packed in his alligator shoes. He will sleep elsewhere tonight, she's sure: she, too, has dabbed her eyes, blown her nose for effect, so whoever's watching -- an old woman holding back the door, a boy with his chin to the windowsill between two dead asparagus ferns -- may grow to see her in a friendlier light, may even come to speak her name aloud (in a kinder tone) or write it on an envelope by autumn's end. If not October, then November when the wind barges and barrels in and this time may crack the long-ailing elm. Definitely, before year's end and the first serious storm when the lines go down and the brown river swells and a sheet of ice spreads itself, thin, over every roof and walk, freezing each torn leaf in the sacred spot where it fell. Susan Berlin    The poem begins by setting a scene: Late August afternoon: a man comes out of a square grey house in a grey suit, as if subtracting some of its gloom. He pauses on the steps to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand, blows his nose into a plaid handkerchief, cuts across the grass and is gone. The poem begins with season and time: suggestive of clear day, bright light, certainly conditions where things are more clearly seen. The man is not identified beyond the tokens he carries and his actions: his grey suit contrasting with the plaid handkerchief, his glasses, wiping his eyes and blowing his nose.  He exits the scene like an actor leaving the stage. The scene is focused yet not connotatively rich, nothing to suggest that the man is more weeping than suffering from hay fever;  it's similar to some charcoal works by Robert Longo- where one isn't certain (despite their almost photographic quality) if the business suited figures are dancing, falling, flying off a trampoline or falling from a great height. The eye of the poem then spirals outward, noticing: Three cars are passing by. A widow, nearly invisible at the wheel, notices his stooped stance, his drawn look, and assumes his cat has died. That's how her Harry looked -- couldn't bear to face her -- when he left his favorite hat on the hook and her alone with the lifeless thing for hours. The poem offers no description of the widow: no age or other clues to her origin or appearance. This widow has noticed something about the man and projects grief onto him, seeing his stance as stooped, his look drawn.  She supposes (her supposition highlighted by the line break on "assumes") the man is in grief, perhaps because of his dead cat. . .the thought of the cat segues into thoughts of "her Harry". The phrasing of "That’s how her Henry looked", indicates of the widow’s speech patterns and gives us characterizing detail; the transition is smooth, not compromising the objectivity of the voice by it's omniscience. Harry might be the widow's dead husband- evoked by the general thoughts of death (imagined death of the stranger's cat, death of her own cat). The reader can reasonably extrapolate from these details: the possessive "her Harry", Harry's presence in the widow's home (his hat has a regular hook) and his ability to predict the widow's grief at the death of her cat, his uncomfortableness. Regardless of his identity, Harry disserted the widow, uncomfortable with her grief -- in fact, so uncomfortable he leaves "his favorite hat on the hook" in his hurry to leave. In four lines, we're given a remarkable portrait of the widow, her Harry and a new way of viewing the man leaving the grey house. The middle man, in a grey jogging suit, honks when her car stops for no apparent reason; The middle man (somewhat punnish) also in grey, honks at the widow's car;  we receive more information about the widow, that whatever she saw or felt was enough for her to stop her car.  The middle man doesn't appear to notice the man in the grey suit, and thus might be a weak echo of him. . . The eye of the poem then turns to the last car. while, in the last car, a girl with bilateral scars on her wrists, considering another attempt, is distracted for a moment by what she sees: The girl in the last car, again, is deliberately described minimally, at least in the visual sense. We know only that she attempted suicide sometime in the past, and that she's considering it again: like the widow and the honking driver in grey, we're given no other physical detail. some guy sweeping out of that small dead-pan house like her father did, more like a visitor than someone who lives there, all emotion packed in his alligator shoes. He will sleep elsewhere tonight, she's sure: Again, the emotional information about the observers comes to us though their observations: the truth the image of the man leaving the house holds for each of them. They are reflected in how they see. The girl first identifies the stranger with her father- specifically, she sees the strangers action as her fathers, that he sweeps out of the house. Again the theme is of desertion and emotional reservation. Our portrait of the stranger is further broadened by the detail of the alligator shoes. she, too, has dabbed her eyes, blown her nose for effect, so whoever's watching -- an old woman holding back the door, a boy with his chin to the windowsill between two dead asparagus ferns -- may grow to see her in a friendlier light, may even come to speak her name aloud (in a kinder tone) or write it on an envelope by autumn's end. Whereas the male driver fails to see the man, the widow only identifies with the man with "her Harry", the girl continues past her father to self-identify with the man. She sees the man's gesture as theatrical, a social theatre which she too (as an attempted-suicide?) has indulged in "for effect". The goal of the theatre is to generate sympathy, friendship, kindness as evidenced by tone or written word: a get-well, sympathy or holiday card. Again the social eye of the poem is mobilized by intense economy; even the parenthetical qualifier "(in a kinder tone)" suggests that people currently speak about her in an unkind way. . .which provides a suggestion of the social dynamic she lives in, hints at how this could have led to a suicide attempt. Of course, this dynamic hasn't quite changed enough for the girl, as her wishes for kinder talk are deferred: If not October, then November when the wind barges and barrels in and this time may crack the long-ailing elm. Definitely, before year's end and the first serious storm when the lines go down and the brown river swells and a sheet of ice spreads itself, thin, over every roof and walk, freezing each torn leaf in the sacred spot where it fell. The close is elegiac but not morbid, lyric but not obscure. The focus becomes internal and we are presented with images of the natural world: a wind demolishing a sickly tree, knocking down powerlines, the river flooding and freezing the fallen leaves. These images serve to suggest the girl's image of the future, which is both beautiful and destructive, containing elements of death, preservation and theatre. In many ways the close echoes the beginning of the poem: a scene, suggestively symbolic is given to the reader, much as the scene of the man exiting the house was given to the three drivers. The poem parallels Sergi Eisenstein’s famous montage experiments with subjectivity, where the same picture of a man’s expressionless face was played to three different audiences. Following the image of the man’s face, the different audiences were shown an image of a loaf of bread, a coffin and a young girl. Asked how the man felt, the audiences responded "hungry", "sad", or "happy", depending on the image they were shown. Here, we are shown the man, are allowed for form our own impression of the scene, then we are given three other impressions of the scene; the poem ends with another scene, and we, wiser for our contextualiztion of the girls perception of the grey man, can more fully understand the emotional resonance it hold for her. "If Not October" reminds us of complex dance of perception we engage in and how much that perception is tied to our own selves- how truly subjective we are, as the Superhero's self image was unhinged by the loss of his tights and cape. Both this poem and "The Superhero's Shrunken Tights" strike me as lucid poetry by fresh voices; the poems adopt radically different techniques and textures yet they are written with economy and serve, in their own ways, to reintroduce an open reader to the humanistic dilemma of ourselves in the world.