II

In a lesson on trying to make the abstract more concrete,
one of my students, a Guyanese boy, late teens,

shares a draft in which he’s counting
the breaths of his sleeping girlfriend.

He’s met her father, shook his hand –
weeks later, the girl explains

that her Akan blood arrows back up to royalty,
that the boy is the son of a slave,

that there is no future for them, only a past.
I understand that the counting makes it easier,

lends a sense of a narrative, a march into the future
of something as simple as breath, in the face of something

so large it blots whatever light he’d been drawn by,
but it’s not working, and as much as I try,

I can’t suggest anything to make the poem any easier,
until he offers a resolution: a memory

of sitting on the sea wall in Georgetown, facing the Atlantic,
following the darts of sunlight riding the backs of waves,

wondering where each began, how each follows
the heels of another as they furl

towards wall or shore, how he can only understand
as much of it as his eye can drink in,

how the rest, for him, is a mystery.

*******************************

Critique

The second part of Magnitude is a continuation of a lesson on trying to make the abstract more concrete. The poet scales the theme of conflict and persecution from a global level to the viewpoint of an individual; one of my students, a Guyanese boy. Rather than looking at a grand concept, he uses a very real scenario, something as simple as breath, in the face of something/so large to
continue the search for clarification. Once again, numbers are
important, but this time they are scaled down to match the experience
of the individual, with lots of references to singular objects, people
and ideas; a resolution, a memory, in the face of something, his eye.

The main focus is a student who shares a draft in which he’s counting/the breaths of his sleeping girlfriend. The poet reveals that there is no future for them, only a past due to the fact that the boy is the son of a slave and the girl’s Akan blood arrows back up to royalty. Although they have been close and He’s met her father, shook his hand, it takes only weeks later for the relationship to collapse because of a past beyond their reach. The boy is late teens,
and the gap in age between him, his girlfriend, the tutor and their
ancestors, further highlights the continued struggle of generation and
it very real existence in modern day.

The addition of specifics such as Akan blood, a Guyanese boy, and Georgetown, facing the Atlantic position the characters and the concept initially highlighted in Part I now becomes clear; the divide that still separates African and Caribbean cultures. The
poet and student are closely linked through both their experiences and
struggles to make sense of the world. The poet acknowledges I understand that the counting makes it easier, and empathises when it’s not working. Part I had attempted to resolve the problem, something it could not achieve. The poet admits I can’t suggest anything to make the poem any easier as we witness their collective struggle to make sense of the situation.

In a hopeful climax, it is the student who eventually offers a resolution: a memory/of sitting on the sea wall in Georgetown, facing the Atlantic,/following the darts of sunlight riding the backs of waves. The fact that the student can still see the darts of sunlight and draw upon the backs of history and his own past experiences to understand the present lends a sense of a narrative, a march into the future. Although the boy can only understand/as much of it as his eye can drink in and the rest, for him, is a mystery he has by default helped the poet to come to his own real, fleshy equation ( Part I). The poet can
take comfort in the fact that future generations understand the
continued struggle and are looking to dissolve the problem of ethnic
divide.

As stated in the first part
of the review; the point of the poem Magnitude is the sum of its parts.
The two sections look at the same theme from opposing perspectives and
situations to try and address a difficult subject which mimics the very
crux of ethnic division. The first part opens up the size of the
problem and the second part tunnels it back into a single experience.
Through the interaction of two individuals a form of resolution is
found which ends the poem on a lingering sense of hope.

*****************************

*Magnitude by Jacob Sam-La Rose was commissioned by the Arts Council England. Reproduced with kind permission from Samenua Sesher, Arts Council England.

I
There are a million grains in a 20 kilogram sack of rice.
Give or take. It’s a hard enough number to imagine,

the kind that slips through the mind’s fingers, like digging
your hands in that same sack, trying to feel

for individuals; the kind of counting that surpasses
fingers, bigger than the mind’s computational eye,

like the full, unending girth of sky, like death,
the kind of threshold you concede

and take for granted. Imagine the sum
in eleven of those sacks, and I’m trying to find a way

to make that number real, like how many pots and how long
it might take to cook that much rice, and still retain the detail

of each swollen grain; a real, fleshy equation that might capture
the percentage of wastage, the amount that would fall

and be forgotten even while trying to keep count,
the appetite that might be necessary to take it all in.

*****************************

Critique

The title is integral to the poem from the outset; There are a million grains in a 20 kilogram sack of rice. The immeasurable size of the conflict the reader is about to be immersed in is conveyed within this single statement. It creates urgency and propels the reader to continue. The reference to a staple food source immediately suggests the issue is going to be on a global scale; it is evident that the poem is going to have a lot to say.

The opening statement is followed by a second, more colloquial Give or take. Its abruptness creates tension, and the conversational tone invites the reader into the poet’s internal dialogue. It also undermines the initial statement, which introduces a sense of uncertainty. This is quickly enhanced as the reader engages in the poet’s attempt to visualise the hard enough number to imagine.

The reader and poet are inextricably entwined; digging/your hands in that same sack. They journey together to try and find a way to make that number real; a number which is bigger then an unending girth of sky, so gargantuan that it is bigger than the mind’s computational eye. The word computational jolts the reader, enhancing the struggle to compute the information required; emphasising the poem is about more than just facts and figures.

Human feeling and emotion are required to conceptualise the million grains of rice yet still retain the detail of each swollen grain. The reader quickly realises they are trying to feel/ for individuals rather than envision a single grand figure which is all encompassing. The reader tries to Imagine the sum and come to a real, fleshy equation, and so escape from the kind of threshold you concede / and take for granted. The point of the poem is the sum of its parts.

The themes of persecution (the amount that would fall) and genocide (the percentage of wastage) reveal themselves like the full, unending girth of sky, like death. Intermittently used figures (million grains, 20 kilogram sack of rice, eleven of those sacks) which reduce as the poem moves forward mark the inability to comprehend. Could these facts punctuate the incomprehensible, and make the cruelty of the world less real? The reader is constantly challenged by questions (like how many pots and how long/it might take to cook that much rice) and forced to remain involved.

The relationship between the poet and his heritage, history and present day, and every individual’s responsibility to mankind are in full view. The use of couplets creates an atmospheric closeness which links the reader to life’s realities, forcing them to acknowledge facts; the kind that slips through. As the poem is drawing to a close, the lines lengthen and the pace quickens to show the poet´s desperation to capture his audience before he concludes. They then shorten again and slow to finalise on a long lingering note.

The poem ends with a haunting suggestion that the points raised can be forgotten even while trying to keep count. This alerts the reader to the magnitude of the problem of becoming complacent and achieves the poem’s aim to find a way/to make that number real. The poet has focused the reader’s attention on each swollen grain and made the realities of the world forefront in their mind’s computational eye. He has enabled the reader to capture/the percentage of wastage; the amount that would fall, skilfully generating within his audience an appetite that might be necessary to take it all in.

***************************

*Magnitude by Jacob Sam-La Rose was commissioned by the Arts Council England. Reproduced with kind permission from Samenua Sesher, Arts Council England.

Part II coming soon…

That ocean divides. Yet the yeasts on my toes

have stowed away on yours – at the heel

of a day crammed with doings, shoe-snug,

they waft up to you our distinctive tang.

There’s a suspicion in the breath I catch

single-handed, just after brushing my teeth,

of that must my tongue first muscled in on

when our kissing strayed across the Channel

and a hybrid gas hibernates in my warp

of sheets, in my nightclothes – a smell that’s

somewhere between us, nuzzling to my body

warmth, or nosing the weft of denim that

spanned four shoulders of our lumbering

golem through hugger-mugger November nights.

Those secret hordes make us a common host:

cling, spawn, multiply in and under these skins –

our bodies soft continents.

From: Flowers of Sulphur (Enitharmon Press, 2007)
by Mario Petrucci

**************************************

Critique

In Touch reads as a modern rhetoric on the ancient idea of eros. The title suggests that although a lover can be aware of their own feelings, there is an outside force which cannot be controlled; a force creates uncertainty and separatism.

From the opening line of That ocean divides the reader is immediately flung into the paranoid and bitter recesses of passionate love;

That ocean divides. Yet the yeasts on my toes

Have stowed away on yours – at the heel

of a day crammed with doings, shoe snug

They waft up to you our distinctive tang.

Their union is looked upon with familiarity (our and shoe snug) yet repulsion (distinctive tang) hope (Yet the yeast…) and insecurity (that, on yours, at the heel). Like the satire of Petronius, Petrucci uses a private subject to catapult us into the situation with a tinge of recoil and disgust which echo the emotions of the speaker.

The conflicting emotions of eros are clear, with guilt linked to act of intercourse with the warp of sheets. The use of four shoulders is reminiscent of the derogatory term a beast with two backs, and yet he looks fondly upon nuzzling to my body warmth and their past lumbering golem. The word golem increases the sense of displacement and artificiality.

The speaker’s position in the relationship is uncertain; there’s a suspicion in the breath I catch. Initially in control (that must my tongue first muscled in on) the speaker feels that he is now trapped in a love that is crammed like a hybrid gas, dominated by his lover and his feelings;

Those secret hordes make us a common host:

Cling, spawn, multiply in and under these skins –

The speaker’s journey is clearly depicted; the poem begins with a statement of separateness (That ocean divides, I catch single handed), but as the poem flows past remembrances of hugger mugger November nights, the speaker comes to the realisation that love still exists somewhere between us in our bodies soft continents.

As the tenses change from past to present to future, the simple two line stanzas reflect the movement of the relationship and hope for its future, whilst the broken and disjointed sentence structure further depict the laws governing the common host of erotic love.

*********************************

*Reproduced with kind permission from Mario Petrucci