Irish Literary Supplement, Spring 2003. Reviewed by Kevin McEneaney.
Both James Liddy and Ethna McKiernan dwell in the Midwestern heartland
and Ireland retains the romance of their roots, though they are very
different kinds of poets. While McKiernan pens wry poems of wisdom and
amusing domesticity, Liddy strives for meditative eloquence amid the
bohemian demi-monde.
The body of Liddy's achievement has recently been acclaimed by Brian
Arkins in James Liddy: A Study of his Poetry (Arlen House). Arkins
finds that Liddy's poetry excels in Greek energia (vividness, vitality,
immediacy), a category of critical evaluation somewhat neglected by
modern pundits. Another influence on Liddy remains the bohemian pub
scene of Patrick Kavanagh's Dublin and Jack Kerouac's street lust --
transatlantic musings by moonlight dancing. Dancing, a metaphor for
journeys in memory and place, occupies center stage in his new book, a
broadside from an unrepentant outsider who proffers mischievous fun in
the face of a static and suffocating zeitgeist. Unlike most poets
today, Liddy strives for the lyric line and the aesthetic sensibility
that will illuminate the ordinary. This is achieved through meditative
digressions sculpted with a Parisian whisper of surrealism ("only to
listen to melancholy and beautiful / violins under the oxters weeping
madonnas / in the plinth fields from Kilfenora") and the beat affinity
for compiling comic lists that contain a cultural critique. The tone
remains steadfastly intimate, the golden discourse of eloquence, for
which the poet yearns as he sings to salvage a Proustian redemption
from his family memories in Ireland, his fringe participation in the
official, Irish literary scene, and his subsequent fate as a teacher in
the American heartland. He presents himself as literary with an
appreciation of spontaneity and absurdity, the later appearing as
memory photos valued for their eccentricity or anecdotal romance. The
book is a series of confidential asides to be contrasted with teh
chorus of what he calls the Irish Poetry Mafia. His lyric, set dancing
is intimate, while theirs is the official stage jig or yearning for
lace-curtain, social respectability. "A Keening" and "Venice Poem for
Nora's and Tom's Return" exploits the litany with humour and panache,
while many other poems turn to the humility of prayer and moments of
secular crisis. Discovering continuity between Latin, Gaelic, and
conversational English, what he retains most vividly is mystery,
mystery in his meditations and observations, mystery in the source of
his poetic wellspring amid the crass indifference of the world and his
memories of those who have preferred authenticity and wit to the idol
of respectability. As an emeritus of the poetic scene, repository of
anecdote, and conversationalist of wit (he can do an impersonation of
George Moore or Oscar Wilde at the blink of an eye), James Liddy should
be much in demand on the college reading circuit.
As a poet of domestic humour, Ethna McKiernan is a master of the
graceful family anecdote. Many poems dramatise the anxieties and joys
of motherhood, but she shuns mere sentimentality in favour of bemused
disposition. Although like Liddy she gardens amid the intimate, her
voice projects outwardly like a speaking flower, as in "The
Architecture of Flowers" where (after recollection her father's chilly
kitchen in Dublin) she wishes for Ovidian transformation into an iris,
demanding that time stop for her, a witty inversion of the Horatian
carpe diem. Where her previous book, Caravan, was good and
well-crafted, her current book enters the joy of song as poetic
structure becomes second nature as she celebrates offspring ("Under It
All"), provides comic confession of small sins ("Why I Lied My Way
Through Childhood"), and loving snapshots of her mother ("When") and
father ("Deora De"). Contentment in the ordinary ("I celebrate alike
the lumpy August lawn / awash with acorns and the first new snow /
which tempers any memory of wrong.") as it is transformed by the
imagination remains her theme, but it rises with yeast of amazement.
Reading her lyrics restores equanimity in the reader, even when she
meditates soberly on the death of friends. Posted to home, her love
poems reveal her gentle acceptance of life and her generous personality
embracing those around her.
Two different transatlantic voices, immersed both in America and in
Ireland; two divergent sensibilities, but both accomplished wordsmiths.
The publisher, Salmon Poetry, has emerged as a transatlantic voice,
displaying greater depth in the Irish American experience, making a
difference for all those who appreciate culture.
The Bloomsbury Review, September/October 2003
There are poets with no sense of sound, like Allen Ginsberg, whose
readings sounded to me like a train wreck. And there are poets without
the sound of sense. Their work may be lilting but do not nourish the
heart. I think, "Lovely, but what did it mean?" Usually nothing.
But Ethna McKiernan, a Minnesota writer with strong ties to Ireland -
she claims to have made 50 visits - not only delivers strong
statements, but has a lyrical gift that is charming to the ear. As
Pound showed, poetry should never be far from song, and song never far
from dance. Quite so. McKiernan didn't get me up to do a jig, but her
poetry, especially the formal pieces, could easily be sung.
Schoolroom poets often trot off measured works, "mastering" one form or
other, but usually the effort falls short for lack of real passion. And
street poets sometimes spew personal expressions onto the page,
confounding readers with their complete lack of control. McKiernan
seems to write because she has to, and graces her verse with resonance
because she can. How rare this is.
There are five sections in this slim volume. One of the most tender and
anguished collects 10 poems about her mother's Alzheimer's. Much of
McKiernan's work is dark, but if the reader does not insist on
lightheartedness, the grimness does not offend. This poet is no
starry-eyed kid bent on commemorating trivial subjects; she is a
seasoned pro still able to shed tears of both sorrow and delight.
McKiernan writes in free verse and more formal forms, such as the
sonnet; her versatility intrigues. She transports readers. Her
sensitivity and care speak of genuine consciousness.
Ethna McKiernan stands out among the ranks of poets for her ability to
match language to subject, sound to sense. When this combination comes
into play, readers come away refreshed and drawn deeper into life. Is
there a higher purpose to art?
Review by Freddy Bosco
