MiPOesias Magazine

FRANCOIS LUONG

Indiscretion Required

The Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel, eds. Reb Livingston and Molly Arden.
165 pages, paperback, $20.

We all know Wallace Stevens’ saying. If a book of poetry comprises of thirty poems, the book itself should be its thirty-first. But then, what should we make of poetry anthologies? In a recent discussion on the website of the Poetry Foundation, Michael Dumanis, the editor of Legitimate Dangers: American Poets of the New Century, exposed the difficulties of gathering work that was representative of the various “trends prevalent among a wide range of newer writers” of his generation. Reb Livingston’s and Molly Arden’s anthology The Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel does not aim for such authority. Culling from the vast pool of poems published on its webzine, the Guide simply seeks to introduce its reader to the most seductive poems.

In their introduction, the editors describe the poems contained herein as pieces that have “pricked our minds, twitched our senses,” and that are “exciting and fascinating.” As such, it is not surprising that the majority of the poems present a certain sense of bombast, like “To His Penis,” by Paul Jones. There is a certain grandiloquence and mischief, reminiscent of François Villon’s Petit Testament. One difference from Villon is that the speaker actually addresses a “you” (here, his penis):

By God, Penis, gypsy gland,

you’ll be guarded with eye and hand.

You stand convicted, straight-headed pole,

of all crass crimes possible;

cunt’s quill, I’ll bridle your snout,

rein you in, lest you creep out.

Take this warning, stiff stinger:

No jamming with jealous singers.

The use of rhyming couplets could be distracting because of the aural excess, but this excess and sense of baroque seems to be what Jones is aiming at. Yet, beneath this layer of bawdriness and bombast, there is a certain longing when Jones writes “Why am I scorned and called ‘bad’ / when wicked wisdom wins your head?”

Longing is not as present in Matthew Thorburn’s equally exuberant “Postcard from the Palm at the End of the Mind Hotel.” Like the editors’ “hush-hush lothario,” the speaker of the poem presents himself as larger-than-life:

Florida, baby. Beehived gals in sandals

and nylons. The men skinny, but no shortage

of pockets, in guayaberas and shorts.

And here I am – me!

Despite this cockiness, the self of the speaker is presented in a non-dramatic and non

confessional way, more objectivist and factual in a Frank O’Hara-like “I do this, I do that”:

The TV remote I thumb

like a dark icon. My MUTE depressed,

my silence punctuated by the gold comma

of her earring.

Such attention to objective details prepares and enhances the sensuality of the poem:

Then a kiss,

please, on my ruddy thumb, then a kiss

each place X marks the spot –

the white crisscrosses, I’m thinking,

of bra straps and tanktop straps on her

tan, tan shoulders.

Even though those poems are a lot of fun, they are also the weaker ones. The more interesting pieces are the ones that eschew narrative. Such abandon actually creates a sense of mystery. This mystery invites the reader into the poem, instead of leaving her on the side to witness the shenanigans of the speaker. Take for example Laura Cronk’s “From the Other”:

What is small is smaller, suddenly.

Her shoulder, small, with my hand on it,

her ferociousness is something I can grip.

I am so hungry for anything. Blind.

With her breast on my chest, my blindness

finds its course, surging. She is what I am surging

towards, through, pushing in makes her beauty

fragment, disperse, hover.

Pushing freely now. The resistance

her body makes, it is the resistance

air makes for a wounded flyer.

Won’t she take me in farther?

On one hand, Cronk’s use of alliteration is extremely pleasing to the ear. On the other hand, her use of repetition (smaller/small, blind/blindness, etc.) creates a menacing yet alluring tone, like a femme fatale in a noir movie. The same effect is created in Betsy Wheeler’s “Fine Print,” where she parodies personal ads, writing:

Lover-Seeking Lover seeks

other half.

Seeks a lover

of road toast, licked

seams, flipping head

for tail.

It is pleasing to see such a variety of tones, techniques and voices stemming from such a narrow theme. But ultimately, it is those more minimalistic poems that constitute the best pieces of The Bedside Guide. In “The Rose Mirror,” Allyssa Wolf writes:

one works the head

another the rods

a coarse shadow soft and full

flies beneath the coat

And out of those empty spaces emerges the desire that underlines seduction.

Francois Luong was born in France, but now lives in Houston, where he received his Bachelor's Degree in English and studied under Tony Hoagland. Previous work has appeared in Pebble Lake Review.