Most of us don’t live in hamlets. Even if we did, I suspect we’d still get our news mostly from the Net, from neighbors and co-workers and friends, TV, the diminished but dogged daily papers, the weeklies. Surely not from books. Rarely do we experience our news directly. It’s hand-me-down, a leeching of vitamins from vitamin pills, not whole foods.
Yet After Words somehow defies all this to deliver its news needle-to-vein, turning the reader into a direct witness. It burns in the palm and reads like a teletype. It is a knife thrust. Dispatch after dispatch, Shirley Brewer leaves us no easy way to turn our eyes. So yes, the book is reportorial. Yet it is more: part cenotaph, part elegy to this clearly bright, sweet fellow, this real-life Everyman, someone a lot like you and me. Part of the teeming masses. A citizen. A researcher at Johns Hopkins. A budding medical student.
But two days shy of his twenty-fourth birthday, this Everyman was stripped forcibly of his anonymity and burst unavoidably into the headlines when he bled out on a city pavement, heart punctured by a mugger’s knife. A private life, a public death.
And so this Everyman got a name. Stephen Pitcairn.
Pitcairn’s slaying occurred one block from the author’s home in the Baltimore hamlet known as Charles Village. She never knew him, as most of us remain unknown to each other until fortune, good, bad or notorious, draws attention to us; never knew him, yet in the pages of After Words constructs an incisive and meticulous portrait, perhaps of the victims (yes, plural: “When you kill a son, you kill his mother too,” the poet reminds us), perhaps of our common, most atavistic selves. This isn’t a poetry to turn to for pleasantries.
Disclosure: Like Shirley Brewer, who stitched together the discarnate bulletins that make up After Words, I never knew Stephen Pitcairn; but Shirley I know. She is a deft and professional writer, an acrobat who inches across the high wires of her art with grace and roisterous good humor. If you, too, are acquainted with Brewer’s work – and the public audience is certainly growing for her spirited, haunting, sometimes insistent, always capacious, Thoroughly Modern Shirley voice – then this slender volume may surprise you: the voice is pretty spare here. Appropriately spare. While the grace informs every page, the wry humor has been flensed, scooped clean, replaced with the unhurried, fully permeable nobility of a mourning sensibility. Much in the way of lamentation comes from the victim himself, shade of a shade.
Is it too much to ask
for one piece of chocolate cake?
I grieve for my parents, my sisters,
my co-workers, my friends –
the light they lost when I died.
My mother heard my final cries
over the phone – Mom,
the last word I spoke.
Since she never knew him, Brewer pulls off this act of fine imagination with her back against the wall, especially in the creation of particulars: returning to us someone she never met, delivering him in high, unforgettable contrast. And so reading the poems is something like assessing at close range the gradations of Moonrise, Hernandez, New Mexico, a large print of that icon, perfectly developed, which is a sort of magic on the wall. After Words is a sort of magic in the hand: sitting by Adams’s lens, by Brewer’s pen, we rise to become bystanders in the half light preceding the dark.
Brewer, for all the gypsy scarves and fires gladdening her other work, is no necromancer: she knows damned well that she can’t raise the dead, that the dead don’t shine, don’t feel, don’t speak, and ditto inanimate objects, yet she wags her pen and forcefully conjures these selfsame riddles and runes. Stephen rises (so to speak, and speak he does) and shines (“brighter than a full Charles Village moon”). The moon speaks. Even the ruinous knife speaks. The pages of After Words record Brewer’s struggle for reconciliation and meaning, even if only existential, no alchemy, no thaumaturgy, no voodoo to it, the mode elegiac, the voices disconsolate.
In “The Role of Elegy,” Mary Jo Bang addresses the point:
What is elegy but the attempt
To rebreathe life
Into what the gone one once was
Before he grew to enormity.
Come on stage and be yourself,
The elegist says to the dead. Show them
Now – after the fact –
What you were meant to be:
The performer of a live song.
A shoe. Now bow.
What is left but this:
The compulsion to tell.
This poet tells. She invites Stephen to come onstage again and again, invites him to be himself the while, and what emerges is not so much memoir as a grounded and very sentient but unsentimental study.
I live on in blue,
a doctor of sky.
Yet she is not unremitting. When she asks us, in Stephen’s voice
If I could look in a mirror
right now, what would I see?
No one says: Death
she allows him a rare droll moment. But then he continues, absent a whiff of irony
The dead cannot speak –
both lungs and larynx lost.
If another language thrives here,
I have not learned it.
My words still shine like candles
tossed into the white cauldron of moon.
and we are back on track, in the demimonde of the associative. The heart’s blood of poetry. This track leads us to a (technically, emotionally) admirable passage, Stephen’s too-human realization that
This lonely country could be an illusion,
except I remember my casket
lowered into the ground,
from my sisters drenched in black.
“. . . my sisters drenched in black” – did you notice? – there’s the economy of the artist asserting itself. But of course. Of course.
This is real poetry pressed into the service of nobility, not simple art. Deceptively hard to do, yet Brewer, as in everything she’s shared with us, is abundantly equal to the task. But perhaps she had help. Let Stephen’s words abide, then, for the poet, for us, for his family:
Did they think a knife
was enough to part us?
How do I relinquish
the parts of me that will not die?
Invisible, my hand rests
steady on your shoulder.
Shirley Brewer will be a featured reader at the Minás Gallery open mic this Sunday. Admission is $3. Click here for more details. For insight into Shirley’s approach to writing and craft, see her contribution to our Concerning Craft series.
12 thoughts on “Book Review: Shirley Brewer’s After Words”
all well and good- and great poetry- but without the overall Marxist analysis and solutions it provides- in poetry or prose- (see B Brecht) – we make no progress- I wish american poetry was more political- BUT- it partakes of the mainstream culture too much- in my opinion- of the ooey gooey liberalism that makes no progress
American poetry, perhaps more now than ever, is an incredibly diverse body of work. Now that distribution of work is not as limited to access to publishing or radio or television corporations, many voices who could only previously distribute their work to as many people as they could hand chapbooks or mix tapes on the street are finding wider audiences. Time and time again, I’ve seen journalists, academics, you name it, claim “American poetry is [this]” or “American poetry is [that]” and every time American poetry has responded strongly that it is radical, progressive, sincere, personal, political, sentimental, very human, and very great indeed. I have no doubt that in America there are great Marxist poets, but that is clearly not the entire point of poetic endeavor, and clearly not the point of this particular poetic endeavor.
I don’t see American poetry as radical or progressive.
american poetry hasn’t responded to anything!
Let me rephrase what I wrote- I am tailing and ranting after a week of the Trayvon Martin case and actually being in court with Bradley Manning. Shirley’s poems have beauty and power and insight. I am talking about MY poetry.
On another blog we are having a wonderful discussion of Oscar Wilde’s statement “All art is useless”. But he was being his provocative self- even Rumi is political- and Nazim Hikmet definitely is.
There’s a secluded place down on the Bay where I can go and just be a part of nature; there’s a road I know that winds its way up to the top of a mtn.
Good point Dylan- but I don’t think there are too many Marxist poets in this country. Might be one or two in France.
correct to “railing, and ranting and raving”- line1 possibly Alice Walker or Ntozake Shange or Alan Barysh fit my bill
I love this book and this review. The canny review is in its own way very moving, as one would expect from a poet of Bruce sager’s calibre.
Beautiful review for a beautiful book. Stephen Pitcairn’s story could only be told by a poet of Shirley’s warmth and abilities. In someone else’s hands, “After Words” might have been too stridently focused on the history of violence in Baltimore. I think the book addresses this, but also transcends. It is a true elegiac work.
Patricia Jakovich VanAmburg
Shirley Brewer’s writing is also enigmatic in that it perplexes our hearts. Sager’s review perceptively gets to the heart of the matter: “sisters drenched in black.” Not sure that politics has ever accomplished more than heart? Remembrance is important here–Galway Kinnell once called this “rescue work in time.” We can not bring Stephan Pitcairn back from the dead, but we can remember his life.
I’m on a Wm. Logan (acerbic american poet and critic) kick lately; besides i am old and bitter; i actually criticize- not brite side everything.
Why did this punk kill Pitcairn-how do we change things? have to reed all of Shirley’s book- Sunpapers cannot cover these matters.
We poets can speak truth to power!
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