In his poem "Beyond Pleasure," from his National Book Critics Circle Award-winning collection of poetry, Refusing Heaven, Jack Gilbert describes the worth of good poetry. He writes: "Poetry fishes us to find a world part by part.../to give us time to see each thing separate and enough./ The poem chooses part of our endless flowing forward/to know its merit with attention."
The poetry of Pris Campbell comes to mind when I read Gilbert’s thoughts. Indeed, her poetry is the embodiment of his meaning: she has a gentle awareness of the minute "parts" without neglecting the vision of the vast whole. Whether she writes about her visit with Eleanor Roosevelt, the ghosts of her dead soldier brother, the memories of lovers of year’s past, the ravaging effect of CFIDS, or the old woman across the street dancing alone in the night, Campbell’s insights hint toward a wise and humane soul who’s forever opening doors for us to walk through.
Campbell’s strength lies in relating the intricacies and impacts of relationships. Consider the poignant sense of abandonment and longing in her poem "Until Lilies Overpower."
When we made our pact,
lilies grew from my palms.
I laid them on the graves
of dead lovers.
You were to come in the spring,
wade with me in the seas
where Vikings once sailed,
kiss my breasts until the sun glinted
pink off the morning waters. but
I grow old waiting, love.
My legs are pillars of salt.
The lilies have dried up
and long blown away.
The sea snarls under my toes.
Only in my dreams
do I see you, bearing gifts
of pale luminous gowns
and bright bangles to spoil me.
You lay your body across
mine until an early tide
moans, and I wake suddenly,
alone in my bed, the scent
of lilies overpowering.
Copyright © Pris Campbell 2004
There is rarely a poem that does not affect me, move me forward, as Gilbert states. I believe it is her vivid imagery that captivates the reader, strikes you most where it hurts or is most recognizable. An example of this is displayed in these highly descriptive images of a grandfather after he finishes abusing her (from her poem "Night Dances"):
rage finally drained
from his face and
dragged off like foul
meat by mongrel ghost-dogs
to their secret hideaways.
Or consider the images employed to describe the stark and unkind realization of aging and losing health (from "Angels In Black Denim"):
Not a soul ever warned
me I'd walk into walls,
or that wind in the trees
would roar like Niagra
through hands cupped
like lifeboats to my ears,
that friends would
fly off like Monarchs,
and silence could
sound loud as a
junkman's parade.
Campbell’s skill does indeed keep the reader attentive, in awe of a soft and subtle mastery.
With this in mind, I’d like to introduce you to one of her latest poems, "The Trombone Angels" named for the men who followed the hearses through the streets of New Orleans. It’s another fine example of poetry that takes up residence in the back of your mind and stays indefinitely.
Trombone Angels
The trombone angels have no teeth.
No ears.
Lips like a frozen kiss.
Their last dance was in the air,
ghost band hovering over the flames
at Auschwitz, Cambodia, Iraq.
Dressed in black raincoats,
they shuffle to fresh graveyards
and bone laden ditches,
feet cut and dirty.
What did they think
when they once flew,
ground rushing beneath them so fast?
Did they see gods reach
out to snatch soul from body
before flesh died?
Is that too much to believe?
Too much to hope for?
They blow a sweet tune
for those who no longer buy lies
from bible-rumped matrons
about lesser gods
for those not washed in Christ's blood
or chained to a catholic sainthood.
Those matrons claim we're all sinners.
They cast the first stones to prove it.
The wail of the trombones rises
as night tosses its net of stars.
A cock cries three times.
The silence from the graves is deafening.
Copyright © Pris Campbell 2006
Pris is also technically-savvy. She’s created a masterful reading of this work, layering audio–vocal tracks over music. She begins the reading with the sound of whales. That’s right. Whales. You might question this until you listen to the haunting cries. You can see the ghostly trombone angels playing over the graves of the dead. Indeed, Campbell’s reading on top of the selected music is breathtaking. I’m captivated by it. Listen to the audio here.
Pris Campbell can be found at her blog "Songs to a Midnight Sky."
Additional Reading on Pris Campbell
I highlighted Pris last year for her birthday in this post.
Other Noteworthy Poems
Chats From Eleanor
Angels in Black Denim
Roses and Crucifixes
Keeper of the Heads
Of Things Unspoken
Revelations Two
A Different Tomorrow
Of You the Orcas Sing
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