For the past two months or so I’ve been working on two books simultaneously which is a first for me. “Working Through the Holocaust” is a work in progress, a grouping of stories that have come “easily” to me as if I had to rid myself of excess somewhere in my unconscious. This January the Mensa Bulletin will publish “The Tea Table,” which will give me an audience of about 50,000; and I just heard today that “Cantor Matyas Balogh,” a love story, if you will, placed in Monor, Hungary during World War II will be published by the University of North Florida, I believe. What is a writer’s subtle play here is that the cantor is my great grandfather whom I am named after, supposedly, as family lore has it, could speak 14 languages and had an eye for the ladies. HIs daughter, Flora, my grandmother, was in vaudeville; so you see how we become attenuated and assimilated here. The analytic motifs are delicious to my mind.
“The Parable of the Seawall” is a nonfiction piece I had published in a European mag, La Fenetre (the window) just a few years ago. It is my take on my relationship with my mother very early in my life and the long-range and continuing consequences of her control over me. I set off the piece with a quotation from Alice Miller, analyst, which reads: The way we were treated as small children is rhe way we treat ourselves the rest of our life. And we often impose our most agonizing suffering upon ourselves. There is much wisdom to ponder here. This essay became the title and first essay of a new book of short and long essays written over a period of at least three decades. Encouraged by Jane and by David Herrle, editor and poet at Subtletea.com, who felt I had more than something to say given his publishing my essays over the last five years or so, I was emboldened.
I began to rifle through all the essays I had written (Oh, the joys of groveling through cartons in the garage), many of them unpublished, as well as some blogs on this site that I revised, shortened or extended. Before I knew it, I had a collection of about 65 pieces, categorized under such tentative titles as childhood, family, therapy, teaching, movies, writing, fabric of my life and ending with the three-part interview which comes before this blog. I decided to ask David if he would not only review the book (he had previously generously offered to do so), but to apply his skills as an editor to the effort, as he had edited all my previous work if it needed it over the years. A good share of the essays had been published in journals, local newspapers, the New York Times, film collector newspapers, et al.
Serendipitously, the collating of these articles, seeing my personal notations, made me reflect, at times grow somber, be touched as I reviewed in my mind the eternal passage of time and how this collection really is a summation of my iota-like life on planet earth — it really counts for nothing except for the person who had his travail here. I was moved by comments I wrote about my deceased daughter, Caryn, of watching my other daughter, Brett, grow up before me; of an essay about my son as he fled from school; such things as these made me write at the time as if in some odd or quietly unconscious way, I was paving the road for my own old age, as if I was guaranteeing that I would put into place “guiderails” as I moved into my dotage. While I lived, I observed; while I observed, I put down my observations; I recorded, and in some way I was trying to nail time to the wall, knowing very well that my feeble efforts to record were just that — feeble; yet I persevered and in some remarkable way taught myself, very autodidactedly, to write.
As I look back I am taken with all this commentary and I am moved by it all, the quality is not the issue here — the effort is all. I tried. I imagine I am a “lucky” man for in one instance I wrote about Caryn who committed suicide as deeply as I could in an essay that was published in The CFIDS Chronicle. On one level I always knew or sensed that she would not make it and so a few years before her death I responded to her, as we were always estranged in some fashion with one another. I never learned her feelings about that. I never learned many, many things when I was younger man, more callow and more insensitive. Hopefully, I am a better man now, but who knows. Often better things are said over us while we are in the casket than are ever said to us while we live.
A few days ago while sitting in this desk chair, I realized what I have always known, that I am a sad man.
Guest Reviewer: Jane Freese
Abyssinia, Jill Rush poems by David Herrle
Herrle’s poetry swims through feelings and memories of a girl from his childhood, the merciless ticking of watches, hair that flows and grows, failure, tears, death, the bustle of cities, silent paintings, the shadows of classic movie stars, laughter — and rain. Abyssinia, Jill Rush is a collection of 86 poems divided into three sections.
“Self-Centered” is the title of the first section. Poets are often accused of being self-absorbed, navel contemplating narcissists. Herrle accepts and even pokes fun at this indictment. By indulging in his own self-importance he challenges readers to deny that we all are pompous and the center of our own weirdly comical mirror world.
Herrle is an intellectual, no doubt about that. He includes a “Notes” section at the back of the book to provide clarification with respect to some of the more obscure references and foreign phrases. Though there is a profound dimension of erudition to Herrle and his poetry, the writing is accessible and deeply human. Not all of the references are obscure, many occupy the low-brow strata of popular culture; Barbie, Mary Poppins, Christina Aguilera, LL Cool J to name a few. The key to enjoying this book comes from recognizing the many universal truths that Herrle is throwing at us — not only our self-centeredness, but also our insistence on indulging our misery.
In the second section of the collection, “Jill Rush,” Herrle swan dives into past and present impressions of females. Erotic fascination collides against boyish trepidation. Childhood impressions waft into the present.
Many of the poems are quite short consisting of a few carefully crafted, deceptively simple sentences.
The last section of the book is entitled “Abyssinia.” Herrle informs readers between the dedication page and the table of contents that: “Abyssinia” is a 1930s pun on “I’ll be seeing you.” This concluding portion of the book contains the darkest set of poems — an examination of sadness, evil and death. Some of the poems in this section resonate with a surreal, dreamlike quality.
Herrle is not a man to deceive himself about life’s contradictions. Nietzsche said, “Knowledge is death.” For the poet, this awareness must be expressed. Wallace Stevens said, “Poetry is the scholar’s art.” Scholarly, Herrle wrestles between the darkness and the light, between tears and laughter.
Several poems in Abyssinia, Jill Rush are funny. However, they will not inspire Hallmark greeting cards. Herrle rewards the reader by refusing to recoil from unpleasant and contradictory feelings and situations. There were times when I wasn’t sure how seriously I was meant to take a particular poem. For example, Herrle articulates in the following selection, profound doubts about the value of his own efforts.
No need to apologize, David Herrle. As Ed Hirsch writes in, How to Read a Poem and Fall in Love With Poetry (1999), “Perhaps poetry exists because it carries necessary human information that cannot be communicated in any other way. Some of that information is joyous, some a distress signal from afar that whispers in the inner ear.”
From what Herrle reveals of himself, it is clear that he has experienced loss, bullying and disappointment. Emerging with his memories and sense of humor intact, Herrle knows and shows who he is — perceptive, intellectual, sensual and ornery.
Abyssinia, Jill Rush poems by David Herrle.
“David is a technical writer, freelancer and founder/editor of SubtleTea.com. He earned an English degree from Point Park University and studied English literature at the University of Pittsburgh. He lives in Pittsburgh with his wife Marsha and daughter Kara-Zeal.”
from Biographical Note in Abyssinia, Jill Rush
Time Being Books. (2010). $15.95
Jane Freese is a freelance writer and author of In Madera Canyon, a picture book for children.
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Posted in Commentary, On Writing
Tagged Abyssinia-Jill Rush, David Herrle, In Madera Canyon, Jane Freese, Poetry