. The Blueing Hours
poems by Albert DeGenova
published by Virtual Artists Collective
reviewed by C. J. Laity
With the creation of The Blueing Hours, two important establishments have been made: Al DeGenova as a great American poet and Steven Shroeder's Virtual Artists Collective as a major Midwestern publisher of poetry. I enjoyed reading these 60 pages of jazzy, erotic poetry
and lava lamps that
move like you
to silent mambo rhythms
(from "Layers")
just about as much as I've ever enjoyed reading anything.
In these personal poems that deal with family and relationships, in these (dare I say) love poems that refuse to be gooey, in these political poems that don't preach, DeGenova's metaphors are as exact as mathematical equations and the imagery in his work is downright spooky in its clarity (such as an abandoned toy "puffing Lucky Strike smoke rings into the dark"). These strong poems exhibit a concrete narrator's voice but never fail to stray away from the storytelling and return to the poetics. Rich in color and musicality, DeGenova's Gnostic work relishes being in the now without separating that now from the entire history of mankind. Are we in control, DeGenova muses, or is time merely the illusion we create within the single point of our existence?
It takes an honest poet to celebrate the contradictions of life:
We toast and sing to birth
in the cold air of a dying season,
(from "Celebrating Solstice")
DeGenova takes history quite personally in his desperation to live life. There are no compromises in this grit. There are times not to forgive, there are times to be suspicious, there are times for pure honesty:
Miles can't swing the blues trapeze
Sonny's crippled saxophone hangs from the ceiling
my toe taps too late, and too often
not at all.
(from "American Lost Soul")
DeGenova has a keen sense of what existed before him so it is no wonder that he is highly influenced by the masters and that he possesses an artful control over beat and form. He creates magic with his vantage points (for example, my mind's eye went wild as the freight train passed the window of the poetry venue) and his running themes of time (time as distance, time as syllables), change and (sometimes painful) growing are wonderful.
His secrets become the man.
(from "A Son's Secrets")
DeGenova's whirlwind of archetypal guy things, smells ("fetid hallways reek of fish and dirty pennies"), and heritage and lineage, take us on a tour of his memory. The work reads smoothly and without confusion, offering big bang endings and chapters that shift gears. It's as if DeGenova's voice is the pivotal point and in the balance the self exists as art. We carry a part of each other with us, every second we live we tow behind us, who we are can be explained with what exists in our pockets. These masterful hi-jinks somehow create the strange phenomenon of seeing the imagery as if through a blue filter, especially in the third chapter. Such art is not born out of accident. The Chicago Poetry Scene is lucky to have DeGenova in its family.
**Sun Sept 14: Studio 1819, at 1819 N. Hermitage, book release party for Al DeGenova, author of The Blueing Hours, 2 to 4:30 PM, also featuring Charlie Rossiter, Mary Blinn, and Larry Janowski
Note: Click here for CJ Laity's full review of Al DeGenova's new book, The Blueing Hours.
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The Blueing Hours
In these personal poems that deal with family and relationships, in these (dare I say) love poems that refuse to be gooey, in these political poems that don't preach, DeGenova's metaphors are as exact as mathematical equations and the imagery in his work is downright spooky in its clarity (such as an abandoned toy "puffing Lucky Strike smoke rings into the dark"). These strong poems exhibit a concrete narrator's voice but never fail to stray away from the storytelling and return to the poetics. Rich in color and musicality, DeGenova's Gnostic work relishes being in the now without separating that now from the entire history of mankind. Are we in control, DeGenova muses, or is time merely the illusion we create within the single point of our existence?
Miles can't swing the blues trapeze
DeGenova's whirlwind of archetypal guy things, smells ("fetid hallways reek of fish and dirty pennies"), and heritage and lineage, take us on a tour of his memory. The work reads smoothly and without confusion, offering big bang endings and chapters that shift gears. It's as if DeGenova's voice is the pivotal point and in the balance the self exists as art. We carry a part of each other with us, every second we live we tow behind us, who we are can be explained with what exists in our pockets. These masterful hi-jinks somehow create the strange phenomenon of seeing the imagery as if through a blue filter, especially in the third chapter. Such art is not born out of accident. The Chicago Poetry Scene is lucky to have DeGenova in its family.
