Alice Fulton’s earlier poems showcased a natural grasp of concepts and visual elements. For instance, in the 1983 poem “Plumbline”:
The world could snore, wrangle, or tear
itself to atoms while Papa sat
unsettled, bashful, his brain
a lathe smoothing thoughts civil
above fingers laced and pink as baby-booties [ … ]
Ideas and images form the essence of all poetry, but few American poets delve so deeply and boldly into the realm of the individual mind. This approach does come with risks; phrases like “smoothing thoughts civil” and “above fingers laced” may sound a bit contrived, veering towards cliché poetical language. However, “Papa sat / unsettled, bashful, his brain / a lathe” holds genuine theatricality and unfolds with precise sounds. Fulton also operated from a healthy skepticism: “My ideas are dumb: a fizz / mute and thick as the head on a beer.” These initial poems, flavored with quirky, colloquial expressions such as “stiff denims” or “knit their own / rivet,” advocated for a fresh, contemporary, and distinctly American English language, receiving a warm reception in the somewhat anonymous 1980s.
Nearly four decades have passed since “Plumbline” was published. During this time, Fulton garnered Guggenheim and MacArthur fellowships, became part of the English faculty at Cornell, and released a range of fictional and nonfiction works in addition to several poetry collections. Fulton’s latest (and seventh) poetry book, Coloratura On A Silence Found In Many Expressive Systems, delves into contemporary themes of pandemic, persona, and loss with her customary skill and diversity. In “Netherlandish,” she depicts “dishwasher greys, / sweat yellows” affirming, “I was living in a high maintenance loneliness.” Alongside phrases like “water weirded into nonce ideals” and “the crystal’s airy crotch.” The former set achieves a disconcerting clarity, an admired peculiarity; the complicated compounds in the latter prove unforgettable due to their auditory impact. It’s hard to envision someone actually vocalizing such expressions. Why would they?
In another poem, “Motherese,” reflecting on the loss of the poet’s mother and the language of grief, it states:
each word constitutes its own problem
space. Like a piano with a missing string
[ … ]
There’s this memory fugue that brings me to my grief.
A bird can wield its boney tongue
and double-throated syrinx to sound
two notes at once, dueting
with itself and in a way ==
that’s what I’ve done.
Various aspects shine in this piece: the tense “problem / space” compound, reminiscent of dark, corporate hospital terminology; also, the use of “syrinx,” evoking the common word “syntax.” However, the poem concludes with a weak comparison, an annulment, an emptiness: “in a way ==/ that’s what I’ve done.” The doubled equals sign, akin to what dashes did for Emily Dickinson, aims to establish a kind of connection; these elements are not related, yet share a resemblance. In this instance, it seems like a delaying tactic, akin to laughing at one’s own joke. At times, these instances reduce to mere statements, almost like glossary entries or thesaurus definitions, as evident in another part of the poem: “while the concept / of a paraclete yields / brightness.” These nouns appear accentuated – Concept, Paraclete, Brightness – asserting their significance.
Despite this, Fulton displays a real flair for drama; the poems flow well and conclude decisively, even if occasionally they veer off course. Nearly all the poems are lengthy, spanning over two pages. “Most and Great,” a fourteen-line sonnet, stands out for its omission of a clear thesis statement and instead, focuses on a moment of genuine vitality:
But everything decayed—fruit tree, yew
even those stupid lawns she loathed.
The dance floor fed up, grieving, the garden
always arguing it should be called a park.
The grieving dance floor puzzle me; do its implicit, implied tears appear as dance floor wax residue? Regardless of the interpretation, it exudes a strong confidence: the garden asserts itself, and the dance floor gains a voice. Attitude proves essential in a challenging collection. It’s gratifying to observe a poet deeply engrossed in the nuances of language, one who writes not to abandon the world nor conform entirely to its norms, but instead strives for adaptation, not surrender. At least not always.
