"The Lost World"
Gillian Kiley's work bears the stamp of authenticity
and a clearly individuated imagination. At a time when many
poets seem to spend almost as much time marketing and promoting
their work as actually writing, Kiley's poetry illustrates
the rewards of purposely withdrawing from the public eye.
She reminds us that poetry requires solitude and a degree of
unworldliness (meaning receptivity—not to be confused with
spirituality); the poet who finds some shelter from commerce
and composes out of necessity is more likely to resist literary
fashion and eschew facility in favor of urgency and difficulty.
Kiley's just-completed book-length elegy Palisades meditates
on her father's death and dwells ambitiously and unflinchingly in
such difficulty. Kiley's approach never sensationalizes nor sentimentalizes
her subject. She refuses the utopian clichés of healing
and closure, those heroic fantasies of repressing legacy and family
history; instead, she confronts the primitive familial imprints
that shadow and tug on our adult selves in order to shake them
loose and re-configure them. The death of a parent—whatever
chapters it may close—also forces the adult child to acknowledge
that what has been broken, what has been loved or unloved, can
no longer be fixed or reconciled. During the poem's journey,
she changes the lens on the camera several times over: of course
her own world changes after her father's death, but so does her
view of the world at large; with heightened consciousness, she
becomes more of a spectator and an outsider to the indifferent
universe she must re-enter. There's no place for her or her grief
in our culture. In the face of this exile, she comes to terms with a
rootless and routinized America that displaces and represses, that
substitutes materialism and the homilies of quick fixes in place
of love and compassion.
As an artist, Kiley recognizes the limits of the so-called lyric
"I" representational confessional poem; she knows, though many
still try, we can no longer unselfconsciously write those Plath
and Lowell family poems without flaunting victimization or
becoming so self-absorbed that we make the world a smaller,
diminished place. For Kiley, the self is no longer the Romantic
center of the universe. Moreover, she honors almost as second
nature that experience itself is elusive: our feelings seem less subject to the causal logic of narrative and chronos than they do to
Heisenberg-like lyric flashes that expand or contract and can't
be fully contained or grasped.
Early in the poem, with wide-ranging diction, her speaker
makes this highly associative self-assessment with a book inside
Club, halo, coil, scar.
Daughter, good daughter,
What mark of office? Perhaps the truest self
is the one irritated—irradiated?—
by the misapplications of others.
The most salient
being complete dispatch.
Given those values and her commitment to emotional exploration,
Kiley moves back and forth between the representational
and splintered collage, between feeling and idea, between the
lost soul and the world. She probes a history without ever turning
away from its terror or consequence but makes no grandiose
claims for universal wisdom.
Gillian Kiley has a wonderful imagination: she displays an
almost virtuoso capacity to make disparate connections; she's a
master too, as in the above passage, in her painterly sensitivity
to the tonal effects of diction. In the course of a sentence, she
can seamlessly move from the ironic (the flat, matter-of-fact
discourse of daily life) to the heightened shorthand of the lyric.
Her wide-ranging metaphors and similes traverse the daily and
the surreal. Again, early in the book in a theater, which itself
serves as a metaphor for public space, the speaker makes this
rhetorical claim when taking flight from social consolation:
I have my own kind
my still-point, and am unpersuaded
by the conditioning programs offered up,
the parade of wagons full of tonics
and all the antic remedies.
None of the hawkers
came to the funeral.
. . .
to be in reasonable darkness.
So like a brother, really.
The passage is both very smart and terribly sad. Thus Kiley
pushes against the limits of expression and silence in a structure
that resembles, echoes, and revises another book-length project,
William Carlos Williams's Paterson. In Kiley's work, though, the city no longer represents the modernist utopian dream, no
longer reflects the mind as the pinnacle of making. Rather it
reflects the contemporary world where we often reside: isolated,
often alienated and invisible to others. We are left to internalize
not only our own families but also a culture that hypocritically
valorizes and claims to uplift the individual.
The monument doesn't flex
and I visit it,
speak a little, wonder if the trees
regard me, like officers at a depot.
Whisper, disclose, entreat,
send private emissaries
out of the ducts of my body.
Amid the rest,
the open plots
lend a sense of anticipation.
Who hears what I say?
A vision like Kiley's refuses to seduce the reader, so it is difficult
to sell to a culture that seeks out surface (the upbeat), that
effaces unmediated loss. Our literary culture too has a short
attention span: thus, we find very few successful book-length
projects from younger poets. But to forgo this journey is to
forego the rewards of truly looking into the pleasures and limits
of language, the pleasures and limits of looking at our histories
while refusing wish-fulfillment fantasies. Palisades is a genuine
poetic accomplishment, ambitious and heartfelt, a project that I
think would make many of us feel less alone with our own grief
and losses; its craft, full of surprises and transformations, offers
to help us change, indicates that as readers we're in the hands of
someone who has both command of the language and an intelligence
to shape it.