~ANN SILSBEE~
DIANE LOCKWARD: EVE'S RED DRESS
Lockward is never at a
loss —
her ingenuity is endless and varied.
In discovering the story
in her
poems, she leaves no stone unturned,
no corner of the invented
landscape
unexplored. The dance
continues into the very
tips
of the dancers’ toes and fingers.
Diane
Lockward
is a poet who knows how to play. And in Eve’s Red Dress,
a
handsomely designed book from Wind Publications, she plays with
language,
with the ironies and delights of the human condition. A
much-published
poet, former high school English teacher and current
poet-in-the-schools
for the Dodge Foundation and New Jersey Council On the Arts, Lockward
knows
how to celebrate through skill and sheer joy in the music of words and
their multiple meanings, how to
hint at injury or loss without getting lost herself, or
losing the reader. The poetry is firmly grounded in the reality
of
the body, the physicality and vibrancy of the images. We know the who,
the where, the when, and yet every poem takes us unexpectedly to a
place
we have never been before.
The
Eve
poems which open each of the five sections of Eve’s Red Dress
are
a clue to the many-layered character of the book. The thread of
the
Genesis story is woven through them, shifting color, yes, but always
recognizable,
always setting off and influencing the course of the narrative with wit
and irony. And yet there is no doubt Eve is a real person,
someone
we might have known. "Eve Argues Against Perfection" leads off
the
book; this Eve may once have dwelt in the Garden of Eden, but she
speaks
in the voice of an ordinary American: "Beguiled, my ass. I said
no
such thing." She is sassy and argumentative and out to
"tell
it like it is"; she won’t be silenced:
You say the serpent tempted me to eat.
You omit that he entered the Garden
on two legs and walked like a man.
The Eves
of all five poems could be living in New Jersey, Lockward’s home, or in
any middle-class town or suburb — Massachusetts, Indiana, Oregon.
After Eve’s lover leaves her, in "Eve’s Diner and Road Stop,"
The first thing I do is swear
off men. Then I pack up my lingerie and point
the car west on Route 66 toward Paradise,
Nevada.
She finds a "real diner,"
and grabs
a seat at the counter. You recognize the accuracy of her portrait
of the diner, the booths,
. . . a fly-specked calendar on the wall
and an old poster of Marilyn Monroe,
wind blowing up her skirt.
The surprise ending is
neither New
Jersey nor Nevada, but maybe something better than Eden: "Honey, you’re
on your way to Paradise."
Eve’s
Red Dress speaks in the voice of the dress itself, a sexy satiny
affair,
a device which enables the poet to convey the secret sensuousness of a
woman who has kept it hidden all her life ("her mother would dress her
in blue, / but she’s been blue so long.") Now, in the poem,
She reaches for me,
imagines how I would slide onto her
like skin . . .
. . . wants
to burst like a fireball onto the floor, spinning
and whirling, my skirt singing, Touch me and burn.
This hidden
Eve wants to come out to the world, set things right, set things afire
if necessary, be her sexy self. One can’t help but be
reminded
of the first Eve, who argues that the Garden of Eden wasn’t all it was
cracked up to be.
The
middle-class
housewife in "Eve’s Confession" cheats on her husband by eating his
apple
fritter while he sleeps late, "his ribcage peacefully rising and
falling,
the kitchen filled with the essence of apple," her inability to resist
temptation another delightful resonance with the Genesis story. And
"Eve’s
Own Garden" is "no bower of bliss." There are Japanese beetles,
skunk
cabbage, and
. . . of course
there’s a snake. What’s a garden
without a snake, a spring,
and a fall?
These five
versions of Eve are women we recognize from our own experience, and the
allusions to Genesis thus resonate through the whole book. This is
mother,
this is lover, this is child, this is the life we live outside the
Garden.
Lockward
is never at a loss — her ingenuity is endless and varied. In
discovering
the story in her poems, she leaves no stone unturned, no corner of the
invented landscape unexplored. The dance continues into the very tips
of
the dancers’ toes and fingers. Among my favorite poems is "Felis
Rufus," where the poet’s son, growing into adolescence, gradually
becomes
a wildcat:
Long-legged, feet padded, he ravages
furniture, prowls the neighborhood
from dawn till dusk.
"My lynx-eyed son, my
wild
boy," leaves home for his own wild life, as adolescents will, and the
poem’s
mother is left to listen:
. . . Sometimes night breaks
with mournful howls, cantillations
come down from cold dark hills.
With her
usual double-edged skill, she convinces us that the boy is
turning
into a wildcat, while letting us savor his transformation as a metaphor
for growing up.
Certain
poems abound with the pleasure she takes in words and their usage: "Why
I Won’t Talk About Orgasms," "I’m Lonely As The Letter X," "On The Use
of Concrete Language," "Feeding Habits," are feasts of
language.
In "Eating My Words" the reader is left chuckling in sheer enjoyment of
the virtuosity that calls forth syllables, words and combinations:
We eat predaciously, two athletes
of the soul, feeding our desire
to speak. Words tumble out in a stew
of confusion—bluegrass, hoodoo, bushwhack,
incubus and succubus, bedrock, serendipity,
silly putty, tatterdemalion, violet and lavender.
Although
many of the poems are irreverent, funny, sexy, (some of my favorites:
"The
Intimacy of Laundry," "The Study of Nature," "Eve’s Red Dress," "Why I
Won’t Talk About Orgasms") shadow is never wholly absent; it lingers
here,
in this landscape of reverberant meanings, a testimony to the dark that
hides in the core of the human spirit, even in fathers, a dark with
which
it is clear the poet is well acquainted. She is not afraid to
grieve
openly, in the wrenching "Service for the Murdered Boy," or subtly and
indirectly, in "Miscarriage," or "After The Stillbirth": "She
went
down to bedrock, / like a miner, hit the hard place / at the center,
trapped
/ under the heft of stone, / unable to breathe." And she is
capable
of unexpected tenderness, as in "The Changing Room."
This is
a a sizzle of a book about Eve’s life after the Garden, the life she
carries
on in our own century inside herself, in her body, her desires, her
truths
and her lies, her griefs and her delights. The mythic underpinning of
the
five Eve poems leads us to sense that, however firmly rooted in
American
life and language they may be, they are about Everywoman, in any era,
in
any set of clothes.
Though
there appears to be an "I" in the book who gradually reveals a
personality,
desires and some of her hidden injuries, this is not "confessional"
poetry.
Lockward makes this clear in her marvelous final poem, "My Husband
Discovers
Poetry," even if we had not realized already that her poetry is a
conscious
creation, an "art." She even tells us how she did it, starting
from
a seed of annoyance with the speaker’s husband "because he would not
read
my poems," to the full-blown details of the wife’s imagined escapade
with
a former boyfriend in a "quickie motel." In the denouement, she
finds
her husband-creature shaking with sobs: "It is my husband paying
tribute to my art." No tabloid "True-Story," but snatches of
human
truth are what we sense behind these poems. With our delight in
them
and the scintillating language in which they are clothed, we may indeed
pay tribute to this poet’s art.
Diane Lockward. Eve's
Red
Dress. Nicholasville, KY: Wind Publications, 2003.
ISBN:
1893239187, $14.00
© by Ann Silsbee