Thursday, June 19, 2025

Su Zi's Review of Robert Archambeau's "Alice B Toklas Is Missing"


A Summer Fun Read: Robert Archambeau, thank you.


The experienced reader, being well-versed in the greatest hits of most major anthologies, might occasionally have a need to read when concentration is not optimal; institutional wait times can be balanced by the comfort of a book, and the mere thought of a delicious read in a pleasant location is a vacation in itself. Of course, the experienced reader can never be fully oblivious to craftsmanship, and often the seasons hits can have a frost burnt or stale flavor. But here comes Robert Archambeau with Alice B Toklas Is Missing (Regal House 2023), beguiling us to guffaw.

The novel’s protagonist, Ida, “copies old paintings. That was what she did. She copied old paintings for an old lady with old money” (13), appears as part of a Fitzgeraldian duo in a cast of characters that includes a “tallish, trim, and in his mid-thirties, she guessed, dark hair carefully parted and smoothed” (14) that turns out to be “Tom Eliot”.  Archambeau is artful with the layering of amusing characterizations, and is not short of an adept eye

Shelves of books both new and old lined the walls, but the center of the bright little shop was set up like a parlor—low comfortable chairs and rickety occasional tables ringed a large, faded carpet. It was used like a parlor too—at least by one thin man with thick glasses and a grubby black suit, who crossed and re-crossed his thin legs, sipping a cup of tea in one hand, and holding a small, squarish magazine inch from his squinting eyes with the other (34)

This character is introduced a page later “he stood, proffering his bony hand ‘Germ’s Choice, but you can call me Shame’s Voice’     [...]        ‘Mr. James Joyce,’ said Sylvia, by way of clarification “(35).    The cast of characters who make occasional appearances does read almost as a syllabus for the Parisian influence on twentieth century culture, although any fans of Wyndam Lewis ought to note that he becomes, ultimately, the bad guy.

But this novel offers far more than a romp through roaring literary figures. Archambeau’s attention to his setting elevates the work past a light romance with historical characters. Consider these few lines as the author propels Tom Eliot into a chapter of characterization

To enter the Bristol hotel is to enter a world that speaks so quietly it almost whispers. The clerks at the desk do it, and the guests—mostly British—find themselves matching their tones to those of the dark suited staff. Whether you stand on the checkerboard tiles of the lobby or sit comfortlessly in one of the pew-like benches beneath the small statue of Artemis, who might hear the building itself whisper.”(196)

The scene involves an introspective moment of Eliot in memory of his marriage, then shifts in point of view through the hotel room’s open door to the bellhop, who “saw Tom’s quaking back and turned discretely away. A weeping man is best undisturbed (198)” Archambeau posits Eliot as a man haunted not only by his difficult marriage, but by visions of his forebearers—a far more empathetic view than that of any textbook’s formal biography.

Although Claude McKay “rumored to be departing soon for Harlem” (252) makes only that moment’s appearance, Archambeau is intent on a trilogy, with the second title scheduled forthcoming, and readers might hope for more of an appearance by that illustrious and historical community in this evolving series as well. For those needing to review the period, the novel offers a delicious experience. Readers familiar with these literary ancestors will happily devour this tasty offering as from a sumptuous meal, and as  maybe find themselves equally as eager for future feasts.






Su Zi is a writer, poet and essayist who produces a handmade chapbook series called Red Mare. She has been a contributor to GAS from back when it was called Gypsy Art Show, more than a decade ago.

                     

Check out her author page on Amazon.



Thursday, June 12, 2025

GAS Featured Poet: Jack Foley

 


Octogenarian, Jack Foley, is a California poet who has published thirteen books of poetry, three books of critical essays, a book of stories, and a two-volume “chronoencyclopedia” of California poetry, Visions & Affiliations: California Poetry from 1940 to 2005.  He became known through his multivoiced performances with his late wife, Adelle, and has presented poetry on Berkeley radio station KPFA since 1988. He currently resides in Oakland with his new life partner, Sangye Land. His most recent poetry books, all published in 2024, are Collisions,  Ekphrazz (a book of ekphrastic poetry, a collaboration with collagist Mark Fisher) and Telling It Slant. A lyricist as well as a poet, Foley has also produced Songs for a Nickel,  a CD of songs with lyrics by Foley and music by composers Tony Perez and Warren Wechsler. 





STORY


the man

followed the woman

into death

hoping to bring her back.

there was a door

or something he called a door

that led to a long corridor

lit with torches.

flickering light everywhere

until, finally, 

another door.

an endless 

meadow appeared.

flowers he had never seen

bloomed riotously.

no one was there

but there was a table

filled with food.

something told him

not to eat

though he felt

a sudden, ravenous hunger.

“Had you eaten,”

said a voice,

“you would have joined us.”

he turned

and there was something like

a hologram speaking to him.

he felt a sudden revulsion

but answered,

“I am searching for my wife.”

“I know,” said the vision,

“you will find her there.”

he pointed to a small tree

Orpheus had not seen before.

lying there, dreaming,

was Eurydice, the wind stirring

her hair. Orpheus

took down his lute

and began to play.

all around Eurydice flowers appeared,

at once enclosing, protecting, trapping her.

she woke and seeing him, smiled.

“We have lived this story,” she said,

“thousands of times.

Each time you rescue me

and turn

and I remain 

among the dead.

It will be no different

this time,

though I am ready to follow you

if you ask.”

he stopped playing and beckoned to her.

they walked slowly towards the door

that had led to the meadow.

as they walked

they began to age

gradually at first and then quickly

from youth to age to old age.

both had difficulty walking

even the short space that led to the door

to the upper world.

Orpheus

could no longer sing, his breath

was so short.

Eurydice began

to lose her beauty

becoming an old, old woman.

Orpheus muttered, only half heard by his wife,

“The door is not far,

The door is not far,”

and then, without meaning to,

without wishing it,

compelled by the story,

he turned.

the old, old woman behind him

vanished without a sound.



...


there is a moment

what windy trails we follow

in every authentic poem or story

as we age

at which the poem or story

what enterprises hollow

tells the author

these darkening trails we follow

why they wrote it

songs grow deep and hollow

we may call this moment

turn the page!

climax

what windy trails we follow

revelation

as we age

the moment at which mind

is mirror




***



FALL

 

 

Break then

Plummet––

Crack!

I fell

crashing into Vallombrosa––caught!––

but not by Milton’s simile

and not for naught

 

                        Limbless and forlorn

                        I had no love to give

                        nor any purgative

                        So let the born be borne:

                        I vanished in a bog

 

                                                Dolor, doloris, singing thus

                                                it was not less calamitous

                                                it was not less that leaf and leaf

                                                mourned that I should come to grief

                                                Upon this doleful bog

                                                I fell amuck agog

                                                repeating leaf by leaf

                                                the paradigm of Grief

 

 

                                                            ––No, no: mendacities!

                                                            These dead leaves tell no tale

                                                            All lamentation done

                                                            one is not anyone:

                                                            a thunderclap and off!

 

 

                                                            2

 

 

                                                            Here where the leaves lie thick

                                                            thus sang my elegy

                                                            and trembled to the quick

                                                            To what finality?

 

                                                            Inextricate so long,

                                                            I lingered in the wind

 

                                                            Before I turned to dust

                                                            I drifted (ah!)

                                                            Superfluous

                                                            

NOTE:  This poem arose from my reading of Paradise Lost. Milton wrote his poem in English but he wrote it for an audience that was fluent in Latin and Greek, so there is a good deal of linguistic wordplay in the poem. One simple example: “Until one greater Man / Restore us and regain the blissful Seat.” We are fallen. Christ will “restore us.” The word “restore” derives from the Latin, sto, stare, to stand up. We are “fallen”: Christ will “re-store,” stand us up again. The speaker of my poem is a leaf in Autumn who has just fallen, and the Vallombrosa passage in Paradise Lost is referenced. Like Milton, I filled my poem with words derived from Latin and even included one neologism. The concluding word, “superfluous,” derives from the Latin for “flowing over.” The metaphor is of a glass of liquid: when you are filling the glass, the liquid that “flows over” once the glass is filled is “superfluous.” But the word “superfluous” might mean, not only “flowing over” but “overflowing”––a word that might have a much more positive meaning than “flowing over.” I’m overflowing over with joy. Shakespeare too plays with the relationship of Latin to Anglo Saxon––and creates a new Latinate word in the process. From Macbeth


         this my hand will rather

The multitudinous seas incarnadine,

Making the green one red.


Multitudinous and incarnadine––richly and impressively Latinate. Green and red––back to the Anglo Saxon.




***




PAIRING: UNKNOWINGLY/THE DYING




UNKNOWINGLY THE DYING

 

Some years ago, I write for the dying

I was chatting with some people at a party: Wherever they are, whoever they are,

“Jacktalk.” All with the knowledge that they will die.

An acquaintance— They are my kin.

Someone I knew only slightly  They are the ones I know,

And had never harmed in any way— The ones who know me.

Walked up to me and said, They are the 

Firmly, with no trace of good humor or irony,       coruscations of time.

I hate you.”

I turned from the friends How many

To whom I had been speaking, As one ages

Looked at him, and said, Walk into the dark

Not unkindly, Before.

I know,” Not to “Heaven”

Then turned back to my conversation. Or “Shangri-la

Having no idea how to respond, Or “Brigadoon”

He hesitated for a moment, Or “Paradise”––

Then walked away, Names for what we do not

Awash with confusion. Know.

He “hated” me

Not for anything We know

I had done to him We die.

But simply for being

As and who I was.

At 84, trying to understand 

The meaning 

Of what I have done

Or accomplished

In my seventy-

Year engagement with poetry,

I look back at his gesture

With gratitude

And think of it

As one of the finest compliments

I have ever received,

Akin to the description 

Of Bernard Shaw:

“He hasn’t 

An enemy in the world 

But all of his friends

Dislike him.”

I had disturbed this man sufficiently 

So that he wished to attain

The very Being with which 

I, unknowingly?

Daily

Walked in the world.



NOTE: PAIRINGS is a sequence in which two (sometimes more) poems meet on the page in the way that persons might meet on the street. For the most part, they stand across the page from one another in the way that people stand across from one another as they speak. They have things in common and things that separate them. In many ways they illuminate each other. The “unit” in these pieces is not the individual poem but the meeting––sometimes the collision––of the poems. Cell phones destroy the formatting of Pairings so they need to be viewed on a computer screen: full screen.