Showing posts with label Donna Snyder. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Donna Snyder. Show all posts

Monday, August 15, 2022

Su Zi's Review of "As Meaningful As Any Other " by Donna Snyder

   In our terrifying times of overt misogyny now, a view of women’s history can serve us well. There are artifacts aplenty, and each is a symbol of a way of life and a world view. Beyond batik and blarney are rituals that are tied to self-sustenance and self-agency. Every culture that has women has women’s ways, sometimes hidden in hairdo, but nonetheless a ritual of feminine celebration.


   Poetry has a well-established place in women’s history, and the ongoing efforts to suppress and marginalize women’s voices is endless evidence. Thus, offered to us as a new release is Donna Snyder’s As Meaningful As Any Other (Gutter Snob 2022), a perfect bound volume in trade size; an illustrated volume, with a number of images by Tezozomoc. The book is structured in sections, and each section has an image as a frontispiece, with one being repeated on the cover. The images themselves are digital art, saturated and warm toned, that employ a collage of a human woman and symbols such as antlers, roots, and our planet. The sections of the work are also titled symbolically, using roots, auguries, flight, awakening and crossroads. Snyder has taken fragments from other of her work and uses these as an introduction to each section, such as a fragment entitled “woman smiles” that opens the second section “auguries”:


   Woman smiles, her face starred, exotic birds tattooed around her mouth, beneath her eyes, around her nose […] (11) that squares off the reader with this vision of the Divine Feminine.


   The poems here are perhaps also prayers, with both overt and subtle symbolism.  The last section of this text, “Crossroads”, includes the poem “ Her blood, a faded ribbon” that whispers of the moment when menstruation ceases, “ Her blood faded/ only a ribbon covered with dust”(46), a moment notable in women’s lives but rarely overtly celebrated. If the poems here are rituals, then the rituals themselves often involve visiting art museums and reading other poets as well. However, there’s also mention of acts of intimacy, such as “this little rhyme that filled my head upon awakening” with the lovely line “my lips awash in the taste of your unbathed back” (32). This is writing that is as much an account of a life as a collection of correspondence, there’s a tone of a woman telling her confident of the desert and the desert city’s denizens.


   Written in a hybrid of free verse and prose, these pieces seem to echo from the lineage from which they draw. The book’s last piece, “Fool’s Moon” opens with the line “The Fool’s Moon leads ineluctably to darkness” (53) which goes on the include a dancing ritual of:

   Moon paints snakes on her face. Copper bells ring. She dances, peculiarly festooned, as if time really exists […]


While the Fool’s Moon is now a minimally celebrated event, occurring every 28 years, ritualized dancing is still very much entrenched in both women’s and the wider, western culture. And while some readers may be mystified at the symbolism employed by Snyder, the symbols are common to certain types of tarot cards. There’s a sense of a tarot reading in this work, the sections and the admonitions, prayers and reminders that prompt each piece. The draw that would encompass the evidence given here speaks to the full moon and meteor shower that read this work since its arrival as a book. While this may amuse, it would be wise for booksellers of tarot too to include this volume in their inventory. And while a tarot draw, or a tarot-style poem draw might maybe remind us of our celestial seasons, there are those who are comforted by history, by this quiet and ancient wisdom.


GAS Interview with Donna Snyder





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.



Wednesday, April 7, 2021

GAS Featured Poet: Donna Snyder


Snyder founded the Tumblewords Project in 1995 and still organizes its free weekly workshops in the El Paso borderlands.  She has poetry collections published by Chimbarazu, Virgogray, and NeoPoiesis presses.  Her work appears in such journals and anthologies as Setu, Red FezQueen Mob’s TeahouseVEXT MagazineMezclaOriginal ResistanceMiriam’s Well, and Speak the Language of the Land. Snyder has read her work in Alaska, California, Colorado, Massachusetts, New Mexico, New York, and Texas


Twitty Baroque

 

The world beyond the stucco house is a highway, 

trucks roaring by like early summer tornadoes, 

the sound of commerce passing through.

 

Mama’s fear and anger echoes in the silence

of the fields that surround us on all sides, 

cotton fields my daddy doesn’t own.

 

Books on the shelf next to the front door,

a gift of charity. Their pictures magnetize

my eyes and fingers. Giotto’s

 

golden halos. Ruben’s corpulent god of drink

forbidden by Southern Baptists. Dionisio

lavish and flagrant in his lusts.

 

Robes rich as the wine of Carvaggio’s world,

excess, dissolution unthinkable to church folk,

gathered to sing a few miles away.

 

My fingers trace stained glass, baroque cathedrals’

magnificent spires high above art’s communion

so unlike Baptist austerity and fear of beauty. 

 

El Greco’s lush colors seduce me, an agony of faces.

Strange and lavish glory, adulation too close to idolatry

to be found in a country church.

 

Our austere gathering of convicted souls. Nude walls

devoid of icons yet filled with the hubris of certitude.

The giver of those books escapes my memory.

 

But the incandescent flesh and vivid colors vibrate still

through time. There were also gifts of heavy records,

handed down to this family.

 

Its genial war hero, a beautiful and brilliant young mother,

three daughters so pretty and bookish. Mama played the music

for me while we were home alone.

 

Daddy at work. The big girls at school. A hand-me-down hi-fi.

The relentless ecstasy of Ravel, the subliminal messages

of Rigoletto, Puccini, Tchaikovsky.

 

Thrilling trills shiver the tin roof of a stucco house

owned by the Boss down at the cotton gin, who

owned everything there in the Twitty flats,

 

even the one room store and post office. Outside,

trucks shift gears, maximize profit, minimizing

transport time. Cotton bolls dance

 

tripolets in dirt blown fields. Dust storms steal my air,

leave me breathless as the beauty of imperfect pearls,

a beauty instilled within me

 

an inchoate reverence for sin.





Glossalalia

 

Born of American blues and Yoruban ways

A whole new art form wails from a reed

Fingers pull tripolets from the upright bass 

Wood and hands ricochet off drumheads 

A mad man gurgles wordless song

A jazzman howls a whole new language

 

Between something foreign yet homegrown

language creates itself, a mad excitement

Fire burns through nerves. The jazzman

hurls prayers outside Pentecostal temples 

on the Street of the Crosses, the City of Angels

A gurgle of impenetrable language shouted

 

Fronterizo jazzman channels a love supreme

Touched by holy fire he speaks in tongues 

The laws stop at the border of his lips

Ecstatic utterances scream a tongue’s secrets

Serpents twine flesh/a Lilith born of the desert

flees a cultivated garden/runs for the frenzied border

 

Serpent tongues tattoo lightning across green sky

Meaning flickers from tongue to sax to God’s ear

A Goddess serpent twines around sunbright flesh

The gift of tongues unknown below sin’s heaven

La frontera a bridge between meaning and Babel

The tongue's secrets transmuted into frenzied sound