Strictly (and historically) speaking the Cambridge Massachusetts poetic tradition includes Anne Bradstreet in the 17th century, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in the 19th, and E.E. Cummings in the 20th, to name but a handful. Rivard, however, belongs to one peculiar Cambridge school of thought that began a decade ago and continues on today.
I'm talking about a method that was current in the Cambridge workshops of the 1990's. Graduates of those days will remember it, fondly or not: Every class seemed a race to create, or rather to derive meaning from the world by dint of careful, emotionally neutral observation.
David Rivard does this expertly, observing his Cambridge neighborhood in photographic fashion and letting the visual impressions in our mind's eye do the talking. In "Engine Room," a middle-aged bureaucrat contemplates his annual budget on a bench in Central Square. In "After Borges," a fire truck from Company #9 rumbles down Inman street. In "One Darkening Mood Made out of Three Months Intermittently Overheard," a drunk orders a "sin & tonic" from the bartender at Green Street Grill. In fact, Sugartown reads like a lyric Rough Guide to the Harvard-to-M.I.T corridor.
Here's a scene lifted from everyday life. Envision, if you will, the Boston University boathouse on the Charles river:
empty space
along the river
a rodent wind
*
ruffling the water
inside Olmsead's cockeyed
little inlets.
*
It nudges the dock
belonging to the boat crew
from Alpha Chi
*
the weathered oak pants
on board which the gay flambeur
and blond BU coed
*
lie there sunning
and sweaty
the both of them (1)
This passage carries more meaning than the words themselves convey. A picture, after all, is worth a thousand words. The merest mention of Frederick Law Olmstead, for instance, conjures mental images of Boston's Emerald Necklace park system, as well as the vibrant life of Olmstead's greenways along either side of the Charles -- rollerblading, biking, picnicking, boating, strolling, baseball, crew, kayaking -- the constant activity there is literally the heartbeat of the city.
For those familiar with the Boston area, dropping the names of certain known places and events is a bargain. For the poet it is a very efficient way to pack poems with more sensual value than is bought with words.
For the reader who is not familiar with the area, however, is the effect not reversed? Dropped names may serve to intrigue the reader, or each unidentifiable location may serve as a closed door, baring entrance to the uninitiated.
The poet's skillfulness of bringing readers into his world in other ways, aside from the naming of places and things, will determine whether or not they read on.
- Rivard, David. Sugartown. St. Paul: Greywolf Press. 2006.
For more information related to image in poetry, please visit the articles on Green Tuxedo.
For an article on poetry with image, please investigate Journal: The Short Life and Mysterious Death of Amy Zoe Mason.
