Sunday Book Review: Brent Goodman

the brother swimming beneath me
Brent Goodman
64 pp., Black Lawrence Press
$14.00


Having known Brent Goodman via the blogosphere for a little while now, small pieces of biography between the two of us have started to accumulate. Some time ago, we traded chapbooks--- his Trees are the Slowest Rivers for one of mine, and from it, I learned a little about him. As time passed and we began sharing small conversations, I learned a little more, as I am sure he has had some small glimpses into my life. It’s impossible, I think, to read a poets work and not learn something about the poet. I am a historian, and memeticism is a natural part of any literary criticism. In short, I cannot help but wonder how the world has shaped both poet and poem. That in mind, it is only a small admission to say I was looking forward to reading the brother swimming beneath me and learn more.

It should be no surprise that Goodman starts off this book flirting with conventions. I am not talking about the conventions of sexuality or artistic expression, but rather, those conventions which comfort and mollify the sorrows of death. Goodman immediately takes from us any notion we will be comforted by what he has to say on the subject. We are spectators and in the odd position we find ourselves in; that of story teller and listener, invited and yet intruder, we will be given no safe harbor. We are voyeurs to a painful reality, and as such, we must pay the full price of admission. In this case, that means we get no comforter and no disembodied voice telling us everything is going to be all right.

In the first section, "Narrowly Missing the Moon," Goodman constructs a space for the reader to reside, almost a theatrical set for the drama certain to unfold. He sets up the scene, provides exposition, and defines the self contained world of this book. In “Doors and Windows for a Room” Goodman settles in and shows us to our seats. He tells us:

The point where light ends and all shadows begin
is sometimes called the body, these borrowed shoes
anchoring earth to passing sky.

Goodman takes us to a deeper level in the poem. We are going to read about his brother, but we need to understand there is the space we inhabit and there is the space his brother inhabits and that, too, is a place to gain perspective.

“Wisconsin Triptych,” “Blood Poisoning,” “Cicada,” and “Information Age” all play with form in an attempt to provide alternative perspectives---different ways of taking all of this information and processing it into something we can comprehend. “Why I can’t Write a Paris Poem” is a master stroke at making a litany of reasons why as a poet, Goodman cannot write the obligatory poem which all poets seem to write at some point in their early poet lives. Still in the wake of “First Queer Poem” it takes on new meaning when the real, underlying question of the day is not asked: Why can’t the poet write a poem which directly deals with the death of his brother? Of course that poem is coming later, and in a larger sense, the whole book is about that subject, but this particular construction reveals what an incredible storyteller Goodman really is.

At the center of the manuscript is the multi-sectioned, “Maier.” Here we see in biography the life of a brother who has passed on. I cannot help by make comparison to Gary Short’s treatment of the subject of brotherly death, but I won’t tread too far into that, because even though the subject is similar, that of brothers, cancer, and the mother-son relationship, the treatment is so varied. Where Short is cryptic (for very valid reasons) as to certain details, Goodman finds some comfort in discussing the details. Not only does he tell the story of his brother, Goodman elevates the art of biography by way of poetry, reminding us that verse can heal in a way which befuddles a straightforward prose approach. Strangely, one such detail Goodman provides is a revelation which is difficult at best to share:

Less than three years after the successful transplant, Mark
died with my blood in his veins. The immunosuppressants to
prevent his body from rejecting my blood let a simple knee
abrasion bloom into terminal infection.

Goodman does not shy away from revealing to the reader the part he plays in the events leading to his brother’s death. Here again, Goodman is providing a multitude of perspectives. He seems to be telling us he picture isn’t complete until you see everything from every imaginable angle.

The final section of the book is a collection of short prose poems. My immediate reaction, upon reading “[directions to my house]” was that Goodman was giving us more than simple, yet metaphoric laden directions, he is giving us advice for how to live your life after the advent of a profound loss. He has taken to giving us advice the only way he knows; by telling us how he goes on, day by day. True to form, Goodman does not let us forget why we came to him in the first place. Throughout this last section are little pieces of the past, tiny reminders of what has happened. This then is where the final triumph of this book occurs. Life does go on but you will always take with you what has happened.

Of course I want you to read this book. Go out and buy it from Brent right now. Pay for the price of admission into this story and see life from a wonderfully varied series of perspectives. See for yourself how life continues after loss on a grand scale. I know you will find both a heart and a humanity to bring into sharp focus a new way to look at the world. Perhaps you will find some answers to your questions. And while this book is full of marvelous and insightful poetry, don’t expect the poet or poems found within to make things easier on you. For that you will have to, as Brent has done, ask and answer your own questions.