622
ALAN
HELMS
"Naming the Baby" is funny and talented, but in no way equal to its
intentions. The poem begins with the proposition that since "every–
thing is consumed by History," it's become difficult to name a new
baby, since its name will most probably determine its destiny. There
follows an amusing catalogue of the inevitable careers of the world's
fledgling Byrons, Adolfs, Arthurs, Geronimos, et al., concluding with
the name "Michael." (As in "Benedikt.") Michael's destiny is to "ac–
complish much with regard to expanding our/ ideas of structure, despite
criticism from the poetically stultified,/ dumb, and entrenched. " Bene–
dikt has one eye desultorily on the page, while the other eye peers
anxiously toward the critic and the review. The last poem in the
volume (appropriately called "Regrets") begins with an off-hand apo–
logia which might do service for the uneven quality of the volume as
a whole: "I don't take too many days any more to do anything in."
It's a shame he doesn't, since Benedikt is actually right: he does, in his
best poems, know what he's doing.
It
would just be nice if he listened
more carefully to what he's saying.
The expansive quality of the jokes in
Sky
prepares us for
Mole
Notes,
Benedikt's most recent book, this one of prose poems. The
"poems" (Benedikt insists repeatedly on the designation ) are strung to–
gether on the loose thread of Mole's adventures, mostly misadventures,
in the world of man. Mole is born, grows up, tries to join the human
race, can't, philosophizes some, decides it really isn't worth the trouble
anyway, all human things considered, and thereupon departs earth in
a kind of Pop Art apotheosis. Narrative comes and goes, thereby al–
lowing Benedikt the freedom to dilate on whatever his mind lights
upon : ecology, Mae West, the military mind, the literal truth of meta–
phor, etc. But the trickeries and self-consciousness of
Sky
conti nue,
along with the same unsureness of voice and sudden failures of humor
- curious lapses in a poet who, on occasions, can be so poised and sly.
In
Sky
the few near-successes are usually the shorter poems ("Tube–
roses," "Advice to One More Novice in New York" ) in which Benedikt
exercises some control over his luxuriantly casual manner. In
M ole No tes,
it's anybody's guess.
The pronounced diastole of hope and despair that runs through
John Ashbery's
Double Dream of Spring
is beautifully described at the
beginning of "Spring Day":
The immense hope, and forbearance
Trailing out of night, to sidewalks of the day
Like air breathed into a paper city, exhaled
As night returns bringing doubts
