The Whisper Gallery, by Nate Maxson
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The Whisper Gallery, by Nate Maxson
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You could not ask for a more frightening, moving opener to a poetry collection than the way “Preemptive Strike” begins Nate Maxson’s collection The Whisper Gallery. As far as Maxson is concerned, poems like “The Divine Comedy,” “The Titanic Sails At Dawn,” and “Spontaneous Genesis” are not just machinations on the ghosts in the machines, they are detailed accounts of the fallen empires, ruined cities, and haunted religions that exist in every brick and busted streetlight to be found in our doomed, hysterically comical world. Simply put, The Whisper Gallery is troubling food for thought combined with the kind of entertainment that creates considerable empathy for the details inherent in a widespread, slow-burn breakdown of all things. It is Maxson’s finest work to date. —Gabriel Ricard, author of Clouds Of Hungry Dogs I love Nate Maxson’s poems—intense, visceral, devious. He’s the boy your parents didn’t want you to play with, the poet they warned you about. The dark one, endlessly inventive and slightly bent. “When you’re inside, you’re not supposed to know/You’re inside/And inside/All things are possible.”—“Sleeping Beauty.exe.” Being inside a Nate Maxson poem is always an adventure in possibility. This collection rocks! —Alexis Rhone Fancher, Poetry Editor, Cultural Weekly, author of How I Lost My Virginity to Michael Cohen
The Whisper Gallery, by Nate Maxson- Amazon Sales Rank: #6219088 in Books
- Published on: 2015-11-30
- Original language: English
- Dimensions: 8.50" h x .20" w x 8.50" l,
- Binding: Paperback
- 88 pages
About the Author Nate Maxson is a writer and performance artist. He was born in Cleveland, Ohio in the later part of the 20th century. He discovered poetry as a boy the way other people find religion or drugs and hasn’t looked back since. He is the author of several other collections of poetry including “I Wished For A Serpent” and “The Age Of Jive”. He lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
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0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. Poetry is a gift like those the Trobriand Islanders acquire and pass on By rejoyce Poetry is a gift like those the Trobriand Islanders acquire and pass on. The Whisper Gallery, by Nate Maxson, detects the signs and augurs of planetary dread. The title refers to the phenomenon of an acoustical space where sound echoes and reechoes as in a chamber, a catacombs, a “labyrinth.” Crazy old Ezra Pound said poets are the antennae of the race. Maxson has feelers out to here (reviewer spreading his hands kilometer-length).Exiled in New Mexico, Maxson isn’t a Southwest regionalist. His poetic voice exists in the interstices between the (im)material world and the almost-virtual: “down or up, it doesn’t make a huge difference” (“Viral Chatter”). He’s the ghost in the machine and knows it. This is poet-as-palmreader--part bunko artist, part Nostradamus.These poems aren't beautifully finished artifacts like Keats' Grecian urn. They’re secret codes from the underground, the blips and beeps of Deep Web, the faint music of dread that insinuates itself in your Xanax-dulled, nerve-jangled ear. It’s a directional map to the point of no return. It’s a non-reversible jacket. T.S. Eliot’s “These fragments I have shored against my ruins” serves as the book’s epigraph—or epitaph. Maxson knows the last century was a graveyard.The Whisper Gallery extends the vision of Dylan circa “Desolation Row.” One of the poems is entitled “The Titanic Sails at Dawn.” Another of Maxson’s influences is Thomas Pynchon and the novelist’s investigation into hierarchies of power and paranoia as a normative state in America. He echoes Gravity’s Rainbow: “something coming out of the sky.”Maxson is a small d democrat/libertarian/anarchist. The voice issuing from these poems is a disembodiment, a felt presence of something that’s lost in miniaturized cogs and gadgets, unwhole: “to feel the missing piece despite its absence . . . the vestigial other . . . what has faded and yellowed was once a whole motion.” (“The Pin-Test”). But since there’s a fully conscious intelligence at work, that voice takes unwholeness as a given.At times there’s a longing for an apocalyptic event in which to merge and dissolve in amniotic fluid—“one big rainstorm to carry me away, reunite me with the water”—or a visionary clarity of transcendence and death: “between clouds and the eventual trench” (“Viral Chatter”). At other moments the voice sounds an implied threat and dis-illusion that the reader may want to heed: “beware the wounded romantic” (“The Whisper Gallery (1)”).Like Emily Dickinson, the poet is asking the Big Questions about the old verities: Death, Eternity, Oblivion and Time, but also modern crises like self-division and, preeminently, the soul-sickness of new technologies. He refers to the inorganic “digital transubstantiation” that seeks to abolish the clink and jangle of dailiness, the conjurations and spooks, in the name of the perfect surface. But he—or she—is also a Cassandra, a prophet unhonored in his own “homeland.” We like to kill the messenger who delivers bad news.Like novelists Pynchon and Don de Lillo, Maxson is a terrible agent of consciousness in our endgame. He makes the reader work more than a little bit. Once upon a time that was something commendable; complexity, difficulty and effort were values to be prized.The long-breath’d lines aren’t Whitmanic/Ginsbergian, they lack American optimism, and there’s no refuge in Buddhism. Maxson once described Franz Wright’s poems as “a slab.” The poems in The Whisper Gallery aren’t slabs so much as they’re jerrybuilt structures built from run-together sentences and telegraphic flashes broken by commas, slashes and the right-margin wall. He’s absorbed the credo of the Black Mountain poet Charles Olson that one perception immediately follows upon another. These are communiques composed at white heat.The lines crawl across the large-format page like the red ants in Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude before the cataclysm wipes Macondo off the map as Melquiades scribed it. As surely as empires rise, they also fall: “A crack appears in the machinery” is the first line of the first poem in this volume.The dolphin repurposes into a shark. High water, everywhere. We had best learn to swim among the broken rocks.
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