From its first stanza Tim J. Myers’ Dear Beast Loveliness: Poems of the Body offers detail akin to a medical textbook, first, and then as a series of poems. The book’s subtitle is not false advertising when it comes to the body. Myers’ introduction to his collection addresses the notion that the body as topic is often argued to be overdone in poetry, and so he is aware of his challenge in proceeding with his poems. And while I admired his effort in the beginning, it wasn’t until the fifth poem, “Bulletin Board,” where I felt the collection had begun. The book starts at this poem because it is the first time it’s noticed, and welcomed, that the person of the poems becomes apparent. The reader is given a first glimpse at his vulnerability, perception flaws, honesty and skill as a poet. We begin here to first see what he might offer.
God forgive me but they looked like vaginas:
big rude O’Keefian blossoms,
each wet and reddish-pink
with a great biconvex slit in the middle,
cat’s-pupil shape opening onto darkness of the inner body,
slender red lips on either side—
and it took me a moment to realize:
Of course. Vocal cords.
In the following piece we see more of the same. In “To My Sibling, Miscarried 1956,” Myers writes, “Now that the mystery of Me is a bit clearer in the mystery of Them.” Terrific notes on fatherhood blend with reflections on the past in this poem. A subtle sense of longing is present in this linkage to his history.
“A Boy” was astounding. Myers opens with the stanza:
I saw a boy jerking along the street,
a palsied boy who walked as a stutterer stutters,
misfired genes like a great hand having
squeezed and twisted the living mud of him.
And he carries on until the poem’s magnificent settling into its finale, where he writes (without my giving too much away):
But with sudden grace I understood. How great, how
vast the world is…
By the next poem’s end, “For Dancing,” I was certain I’d seen the scope of his talent spread out for the rest of the collection. His repetition of the word “dancing” really works here, lending the poem a crescendo-decrescendo that made me want it to end so I could begin it again when I had calmed from my reaction to its musicality. And the meat of “When We Sleep” was its lovely second stanza which, when married to the one before and the final stanza after, proved him capable of being narrator, poet and academic at once.
But as the book expands it loses its luster, as its triumphs are wonderful but few. There were instances where it seemed a poem was trying harder than necessary to be a poem, as if the subject were assigned in a workshop. I still thought it was a solid collection by “Concerning Sex,” though I knew by then it wasn’t to be received as a great modern work because it was being too careful, or perhaps too inhibited. Too careful in that it lacks risk and, more importantly, human connection between writer and reader. The ending of “Concerning Sex”
but then–
everything springing forth from It again
left me wanting as did many of his finales. It was from here on that I noticed many of his beginnings had the same near-miss quality, noticeable perhaps by such a void of impact in his conclusions, especially once he’d proven himself capable of ending both with softness and power.
Few poems followed that were either simply written and touching, near perfection or just a confirmation of how his poems light up when he is in them, present, being himself. “Grammarians in Bed” (in which I skillfully avoid the predictable use of “copulative verb”), however, was wildly out of place for this collection. From its failed cuteness in the title to the actual text,
My rhetoric warms
in your literate arms,
Perhaps in transmission
of an oral tradition.
My subject’s easement,
your verb’s agreement,
will brook no pauses.
Conjoined clauses,
it simply doesn’t fit the book.
“In Memoriam (1985)” is problematic. If this poem was written in 1985 when the epidemic was new and confusing, I might be able to forgive it though I can not see others who were and still are greatly affected by AIDS being so forgiving. It’s fair when he writes:
I’ve filed it away, in fact,
to that part of my head reserved for
foreign-disasters, inner-city anguish,
But the poem creates serious issues as he continues:
Unthreatened, I press my nose
to the fragrant curve of her neck
without fear—
well, except for that friend she had in France,
remembering him once in a while:
tour-guide and world traveler,
bon-vivant if you know what I mean.
The disconnected segue aside (well, except for…), there is a pair of questionable word and phrase choices that open this poem to being charged as highly insensitive and thoughtless. I read it several times so as not to misjudge, but I could not shake its carelessness. I recognized in this poem what it was in general that kept me so distant from the collection at large: as a poet Myers isn’t tender, nor is he rough, same as he is not hyper-academic nor confessional. His work is safe, and so in safety it doesn’t sing. It isn’t to say any poet should ever fit somewhere specifically, but this collection of poems isn’t a developed thing yet. Dear Beast Loveliness reads like a pair of chapbooks combined and then married with loose poems to complete a publishable volume.
I was genuinely bothered to be indifferent about this book. A few “wow” moments exist, but against the backdrop of often bland generosities of good vocabulary. And there isn’t much to hold on to emotionally and in memory once it’s read. If I could star rank it I’d give it a three in praise of Mr. Myers’ effort.
