Poet Island Press is devoted to publishing works by both new and accomplished writers whose poetical content demonstrates a thoughtful attention to the creative process, and a serious self and world awareness. The True Visitor Book series focuses especially on exceptional works of a personal, lyrical nature.
Collage of the Soul
Poems by Barry Tagrin - available now through Amazon.com
Presented here is a special edition collection spanning a decade in the life and times of Barry Tagrin. A poet of true intensity, whose work derives directly from a struggle to survive his own emotions. These poems explore and brilliantly illuminate a life lived at its very fullest.
As Jack Gilbert puts it so clearly: “Barry Tagrin is dangerous, his work muscular without straining, and always a surprise.”
Tagrin’s highly personal poems are made up of a natural complexity of insight and a dramatic interplay of emotions, and while not opaque, are not always easily absorbed on first reading. Wisdom and tenderness at one moment can shift next into wonderment and raw, troubled self reflection. Indeed, we very often come upon a world struggling, conversely, for imbalance, a wish when one is in the light for the dark, and immediately after the opposite. But perhaps no critical insight can adequately sum up the force of voice and creative impulse that marks this unique and original poet. One feels privileged to observe in these poems the drama of the human psyche as it ranges through the poet’s vision. In Walls Coming Down In The Rain, we read, “The ambling brut sets aside the wild run, the necessary escalation of the body’s tramp,” and so an astute instruction to the self, from the priestly other to the keeper of the body’s lust, sets up this poet’s sacred mission: “The passionate ordeal of poetry,” Tagrin says, “is the heart’s message to the mind that one’s moral integrity, in its complex wholeness, needs constant management.”
MAKING LOVE ON THE EARTH
It’s interesting to leave home and walk
into isolation, and another wonder of the self.
To turn around the house of love on its axis.
Flee now that peace has settled its iron soul
upon the heart’s whirling disc.
I ache when I see what I have done.
A sudden knock on the door
brings out all the guilt one’s spirit has wrought.
We rush in the face of the enemy to hide our dreams.
I go here and there along the world’s rolling back,
and fear does not keep me too long.
Once we are married it is hard to find the solitary,
luxurious, lonely chrome we are.
We wish then to leap into the highest volume,
the lowest rejuvenating prowl.
The base of the solid man trembles as his fingers
run up along the underworld of life’s secret being.
How she dances, the big horse in the semi-dark,
naked upon the musical floor. O bravery,
and dear courage. Death and concentration.
I struggle for feeling and succeed by degrees.
Wipe my face with a cloth. Kiss the wall.
High up the castle town glows in the moonlight,
the river flows quiet and steady below.
Passion returns. A moment is enough.
This way the man goes on.
A painter as well as poet,
one of Tagrin’s recent
“action portraits”
is featured here.
DISROBING IN HOKKAIDO
The winter in Greece was impossible. I thought
I was the truth. I was a lot of things.
I was flying.
Everything was a puzzle, it was so beautiful.
I could lie down in the living room and roll out
into the countryside.
I crushed rocks and lived on the moon.
My life has always been unprincipled. I lived
to touch forbidden things. My own molestation
painted my soul.
I remember I hung up the phone and died. I had lost
the girl in San Francisco. I realized I had lost
my wife too. I was so free.
There was no one to love but myself.
I did everything I could. I raped my soul.
Tied my ankles to the bed.
There was an inconsequential insignificance to the adventure
Now I am in Japan. Two years have passed, and I am married.
I live in the bourgeois disintegration of white bread.
I drink, and that makes me happy.
I can drink for almost two hours before I get tired.
I miss Karen. And I want to go home. But I killed
my house, and took the blood out to live on.
Yuko is growing. She is becoming complicated,
her soul hidden. She is one of those secret characters
who change personas behind a screen in a Kabuki drama.
Slowly, she fills me up.
Meanwhile, I languish alone. Not that I am important.
It’s the opposite. I have become nothing. Without Karen,
the wires don’t spark anymore. Not really.
So we have the sun which cannot talk. And we place
objects into the dark side of the moon. I long for clarity
and go to bed with a child.
I’ve always been good at make-believe.
The unknown is beautiful, that’s why I left.
Because risk is energy. It wasn’t sexual.
It was adventure.
We aren’t good enough to love all the way.
So we lie and hide. Well, I’m trapped now,
and have to take the rabbit out of the hat.
IN HER OWN HOUSE
In the year 2000 I left my wife, first for one girl, and then
another. I was falling off the mountain. I had a disease
of the spirit. The man had lost his center.
The pain of the dissolution was intense. I remember that.
I also still hear the crying. The terrible noise that love makes
when it tears in two after twenty-eight years.
It was April in Sapporo when I arrived to live with Yuko.
Snow fell continuously into the ground,
an all day white oppression of the Earth.
My heart had no house.
Outside of where I slept, the streets were somber,
and all were suffering from the sunless winter.
Just the school girls passing with their socks rolled down.
Sometimes I went shopping and took my place in line,
kept my secrets to myself, and tried to go on loving Yuko.
To lift her up beside me and hold her,
like a star burning my hand.
My dream was of shutting down the pain and sorrow.
The choir, and the classic loss.
How to move it around. How to bring it into perspective.
Sometimes in the little apartment, with the electric heat
and the quiet, I tried to work that sorrow into a corner.
To keep it there in the dark, and stop its breeding.
When I failed, I failed hard, and sat up nights by the little
curtained window staring out, trying to touch the love
I knew, trying to get my direction.
In this way the days moved on, trading one image
for another. Forcing change upon the patterns.
Forcing passion into the saddest embraces.
How strong she was my new partner,
moving aside here and there,
laying down a new foundation when she could.
Trying to turn the ground around the big tree.
I remember that first June, and the hot July that followed.
The children who came out to play in the downtown fountains,
and the couples together on the grass kissing.
With the summers I knew behind me and others to come,
melancholy lived tucked-in alongside the fresh chances.
I tried to hide that. I wanted to walk with a rhythm
in my stride. To go on unbelievably from the separation
to something other.
I had skipped a stone across my lonely pool, from childhood
to adultness, and now it was autumn of the year 2000.
I had learned a few new words. I had a new neighborhood.
Yuko’s arm was slipped inside mine, and what was lost
in our language we gained through struggle.
How sad it is to look into the alteration of love, but how
much more so to slowly become a man unknown to anyone.