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Schultz writes to swagger and swaggers when she writes.... The poet she most reminds me of is the young Pier Giorgio Di Cicco. She is so confident and "serioso," so dead-on and unshrugging.
Emily Schultz's Songs for the Dancing Chicken teeters top heavy in imagery. Schultz writes to swagger
Forget the hooey. The thing here that bugs
is the heat. Like Virginia, midday,
bristling, juicy with it. The air. A raw chunk
of flesh. An after-hours armpit, sweat
goes without saying. (49)
and swaggers when she writes. "There is a blood clot made of humans/ in the long white aisle" (64), which begins the poem "Riot at the Dollarama," expresses this well. She piles image upon image, and sometimes they stand as the only signpost in the poem. "Night is when underpants come off./ The white of the day is pulled down slowly." (121) Such sensuality licks its lips in anticipation, but we are brought quickly back into line. "In the next room you spit in the sink./ The world, a worry flushed into sleep." (121) Thus the poem proceeds to a somewhat tepid conclusion, while the strength of the opening lines dissipates--in this poem at least--by her failure to grab more of the situation, or to take the imagery to another level. Make no mistake, Schultz is a wonderful poet. The dancing chicken of the title refers to the concluding scene in the movie Stroszek (a brave trip in any weather) directed by Werner Herzog. Schultz is an acute and true observer of Herzog, as she is of life. "Aguirre is not a man, but a misery." (22) Indeed, the first 36 pages of this book concern Herzog, his films and characters, not as a rehash, but as an examination of Herzogian perspective. It would not be a slight to either Schultz or Herzog to connect the imagery-laden poems with the imagery laden films. They are soulmates in two different media. But, "love's always got its fists up too early--/ cowardly starts it but won't throw the first shot." (104) She projects a tough-gal persona, and I yearn to read her maturing work when the stance/pose will take a back seat in preference to brilliantly driven poetry, which she is fully capable of writing. The haunting end to "Faye's Tennis Courts," a kind of cityscape, shows her sure reach and sensibility:
Everything is stolen--and returned, rallied to and fro.
Our breath, the night, the sidewalk's archives,
the courts themselves, their green waiting under grey,
the blond sun that is slow and sure in its arrival. (111)
Songs is a long book that doesn't drag on or lose its way. Schultz gives space to the miniature, and nothing seems absolutely bleak because she is so attentive. "The light burns always green in the factory where pain is produced." (89) is breathless, yet an invitation to a world most of us have known at some point. The prose poem from which it is quoted, "In the Factory," is not a polemic, nor does it disguise the poet's sympathies. The factory work envelops the lives of those who work within it. It reaches into our standing around daydreams, into our daily fears and moth-holed hopes. It is a taste, more than a physical oppression--yet it is that, too: "Someone will lose a hand over this, sever a digit to fast-pack that crate of pain." (90) Factory work is a symbol so encompassing it can be called pain or life. "This pain has been spell-checked, it is a reference letter singing your praises, it is a message without a date or subject line, a sender or return address. It is guaranteed for life." (92) The poet she most reminds me of is the young Pier Giorgio Di Cicco. She is so confident and "serioso," so dead-on and unshrugging.
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