Semi-Ambivalent Middle-Aged Male Lament #25
by Ric Vrana
Edited and with drawings by Ceylon Anderson
Published at the Independent Publishing Resource Center, Portland, Oregon, April 2011. 34 pp.
Available for purchase at St Johns Booksellers, Portland, Oregon
I should state at the outset that I bear no animus toward Ric Vrana for that little incident at the film festival last February when while waiting for the film to begin I found myself engaged in delightful conversation with a Czech woman seated next to me until he arrived, whereupon she graciously insisted on finding another seat in the crowded theater so I could sit with my friend. No, nothing could be further from my thoughts as I consider the merits of the poems that make up this little collection. She said she knew the film’s director.
The cover illustration for Ric Vrana’s Semi-Ambivalent Middle-Aged Male Lament #25 is a drawing of a smiling, naked, Buddha-ish figure brandishing a six-pack of PBR. The back cover has another drawing of the same laughing figure in the midst either of a backward tumble or a drunken sprawl. Together they call to mind the story of the eighth-century Chinese poet Meng Hau-ran.
Meng Hau-ran was a famous drinker. A government official once offered to introduce him at court, where he might get a position as a court poet.
But when the time came for him to go, a friend happened by, and they fell to drinking and talking. “Hadn’t you better be on your way?” asked the friend after a while.
“Oh, why bother,” replied Meng. “My job is to drink and enjoy myself.” (Greg Whincup, The Heart of Chinese Poetry, Doubleday (1987), p. 53).
I can scarcely imagine Ric Vrana as the court poet at any court, although I have seen him hold court many a night at open mics in basement bars, his poems marked by humor he directs as readily at himself as at others and the moral conviction of one for whom the idealism of his youth was never a thing to be left behind as he somehow balanced professional career, devoted parenthood, and a creative drive that has not flagged with the passing years. From “On My Terms”:
squandered innocence
maintained integrity
(not that anyone believes me anyway)
burned wood, money, time, the flag,
walked against the light
decided to hell with a god
that demands worship
to hell with a state
that demands allegiance
Drank a noon cocktail
took a long lunch
wrote one and a third
poems.
Vrana’s style is generally conversational, at times imagistic, accessible, and prosaic, in the manner of much contemporary American poetry. The style relies heavily on the poet’s capacity for wit, humor, and a keen eye to lift it from the realm of the mundane to be something we call poetry and not just prose with a ragged right margin. Vrana has these qualities in abundance. He is a maestro of humor who takes dead aim at our quirks, foibles, and general human foolishness.
Gregory Corso liked to say that humor is a kind of butcher with which you can get rid of a lot of garbage, a concept that Vrana grasps with a sure instinct. In “Cell Phone” he delivers ironic commentary on our abject servitude to technological toys, while in “Need a Dawg, Man” he is a bemused raconteur wryly describing an encounter in a bar with a young woman whose greeting, “You’re the man,” turns out to be a come-on to get him to take her uptight border collie off her hands.
His observations are honest, sharp, and never merely casual, as in the description of a poetry reading in ”You Know Who You Are”:
Here we all are subversively
gathered in a group without being paid,
without getting college credits,
digging the poetry scene,
living in a country that stays inside the lines.
Culture is mostly Entertainment here.
We mainline it electronically,
consuming it at home because,
after all,
parking is just so hard to find
. . .
There follows a brief digression, which the poet acknowledges, along with acknowledging that he has lost his audience:
sitting there waiting your turn to speak,
to speak outside the lines.
But now I could say anything.
Even drop a Greek or Biblical reference,
or just leave the vague impression I did.
There’s that old guy up there again, going on . . .
What’s he talking about, protest?
Is this the sixties or something?
Love?
What’s that rat fucker got to tell me about love?
“Part of the Poem” is a poem whose subject is a clever analysis of itself, or maybe just an amusing parody of an analysis.
This is the part of the poem
that begins with a punch, some
line or two with rhythm, some
vivid imagery to draw you into a
Venus Fly Trap opening.
The next few lines initially rush
on to some metaphor or other
but it’s likely I’ll
axe it in the first revision so
it could start out being anything like
wind chimes crashing in a storm
—scratch that!
In the next stanza the narrator contemplates imposing a certain structure by breaking the poem into stanzas with the same number of lines in each.
I used to think this helped me think
but now it’s mostly to please my favorite critic
who loves to attack my “slavish devotion to form”.
All of which is prelude to
ramp up to the big finish
insert a fucking gratuitous
swear word or maybe pull
some non-sequitor surprise
out of my ass.
You may now applaud.
Indeed.
I would be remiss if I failed to mention that the biographical note, penned I presume by Ceylon Anderson, contains an item that, if not a typo, leads us to wonder if this might be a somewhat embellished account of the poet’s life, perhaps the product of the prodigious and irreverent, prodigiously irreverent, if you will, imagination for which Anderson is justly notorious and much beloved. ”Mr. Vrana was expelled from Dartmouth University in 1959 for involvement with a prostitution ring. The university has sealed their report of the incident until 2020, leaving it open to speculation for another 9 years whether Mr. Vrana was expelled for soliciting or purchasing.” I believe that in 1959 Ric Vrana would have been about seven years of age, thus quite the prodigy, in all sorts of ways.
Be that as it may, the bottom line is that Ric Vrana’s poems are a delight to read. They give pleasure and convey a sense of how life is and how things are in this world. We are grateful to Ceylon Anderson for his role in bringing these poems to print.
postscript 17 July 2011: memo from the editorial desk
I should note that I did not approach this review without bias. Ric Vrana is a friend of several years standing with whom I have had the pleasure of sharing the stage for some of the most enjoyable poetry readings in which I have participated. A video of Ric Vrana reading his poems can be found at Oregon Literary Review First Wednesday 2009.
David :: Jul.12.2011 ::
House Red: Literary and Intellectual ::
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