The poetic output of Brian Henry is about as various as that of any other younger poet working today. Not only are his books various–he’s published six books on six different presses on three continents–but he is fearless in his range in his poems. His stylistic dexterity is on display nowhere more prominently than in his 2003 collection American Incident (Salt Publishing 2002). From James Tate-esque prose poems (although Henry’s are much darker), to postmodern cynical wit reminiscent of John Forbes, to formal verse, to graphically violent material, Henry’s voice is protean and searching.
Although it has been said that Henry’s work “threatens to collapse under its own variousness,” I would much rather read a poet whose work falters because he or she is trying to push their voice out to the farther reaches of their skill, than someone who has figured out the type of poem that is in their wheelhouse and simply writes variations of it book after book. It is a risky way of writing in that inevitably you find yourself out of your depth, but it is precisely those situations of tenuousness that can force you into modes of invention that never would have arrived at otherwise. Or, you fall flat on your face, which, honestly, can also be interesting. Isn’t that part of the appeal of reading a poet like Hart Crane or Ezra Pound, for those moments that they can’t figure out how to make a poem do what they want it to?
While you can’t really call Henry a poet who is particularly interested in short forms, I include him in the “Searchers” series because he has many fine short poems. Specifically I want to point to the title poem in American Incident, which is in thirteen unnumbered sections, none of which is more than eleven lines. The brevity of the sections makes it seem as if you are scrolling quickly through stations on a television or radio–all of them are different but contain their own loneliness, uncertainty and pain, all of which are particularly American. You could easily read each section as having different speakers, making this a kind of fugue of American angst. Here are sections 1, 5, 8 and 9:
Knowing which way to bend
does little to recommend a way of being
in an unbearable world.
At least that’s what I heard
yesterday while waiting for the squirrel
to descend from its tree:
wisdom will not fall on you
like a promiscuous acorn, escort
you to the dance with your seveth-grade crush
while you wait it out in the shadows
wishing for an acceptable form of self-pity.
~~
If you feel you have no culture,
say “I have no culture” to everyone you meet.
This will generate conversation
where the possibility did not exist before.
~~
Quite a tug of war flagrant as migrating trash,
severagation at work on the town, it works
up to a point: everyone steers clear
of everyone else, speaks only when spoken.
~~
Some wicked thought, when it fails to disrupt
the day with its sordidness, disrupts through its failure:
a second-order moral quandary,
the concern of not being sufficiently concerned.
These sections, which are full of contradictions, are concerned with the difficulties inherent in both self-investigation and communication. Even if you can cross the treacherous divide between individual and individual by admitting openly you have no cultural context, the conversation may not last, and the situation may devolve back to everyone steering clear of everyone else. Even if you can figure out which way to bend your thinking to adapt yourself to an unbearable world, that isn’t enough to exist happily. And don’t count on unlooked-for wisdom or you own internal wickedness monitor to help you.
I don’t how much other readers value range, but for me it is pretty near to the top of my list of virtues I look for as a reader. Not that I don’t also enjoy poets that have a distinct signature style right from the beginning of their career, but I think if a poet is going to keep a reader’s attention over the course of a number of decades, that poet has to able to be able to change their voice. Obviously I don’t think poets like Henry write variously to keep readers interested, but rather because of seem interior restlessness they feel towards language. And why not play all of the scales of the instrument you have chosen?