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- Adam Donaldson Powell’s literary criticism of “THE ASSASSIN AND THE DAHLIA”, by Pradip Choudhuri, 104 pages, 2006, special limited edition, published by the author on behalf of Édition Pphoo, Calcutta, India.
Pradip Choudhuri has all the makings of a “cult poet”. He is – in fact – all of the "naughty" authors rolled into one, from Rimbaud to Genet to Ginsberg, Burroughs and Ferlinghetti, with an urbanized Indian bawdiness that seems so normal that it surpasses its own pornography. By pornography, I am not necessarily referring to the frequent usage of profanity and sexual slang, but the real profanity and pornography of everyday life – which is unadorned human predicament, here ever overflowing with rich imagery teetering between everyday banalities, erotic obsession and sexual acts, and the deeper, more philosophical questions regarding the state of society, religion, disease and – of course – death.
It is not difficult to see the influence of the abovementioned authors upon the style of Choudhuri. In the 1960’s he was a member of the notorious literary movement “Hungry Generation”, who were tried for obscenity in 1964. The spirit of the “Hungry Generation” can be likened to that of the better known Beat poets of the West, such as Allen Ginsberg and Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Choudhuri has established a form of writing that not only synthesizes the expressive styles of Rimbaud and some of the Beat poets, but which also modernizes and further develops that spirit into a shocking display of reality characterized by: 1) a relentless, active, often rapturous style which never gives you a chance to catch your breath (once you are caught in Choudhuri’s rhythm and underground pathos you have little chance of putting the book down); and 2) the boundless and graphic barrage of images – at times almost surrealistic, due to the occasional stream of consciousness form in some of the poems.
This book is possibly the literary “acid test” of the current decade, and is well-suited for reading alone in the privacy of your home – as well as for public performance. There are all too many superb passages to cite, but some of my favourites follow:
From “RIMBAUD”:
yes, you, you're imprisoned in this
shithouse of madness
and semen-soaked thighs
you engorge me with your
secret hymn of endless life
i am of your hairy tribe
& my strange excitements
undo the knots of all the red tape
of this evil city
and from the same poem:
i ransack the room
filled with exploded atoms
i stumble
i somersault at her feet
made of moonbeams
i start gasping
& am covered temporarily
with a sheet of impotence
i am awed by the strange
eyeless ness of this planet
Another example of Choudhuri’s ability to transform the “unspeakable” into a beautiful and undaunted literary patchwork quilt of visual imagery and social commentary can be found in this passage from the title poem.
from “The Assassin and the Dahlia”:
we’re used to corpses, that’s
why we transform life
into pus --- passionately:
with the help of country liquor.
and those who before the birth of love
in their souls
have gripped in their hands their rifles
and their pricks,
it’s them who smite the door
at midnight
with the imperfection of an assassin.
“hey,” they say “good evening, here we are!”
And yet, at times, Choudhuri temporarily lapses into pure modern-day romantic genius, as illustrated by the following excerpt.
From “Fatima”:
Dear Fatima
During my attempt to make life and poetry the one and the
same
I’ve cremated
Both Life and Poetry
Between the two covers of my blood-stained books
What is still alive is sadness
This sad sonata.
I find Choudhuri’s “poetic radicalism” refreshing – perhaps especially in this day and age; an era of conformity, superficiality, and where God has been (by many) “assigned” a new name: money. One cannot ignore the persistent images presented by Choudhuri, which are all-too-familiar to each and every one of us – no matter how “straight-laced” we profess to be, we all have our secrets, our secret moments and (in some cases) our secret lives. And Choudhuri “outs” us all, by outing himself. He consistently writes in the first person, and effectively lures us into his world, only to reveal that the “unspeakable” is not so very secret after all. While his language and themes may be immediately disarming, Choudhuri’s provocative honesty has a higher goal and effect than to merely shock – by letting ourselves be enticed into the private worlds of the characters portrayed, we unwittingly submit to becoming personally transformed.
-- Adam Donaldson Powell, 2006
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Aside from being a poet and an essayist, Choudhuri is also a translator, an editor and a publisher. He has published many books, including: MY RAPID ACTIVITIES (1964), SKIN DISEASE (1965), POETRY-RELIGION (1970), 64 GHOSTS’ FERRY (1971), and THE BLACK HOLE: SELECTED POEMS 1964-1989 (1990).
ADAM DONALDSON POWELL (Norway) ADAM DONALDSON POWELL (Norway) is a literary critic and a multilingual author, writing in English, Spanish, French and Norwegian; and a professional visual artist. He has published five books (including collections of poetry, short stories and literary criticism) in the USA, Norway and India, as well as several short and longer works in international literary publications on several continents. He has previously authored theatrical works performed onstage, and he has (to-date) read his poetry at venues in New York City, Oslo (Norway), Buenos Aires and Kathmandu (Nepal).
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“Snapshots of My Son: in memory of Ben” is an non-fiction book based on real-life experiences, authored by Alan D. Busch, Copyright 2007, 136 pages, 5 x 8, perfect bound, softcover price: US $12.95. Published by Water Forest Press (www.waterforestpress.com), New York, USA, ISBN 10: 0-9723493-8-3, ISBN 13: 978-0-9723493-8-3.
“Snapshots of My Son: in memory of Ben” will bring tears to your eyes. Many readers will not be able to read the entire book in one sitting, and some may not finish it at all. Normally, I would reserve a so strong opening statement in a book review for a literary masterpiece which glitters with the same emotionally-affective qualities as a masterly painting that has survived countless centuries, or a Hollywood-style film whose success is measured by its ability to get the even the most hardened macho-type viewer to cry tears of happiness and sorrow.
This book is not a work of “fine literature”, nor is it a work of art or a film. However, it contains a most special quality in that it often functions as a successful hybrid of all the aforementioned. It is an honest account of the most painful life experience possible: seeing your own child die before you do. Death is a difficult issue to write about, even for a dramatic novelist, a poet or a psychologist. Death is not only about endings, but also remembrances and the fear of letting go so that new beginnings may begin to take hold. We all know that we need to let go, but the need to cling to the memories from a now-missing part of ourselves which still lives on within us is an overwhelming and indescribable process. And that is precisely what Alan D. Busch has nearly done in a perfect way: to describe that process in a way almost everyone would be able to relate to – regardless of whether they lost their parent(s), wife, husband, lover, partner, child or best friend .. to natural death, an accident or to suicide. He describes both the pain, the difficulty of acceptance, the other-worldliness of the experience, the value and the pain of memories .. and the resolution of the unresolvable (i.e. acceptance of death as a part of Life to be embraced emotionally; and not merely in terms of over-simplified aphorisms).
“Snapshots of My Son: in memory of Ben” is an important book, which is both painful and healing to read .. and impossible for those who do read it to do so without recalling their own personal memories and processes in connection with the passing of loved ones.
Do buy this book. Read it when you are ready to become engaged in your own processes ranging from grief/sorrow/loss to healing. It may take you a while to get through it; and you will most probably read several individual passages over, again and again. It is not easy; it is about Life.
And yes, it would make a good film or television movie.
- review by Adam Donaldson Powell (2007).
Hear a radio podcast about "Snapshots of my son": http://www.newjewishwakeupcall.podOmatic.com
ALAN D. BUSCH is an independent writer in Skokie, IL. He has published articles and poetry in Living With Loss, Bereavement Publications, the Chicago Jewish United Fund News Magazine, Passing, An Anthology of Poems by Poetworks.com and Aish.com. Alan is married to "Kallah" and is the father of three children: Benjamin, Z'L, Kimberly and Zac.
ADAM DONALDSON POWELL (Norway) is a literary critic and a multilingual author, writing in English, Spanish, French and Norwegian; and a professional visual artist. He has published five books (including collections of poetry, short stories and literary criticism) in the USA, Norway and India, as well as several short and longer works in international literary publications on several continents. He has previously authored theatrical works performed onstage, and he has (to-date) read his poetry at venues in New York City, Oslo (Norway), Buenos Aires and Kathmandu (Nepal).
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Jan Oskar Hansen, a Norwegian expatriate, has published a wealth of poems, including individual works published in various anthologies, on the internet, and three collections which have been recently published in book form: Letters from Portugal (BeWrite Books, UK 2003), Lunch in Denmark (Lightningsource, UK 2005) and La Strada (Lapwing, Belfast 2006). Both Letters from Portugal and Lunch in Denmark are available at amazon.com.
Hansen takes pride in telling the world that he is a former merchant seaman who has forsaken his native Norway and the Norwegian language for Portugal, and the English language. Hansen is – in actuality – a global poet, and can (in my opinion) easily shed all claims to (and responsibility for) Norwegian nationalism and nationality. In Letters from Portugal Hansen writes: “The reason I left Stavanger (Norway) was a sense of being treated as a failure, and if I had stayed, I would have become one.” This seemingly ironic statement is typical of Hansen’s humorous wit and sarcasm, and is – in reality – much more than a mere personal footnote regarding his inability to find acceptance among the literati in present-day Norway. It is in essence a biting commentary about a Scandinavian social code called “Janteloven” (the law of Jante, by the Danish writer Aksel Sandemose (1899-1965)), which presses down upon the necks and aspirations of all who would dare to attempt to exceed the boundaries of humility; and who would profess to be somebody, who would believe that they are as worthy, wiser, more, or better than anyone else, and who believe that they can teach anyone else anything, or that anyone cares about them!
Fortunately, Hansen freed himself from the shackles of this code and has allowed himself to wander beyond presuming even non-presumption (indicated by Hansen himself in an interview where he says: “I used to call myself a working-class poet, only I got tired of it since it isn’t true anymore”.). And ironically, Hansen still embraces the tongue-in-cheek humour of his native culture, now set out to sea – floating freely across the tides and in the winds of today’s global reality – perhaps where it functions best.
Jan Oskar Hansen is, in my opinion, a master in the art of story-telling through poetry. His book Letters from Portugal clearly demonstrates his ability to weave an interesting tale out of the most ordinary occurrences or situations; all the while employing a poetic craftsmanship equalled only by the best classical poets. He is particularly adept with poetic economy and finding perfect endings to his verse. (In La Strada I almost suspect that the endings of many of his poems are written long before (if not separately from) some of the mid-sections.) Of the many jewels in Letters from Portugal I am particularly fond of the following:
Still Waters
A light breeze kisses a mountain lake;
a ripple of delight. So deep felt is
the caress that the lake undulates long
after the breeze has gone.
The Creed
We found a painting of Jesus
at the dump.
Wanted to put him in
a gilded frame, but we didn’t
have any money. Nailed him to
the wall instead, and since the artist
had made him cross-eyed, Jesus
could see us wherever we sat.
and
The Old Lady
So delicate and thin her fingers;
her wedding ring slips off.
What sweet a smile she has, her
hair moonlight on rime frost,
her eyes milky blue,
seeing only the distant past.
Translucent she is, and soon
she will be the wind
and a memory.
Hansen is equipped with a colourful palette of imagery and an artist’s sense of descriptive presentation, as well as a sense of urgency – adeptly transcending the boundaries of both historical anecdotes and current events, politics and social ethics, emotionality and matter-of-factness. Letters from Portugal is a treasure-trove of perfect verse, which could easily function as adult bedtime stories, designed to launch incumbent dreams by bridging the ordinary with the extraordinary.
In La Strada Hansen gravitates further away from poetic form into short short prose. It is here that the “bad boy” really yearns to come out in Hansen – often abandoning the need for both “poetic” alliteration and form. An old-fashioned critic might challenge whether or not many of these works are – in fact – poems. I find many of them to be quite beautiful in their prosaic presentation, and clearly see the influence of writers such as Hemingway, Bukowski and perhaps a hint of Steinbeck here and there. These poems are – in my opinion – easily adapted to recital in a theatrical setting, and some of the endings could even function as poems unto themselves:
From End of Dreams
When I kissed the trout, as a gesture of
peace, it bit my lips. I wrung its neck
and gave its limp little body to the cat.
And from
Love Story (the beginning)
... ‘Why those tears, my dear?’ I compassionately asked.
‘I have thrown my harmonica in the bin. I will never be a female
Lou Adler.’ I sat down beside her and cried too, took out my pen
and threw it away; ‘I have tried to write as Ernest Hemingway
for thirty five years and it has brought me nothing but heartache.’
Yet, as the city lights were turned on and the hum of traffic
ceased, we, two sad losers, sat there holding hands.
My favourite poem from La Strada is
The Lust
In the heat of summer I stand by the window
watch the tall, slim widow cross the street
on her way to mass. Dressed all in black,
she carries her grief heavy as a nun’s habit.
At the corner she stops, looks up. It’s as if she
feels my desire is an ill omen. She shudders.
I move into the deeper shadows of my dingy
flat and commit a cardinal sin.
Although La Strada includes many beautiful “poems”, I personally feel that Hansen’s work suffers from a bit of overwriting in this collection; as there is so much perfection in many of the beginning and last stanzas that the mid-sections are sometimes superfluous and distracting. Out of curiosity, I searched for some of his most recent works on the internet and happily found that he has now managed to combine his earlier poetic economy and succinctness with the looser style he began to explore in La Strada. However, I would emphasize that there is much of merit in La Strada, and it provides a solid foundation for an important literary transition for an important contemporary poet and short story-teller.
I look forward to reading more of Jan Oskar Hansen’s work in the future, and thoroughly recommend his style to all who possess (or strive for) a sense of literary rebelliousness and quality, as well as those who think that they do “not like poetry” but prefer short stories and/or novels – for they will truly delight in finding an author who satisfies their hunger without demanding that they read a 500-page novel (after all - who other than another author affords himself/herself that kind of luxury in this fast-paced age of immediacy?).
- Literary criticism (2006) by Adam Donaldson Powell (based upon Letters from Portugal, ISBN 1-904492-20-7 and La Strada, ISBN 1-905425-38-4).
See also Jan Oskar's website: http://www.literati-magazine.com/magazine_features/winter05/poetry/jan-hansen.html
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Literary criticism of the poetry of Albert Russo, based on The Crowded World of Solitude, Vol. 2, ISBN 1-4134-7018-1, XLibris, 537 pages, available from
http://www2.xlibris.com/bookstore/bookdisplay.asp?bookid=26769.
In an age where blatant shows of superiority are often considered a provocation, Albert Russo presents the ailing world of literary criticism with several challenges of mammoth proportions. His mastery of several literary genres, his indefatigable literary output, his command of several languages, his intellectual breadth, and the scope of his cultural and sub-cultural personal life experiences alone outclass the qualifications and/or capacities of many literary critics of this century.
Albert Russo indeed shows much courage and self-confidence in publishing such a formidable and challenging volume of collected poems non-posthumously. Perhaps even more so considering that poetry is not his only genre of acclaim. We live in an era where informed (and uninformed) critics often insist upon categorizing artists and artistic genius within a specific discipline, genre or art form; and where he/she who attempts to be too multidisciplinary is often considered to be “lightweight” or a “jack-of-all-trades”. Albert Russo is an exception to all of the abovementioned society-imposed and self-imposed restrictions, and clearly recalls a multidisciplinary usage of talent more particular to previous eras.
To publish one’s collected poems to-date in such a large volume, spanning some thirty years of life experiences and literary development, is a very bold statement in itself. Such a collection of poems – like any other serious literary work – is expected to be even in quality, hopefully diverse in content and form, and appropriately polished (the degree of polish being both intentional and commensurate with the desired expression). In addition, writing a bilingual volume of collected poems further adds to the complexities of such an endeavour, giving rise to many questions and solutions regarding choice of original language versus translation, idiom, culture, visual communication etc.
Mr. Russo does not disappoint, and he does – in fact – both deliver substance, and an undaunted and relentless display of consistency in terms of excellent insight and craftsmanship. His collection of poetry, at times biting and hard-hitting, is both thought-provoking, amusing, intelligent and contemporary in style and subject matter.
This collection of poems denotes a clear and masterful demonstration of quality, breadth of content and form, political and social awareness, mastery of storytelling, a combination of the highly-polished and the “intentionally-raw”, and visual, musical and philosophical expressions indicative of the author’s rich multicultural and experiential personal history. I find in his poetry the same literary achievements which characterize his novels and short stories: balance of intellectual rationalism and emotional presence, a solid command of the full palette of language(s) used, descriptive colour, clarity, intentional usage of abstractions, entertainment and theatrical/performance value, humour and occasional irony, and an overall sense of when to use poetic economy versus poetic rapture. Mr. Russo’s poetry proclaims an almost haunting sense of musicality and visual portrayal on a subjective level. Most importantly, I find that his poetry has the power of arousing within the reader a sense of personal identification, emotion and engagement – evoking a pas de deux between author and reader, all the while challenging the “poet” in the reader.
There are all too many references to cite, so I will choose a few which I feel exemplify the abovementioned descriptions of his poetic style particularly well:
From “L’Art de la Mascarade”:
et tandis que toute main est innocente et pure
certaines, lisses comme de la porcelaine
appartenaient à des voleurs à la tire
d’autres encore, duveteuses comme la nuque d’un chamois,
étaient pailletées de poudre de cocaine
And from the Hitchcock-like story poem “Revenge by Proxy”:
‘you can starve!’ she said to the rag doll
as she began popping the beautiful round fruits into her mouth
and while she ate, her mouth dripping with juice,
she rubbed a berry along the rag doll, smearing it first
all over the face and then fiercely between its legs
‘momma never wanted me as a child’, she said
in a garbled voice ‘so why should I be kind to you?’
Other poems are more philosophical in nature, but always accessible and seldom preaching, such as the rather indifferent but nonetheless quite powerful “Relentlessly Yours”:
you hear someone whisper
I’m going to die
and someone else reply
sorry, all the lines are busy
a moment later:
I am dead
me too, says the other voice
they both were
Or in the disturbing poem “Anima”:
and while the environment
continues to bleed
man regales it
with virtual trash
confounding the imagination
to the point in which
suicide becomes a welcome relief
While I do question the liberties Mr. Russo takes in some of his so-called haikus, I find that many of them possess a poetic beauty that surpasses the strict confines of what constitutes a haiku. It would benefit the more “pedantic” literature expert to stop counting syllables and set himself/herself more into the essence of some of these pearls, as many function quite well as short poems.
Mr. Russo is perhaps most in his element in his story-telling poems, which are surprisingly devoid of sentimentality but nonetheless crafted in such a way that the apparent simplicity unveils many layers of descriptive complexity as each poem progresses. One such poem is entitled “The Day of the Opening”:
He licks his thick lips
at frequent intervals
those thick greedy lips
could make a mouthful of the girl
or would he rather swallow her
like distilled wine?
her waist would disappear
under the knot of his callous hands
they’d throttle her slender neck in a jiffy
Yet he dares not touch her
for if he did, she would sting him
with a venom as deadly
as a scorpion’s
and the dark liquid
that would course
along his throat
would set his innards ablaze.
While Mr. Russo’s poetry is entirely accessible in terms of subject matter and style, it is by no means minted for the unintelligent or those without a sense of history, culture, languages, politics or geography. This because of the many references which are quietly and masterfully tucked away inside many of the poems, and which are so effortlessly woven into the poetic tapestry without disturbing the poem’s demeanour. One gets the sense that each reference is most carefully considered and weighted along with each partnering sequence of simple, descriptive words. This is poetic craftsmanship on a high level.
There is almost no subject matter that Mr. Russo does not touch upon, and therefore The Collected World of Solitude, vol. 2 has most probably something for everyone. Whether one likes all of Mr. Russo’s poems, or not – all must agree that this collection of literary writings is a colossal feat, and perhaps that through his intense, provocative and descriptive style Mr. Russo has earned the title “un feu d’artifice littéraire”.
-- by Adam Donaldson Powell, copyright 2006.
BIOGRAPHICAL INFORMATION:
A bilingual author, Albert Russo writes in both English and French, his two ‘mother tongues’. He is the recipient of many awards, including among others The American Society of Writers Fiction Award, The British Diversity Short Story Award, several New York Poetry Forum Awards, Amelia Prose and Poetry awards and the Prix Colette. He has also been nominated for the W.B. Yeats and Robert Penn Warren poetry awards.
His work, which has been praised by James Baldwin, Pierre Emmanuel, Paul Willems and Edmund White, has appeared worldwide in a dozen languages. His African novels have been favourably compared to the work of V.S. Naipaul, who was honoured with the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2001. He is a member of the jury for the Prix Européen, and sat in 1996 on the panel of the prestigious Neustadt Prize for Literature, which often leads to the Nobel Prize.
ALBERT RUSSO'S BOOKS:
His last publications in English: ZANY, ZAPINETTE NEW YORK, MIXED BLOOD and ECLIPSE OVER LAKE TANGANYIKA, all three published by Domhan Books (NY); THE BENEVOLENT AMERICAN IN THE HEART OF DARKNESS (which contains his three award-winning African novels: THE BLACK ANCESTOR, MIXED BLOOD and ECLIPSE OVER LAKE TANGANYIKA), OH ZAPERETTA! (the hilarious series, taught at the Catholic University of Paris), and THE CROWDED WORLD OF SOLITUDE, VOLUMES 1 & 2 (THE COLLECTED STORIES - which has just won an honorable mention at the Writer’s Digest International Awards - and THE COLLECTED POEMS, the latter with Xlibris (USA)), along with about 20 books of photography; in French: L’AMANT DE MON PÈRE (Ed. Le Nouvel Athanor), ZAPINETTE CHEZ LES BELGES, L’AMANT DE MON PÈRE: JOURNAL ROMAIN, l’ANCETRE NOIRE and LA TOUR SHALOM, all four published by Editions Hors Commerce (Paris). His novel SANG MELE will be published in February 2007, this time by Editions Gingko, in Paris.
See Albert Russo’s website: www.albertrusso.com/
-- Literary criticism (2006) by Adam Donaldson Powell (based upon The Crowded World of Solitude, Vol. 2, ISBN 1-4134-7018-1, XLibris, 537 pages).
ADAM DONALDSON POWELL (Norway) is a literary critic and a multilingual author, writing in English, Spanish, French and Norwegian; and a professional visual artist. He has published five books (including collections of poetry, short stories and literary criticism) in the USA, Norway and India, as well as several short and longer works in international literary publications on several continents. He has previously authored theatrical works performed onstage, and he has (to-date) read his poetry at venues in New York City, Oslo (Norway), Buenos Aires and Kathmandu (Nepal).
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