What It Used To Be
I'm well aware it's problematic
to miss the ice cream trucks
that clinked and tinkled down Candlelight Lane. The name
privileged bourgeois affability, and valorized
consumption. Songs the trucks played-"Daisy, Daisy,"
"Dixie"-legitimized patriarchy, women's oppression,
and the Mariana Trench of slavery. My memory of Sterling
Roig, Bobbi Jo Smith, Carol Kamas, Clarkie Lauderdale
blasting from houses, clutching dimes and clamoring,
present as facts subjective impressions of friends
have cared nothing for me, or cared because of under-
theorized notions of neighborhood and
The products sold reinforced a Capitalist hegemony-
Fudgesicle (racist), Eskimo (not Inuit) Pies, Torpedo
(military-industrial imperialist), Popsicle (no Momsicle),
The sugar in our treats deconstructed sweetness into cavities,
obesity, diabetes. The (always) man in (always)
who pulled, from the back of his condensation-smoking-truck,
products iced with polluted air which our tongues
loving the cold jolt-may have been a child-molester,
exploited immigrant, or untreated dyslexic. What I remember
as a smile, a laugh like Santa's, could have been
leer, or consumptive hack. The bond of signifier / signified,
which I thought solid as Galveston's seawall,
was slithery as New York City slush. No one involved
anyone else, which explains the time I asked
for a red Torpedo, and got green. Red, by the way, evokes
(a bruise), and farting raspberries, as well
as Communism, which evokes the rapacious USA, its sacred texts
indeterminate as the location of electrons in a quantum world
where "truth" shifts like ants on the
environment) Bar I dropped, so the vendor
gave me (liberated
from his corporate slave-master) another one. Maybe
he cursed me covertly as the spoiled spawn
Still, I picture how he climbed back in his truck, waved,
and drove off, grinning, as dusk
sifted gently down,
while we exploiters of the proletariat, bellies stuffed with Mom's
counter-revolutionary cooking, licked our pelf, and resumed
our games of jump-rope, doctor, Who's the Prettiest?,
or Grand Slam, and on the last pitch of the day, I sent the ball
sailing over Clarkie's house, through the warm
into a black-hole future that had been always already sucking
what I thought was happiness away.
Trouble With The Law
it when you least expect it.
A potato beetle buzzes up the nostril of a drag queen
walking a Shih Tzu. The
drag queen grabs her nose
and drops the leash, tripping a bag-hag, whose heart stops.
The Shih Tzu darts into the street, causing a wreck
in which a man loses a leg, a child is paralyzed,
pregnant witness miscarries twins. The Shih Tzu,
purebred champion, disappears. The beetle is traced
to Jim's garden, where he negligently used no pesticide.
process-servers mob his door. Several are trampled.
gate was too narrow; his sidewalk, too hard.
A serial killer/rapist/cannibalistic pedophile is freed
up a cell for Jim. His public defender strikes
Jim pleads guilty to one count of shaving against
the grain, all other charges to be dropped. He agrees,
learns that, under the New Crime Bill, punishment
his New Crime is to be hanged, flayed, cut down
while still alive, gutted, drawn, quartered, and burned.
state's evidence against his neighbor who,
permit, added a door to his toolshed,
and his other neighbor, who called a white man niggardly,
other neighbor, who canoed without life vests
stowaway thrips. Jim's sentence is reduced
to quadruple amputation, then to one hour on parole
because his cell
is needed for a man who wrote a bad
novel with someone
else's pen. Lawyers relax
outside the courthouse like Sugar Baby melons, growing
fat and red-ripe in the legal
Nerves of Titanium
Handcuffed and chained,
he uses a concealed
lock-pick to escape
a coffin buried in hot
sand. The chain-
wrapped cage dropped
into Arctic water
through a hole
in three feet of solid ice
can't hold him. But
what yanks me upright
in my motel bed
he's shoved out
of an airplane. If he
can't pull his parachute
cord in ninety seconds,
he won't need
to find a new career.
I, who get dizzy
on a curb, watch
his thin hands
probe and pluck
while skydivers film
his every twitch. I,
who absorbed calculus
with Hendrix twanging
and my roommate
banging his girl
a glass-bead door,
have attention deficit
disorder compared to
this freak: lock-picking
while he falls twice
as fast as if he took
the standard limbs-
spread starfish pose.
What if he
his tiny pick? Or
drops it? What
if his hands shake,
or get too cold
to work a lock?
do, just watching.)
Keats, bent over
his odes; Newton,
Beethoven, his Ninth-
Tiger on the green,
Kobe at the line,
snagging a pass
howitzer at his head-
all were hysterics
next to this nut
"He never hung out
much with girls.
He'd ruther play
with his handcuffs,"
"Wish he had his old
job back at
sighs his wife
as he begins to spin.
He's toast, I think-just
as he lifts
his orange chute
who praise him
from the ground,
or (ignoring spousal
snores, as well as sex-
from motel beds
across this land, a man
apart. Unlike us.
Lock-pick in hand.
-from What Things Are Made Of
Charles Harper Webb
is an American poet, professor, psychotherapist and former singer and guitarist. His most recent poetry collection is What
Things Are Made Of (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2013). His honors include a Whiting Award, a Guggenheim Fellowship, The Kate Tufts Discovery Award, a Pushcart Prize and inclusion in The Best
American Poetry 2006. His poems have appeared in literary journals
and magazines including American Poetry Review, Paris Review, and Ploughshares. Webb was born in
Philadelphia, and grew up in Houston. He earned his B.A. in English from Rice University, and an M.A. in English from the
University of Washington, and an M.F.A. in Professional Writing and
his PhD in Counseling Psychology from the University of Southern California. He teaches at California State University, Long
Beach, where he received a Distinguished Faculty Scholarly and Creative Achievement Award and the Distinguished Faculty
Teaching Award, and he lives in Long Beach, California.
A Review of Charles Webb's
What Things Are Made Of by C.L Bledso, first published by Coal Hill Review
Webb’s title implies a certain amount of realism, an engineer’s
approach, and his poems certainly follow through with this idea, though frequently with a philosophical bent. His weapon
of choice is humor. The collection opens with “Nostalgia’s Not What It Used To Be,” an elegy for the ice
cream trucks of his youth. Webb begins by admitting the fallacy often ignored in nostalgia for the past, the idea of “privileged
bourgeois affability and valorized/ consumption.” The songs played by the trucks “legitimized patriarchy, women’s
oppression,/ and the Mariana Trench of slavery.” He goes on to question the relationships he remembers, the people
he remembers as “friends who may/have cared nothing for me.” He admits the “Capitalist hegemony”
and even the stereotypes reinforced by some products. But under the weight of all this middle-class guilt, he does manage
to dig out some slight memory of untainted human interaction.
Webb tackles interesting occurrences as easily as many poets tackle life-and-death situations. “Mummies to
Burn” deals with just that: the practice of burning mummies for locomotive fuel in the nineteenth century. “Duck
Tape” plays with the common mispronunciation while also poking fun at the governmental placebo of the Bush era.
“Where Does Joy Come In?” Reads like a riff on one
of those questionnaires one find’s in a Woman’s Day magazine:
It sneaks through the cat-flap when you’re busy microwaving a beef-and-cheese
It slides down a beanstalk from another galaxy.
It overflows your clogged commode.
It breaks into your triple-locked, burglar-barred life,
just before you can bolt out the door.
humor and verve morph what could easily be trite material into something profound and enjoyable. “Never Too Late”
is a nature poem, ostensibly, but also a respite from the memento mori of life as Webb recalls his childhood. Webb’s
true power, as evidenced by his humor but also demonstrated beautifully in this poem, is his ability to sneak up on the
reader. He begins with a natural description:
Doves flute in peeling eucalyptus trees.
Rain pit-pit-pits off lance-point leaves,
and pings into expanding bull’s-eyes
on Descanso Pond. Redwings ride
at the water’s edge.
Beside them, still as a decoy, a mallard
rests—emerald pate, brass chest,
language evokes elegant imagery which would be enough to make this a fine poem. But as he continues, the scene grows into
something truly beautiful as flowers, wildlife, and fish all become evident, and then the turn:
…The baking soda
submarine I lost in 1963
like a whale. The crew flash V for Victory.
Suddenly, the poem isn’t simply a nature poem but recalls something profound from the narrator’s youth.
Though in poems like “The Last Bobcat” Webb displays his ability to write a powerful, serious nature poem. He
begins with the wonderful line: “The hill behind our house still wears its cape/of African daisies.”
The title poem deals with a history of physical philosophy, from
Thales, who thought things were made of water, to Aristotle who added earth, wind, and fire. Though he waxes philosophic,
Webb is really getting at the fragility of life. And at its heart, this collection reveals Webb as a humanistic, down-to-Earth
soul trying to survive and prosper but also trying to live well and morally. The fragility of life is so absurd that one
can’t help but laugh. In poems like “Manpanzee” and “Sad for the Hunchback,” Webb reveals his
own moral failings while also recognizing that they are common failings; he doesn’t stand on an altar of shame or
moral righteousness. There, he deals with the fragility of goodness and morality, which can shift so easily given the proper
circumstance. There’s a preconception about humor: that it’s easy and that it lacks substance, but Webb shows
that his humor isn’t light. There’s darkness beneath it.
Poems - Bio - Reviews - Interviews - Essay - Reading
An Interview with Charles
Harper Webb by Steve Davenport and Andrew McFadyen-Ketchum
Steve Davenport & Andrew McFadyen-Ketchum: "Nostalgia" tracks through a number of
referents, both from your childhood and from the more recent language of critical theory. Did you start with lists to make
sure the poem would be as rich with detail as it is?
Harper Webb: I wrote this after teaching a class that dealt a lot with critical theory, so I had a kind of list already
in my head. I may have jotted a few notes beforehand; I don't remember. I'm sure, though, that I composed the first draft
in my usual way: a quick outpouring, a gush. That's the best way for me to capture the initial energy that sparks my poems.
Once it's out, I go back and start crafting them, trying my best not to edit out the rush.
SD & AMK: What is it about sextets in this poem? How did you arrive at this structure when it
just as easily could have been one big stanza or tercets?
I work with my poems until I get a form and shape that appeals to me, and paces the poem well as it moves down the page.
I revise a lot, and try out many different things. For a poem as dense as this, I wanted some white space. One big stanza
seemed off-putting, as in, "My god, do I have to read all of this?" At the same time, I wanted a sense of mock
weightiness, so tercets would have looked too light. Sextets, when I worked my way to them, seemed right.
SD & AMK: What's with that final, short line? I know
I'd be wracking my brains over how to keep the integrity of the poem and its lines while somehow lengthening that line a bit
more to match its brothers and sisters.
After seven lines of iambic pentameter, Keats' ends "This Living Hand" with a 5 syllable, half-pentameter line which
brings me up short, a lump in my throat, every time.
time I checked, I wasn't Keats; but I like the contrast between my last line's relative succinctness and the elongated elaborateness
of what's gone before. When I read the poem aloud, the short last line seems to pack an extra wallop. This is intensified,
at least for me, by the fact that it's iambic pentameter, and thus not only sounds resonant, but harkens back to a time long
before the literary theory that the poem sends up.
& AMK: Discuss parentheticals with us, the syntax of interruption? Why these little asides? Why place them within
parentheticals in particular?
know that use of parentheticals is discouraged in many writing classes-and often for good reason. In this case, though, the
parentheses mirror the way the speaker's mind works in this poem: have a thought, then qualify / clarify/ undercut it. Parentheses
allowed me to get in more ideas without going on even longer than I did. I don't see any other grammar / punctuation that
would have done as well. If I had, I might have used it.
& AMK: "Trouble with the Law" is a hilarious poem packed, line by line, with little jokes. Two questions,
might it also be read as one extended joke? If so, what's the stated or unstated punch line?
CHW: I've never thought of the poem in those terms. However-if the poem is an extended joke, it's
probably about the often-illusory sense of cause / effect that comforts us and allows us to assign blame via a "justice"
system that pretends to be logical, and is, to those ensnared by it, a most unfunny joke. Lawyers are the punch line, I guess,
happily fattening on others' misery.
AMK: As someone who regularly employs humor in poetry, who are the poets you've been most influenced buy in that
CHW: Way back in grad school,
Edward Field showed me the way. Then James Tate, Russell Edson, and Ron Koertge (whose editorial scalpel has helped me for
years). Plenty of other fine poets use humor, and have influenced me, but these were the first. William Trowbridge, with
whom I regularly exchange poems, is a very funny poet, and in the course of our exchanges, influences my poems in very concrete
AMK: Charles, this question comes
specifically from me (Andrew): I'm always suspicious of humor in poetry and, now that I think about it, humor in anything
"literary." That doesn't mean I don't like it... I think it means I often find it diversionary... more silly than
serious. And there's something about silliness that makes me start to lose trust in a writer. What say you?
CHW: T.S. Eliot himself said, "Humor is a way of saying
something serious." It certainly is for me. Though I actively seek laughter in my life, and don't much care how I get
it, in my poems, I insist that humor advance some fundamental insight/truth. To exclude humor from literary work is, it seems
to me, to exclude one of the most memorable, entertaining, powerful, imaginative, and redemptive means of expressing our humanity.
As I've said elsewhere, humor lifts our spirits even as it brings us the bad news.
I find it hard to trust a writer whose work lacks humor. Something fundamental is being held back in the writing,
or is missing in the writer. To exclude humor from my writing would not only be to lie to my readers, but to limp into the
verbal arena with my hands cuffed and my legs in a potato sack. Shakespeare uses humor even in his tragedies. If it's good
enough for him . . .
As for I silliness-I think it's
in the eye of the beholder; ie, people call humor "silly" when it seems to them to be more stupid than funny. (I
find some French humor-the venerated Jacques Tati's films, for instance-silly, and not in a good way.) Sometimes "silliness"
is an expression of high spirits that may seem forced to those whose spirits don't rise so high, or not in the same way.
James Tate's work is a case in point. I'm delighted by its exuberance and imaginative play. I've heard other people call
it silly, and even an affront to poetry. Personally, I think that Monty Python's Minister of Silly Walks is a more devastating
commentary on government than even Anthony Weiner.
this being said, the issue of humor in writing may be largely temperamental. I can give you plenty of intellectual reasons
for using it; but basically, it just appeals to me.
& AMK: There's the short final line again....
Yep, and it's iambic pentameter too.
AMK: Would you talk about the decision to go with short lines in "Nerves of Titanium"? It really sticks
out in this book.
CHW: Since the poem
is about a man in free-fall, I used as long column of short lines to give a sense of speed and a long fall. I hoped that
the longer-lined poems in the book would make the statement even more emphatic.
SD & AMK: How much do you "enjoy" writing poetry? It's hard to read your work without
a smile on one's face. How do you manage to keep that sort of joy in your work and in the doing of that work?
CHW: I believe that the creative act--whether it's science,
sex, or art--is, if it's done right, inherently joyful. Writing poems, for me, is just great fun. Musicians "play"
when they make art. I played hard when I was a musician; and I play hard when I write. I write to make discoveries; and
I love at least some of the discoveries I make. I get frustrated, discouraged, tired, chagrined, even enraged; but overall,
writing is fun, and writing poems is the most fun of all. If it weren't, I wouldn't do it. The money's not great; and the
last thing the world needs is more poems to ignore.
also try to write poems that are fresh, entertaining, energetic, and in some way or another, life-affirming. A few years
back, I wrote an essay with the premise that contemporary American poetry, taken as a whole, was clinically depressed. If
anything, it's more depressed today. I'm far from a Pollyanna; but for me, morose poems are just too easy-and for the most
part, uninteresting. Poems of delicate beauty are fine; but do they all have to be SO delicate, so tinged with gauzy sorrow?
Life's unfair, pain is rampant, loss is constant, time grinds forward, we're all going to die, and maybe horribly-what else
is new? For some reason-Puritan roots?-a doleful or at least unsmiling poetic countenance is seen as evidence of intelligence,
sensitivity, and depth. But any 13-year-old can find a million reasons to be bummed. For me, at least, it's far more challenging,
as a person and a writer, to celebrate-or if I must say no, to say it (with thanks to Melville) "in thunder."
What Things Are Made Of: An Interview with Charles Harper Webb by Nathan Moore, first published by Heavy Feather Review
Nathan Moore: One of the first things that strikes me about What Things Are Made Of is
the predominance of the first person. What are some of your thoughts about this point of view? What's gained? What are some
of the drawbacks, if any?