Joseph
Ceravolo. Transmigration Solo. Toothpaste Press, 1979.
By Amish Trivedi
IÕm not
entirely sure what the definition of a ÒcultÓ is, though I suppose I could just
as easily look it up. However, I
would rather say what I believe a ÒcultÓ to be, and that is something that has
a decent following but that remains largely hidden to the public. The Rocky Horror Picture Show no longer
constitutes a cult to me, mostly because we all know people who go at midnight,
dress up, and yell ÒvirginÓ at the screen. Face it: itÕs
not a cult. ItÕs mainstream.
When I
first heard of Joseph Ceravolo, I was sitting at a table in the English
department building at the University of Georgia with Graham Foust, who was in
the midst of going over my poems with a few other students. One of my poems apparently reminded him
of the New York poetÕs work, and he suggested I look up Transmigration Solo.
Sitting
later in the reading room of the UGA libraryÕs Hargrett Rare Book and
Manuscript Library, I held in my hands Transmigration Solo #36 of 1100,
signed by Ceravolo with a tiny Ò36.Ó on one of the final pages of the
book.
I could
see what Graham meant: I did see
something similar to what I was doing in Transmigration Solo, but much better
executed than anything IÕve done since.
I probably didnÕt even put pen to paper for a bit, thinking that
everything I could do wouldnÕt be what Ceravolo had already done.
But I could
also see why Ceravolo wouldnÕt come up in everyday conversation. There was something strange about what
he was doing with his poetry, and to this day, it seems that CeravoloÕs
Òpopularity is limited to the community of writers,Ó to quote Wikipedia of all
places. Something about this
phrase indicates to me that Ceravolo attaches on another level. HeÕs a poet for poets. HeÕs like one of those old bluesmen you
hear Keith Richards mention, and though you donÕt go out and buy any records
(if there are any), you leave an open file folder for the name in your head.
But
what is Ceravolo doing that is so different than those around him? I mean, couldnÕt any of us die early
and end up being revered by a bunch of other poets? Maybe heÕs not really all that interesting, but itÕs fun for
poets to say, ÒOh, have you read Ceravolo? No, of course not.
YouÕve probably never even heard of him!Ó?
I donÕt
think so. One thing Ceravolo isnÕt
is a cult of personality. Most of
us know hardly anything about the man himself. If asked to describe him to a sketch artist, I would have a
difficult time remembering the few pictures of him IÕve seen.
Part of
what makes Transmigration Solo the ultimate in cult books is that youÕll
probably never be able to find it.
In fact, unless you come upon a copy at a used bookstore, or someone
really amazing and awesome finally gets the money to reissue it, youÕre going
to end up spending hours down at a rare book room.
But
Ceravolo makes the trip worth it.
Written
in and about the Mexico of 1960, Transmigration Solo shows Ceravolo as
an outsider, the traveler.
Consider ÒIn Full View of SapphoÓ:
outside. I am caught up
in
you, I admit it.
How
different it all is.
Many of the poems
in Transmigration carry with them the sense of motion, though not necessarily a
direction. There are lots of
parks, images of birds and flight, as well as other elements of the natural
beauty of Mexico. ÒMigratory NoonÓ
invokes an image of the desert and Mexico City, where Ceravolo lived:
Cold
and the cranes
Cranes
in the
wind
like
cellophane tape
Ceravolo writes in
his introduction to Transmigration Solo that he Òhad never felt as strong a
connection between myself and a city.
Nothing could move me from there.Ó
CeravoloÕs
structures hang together, but barely, which seems out of place for someone who
is a civil engineer. The poems
seem to be leaning towards a set form, but seem to have missed some mark set by
the author (perhaps explaining the delay in his publishing of the poems). The forms dwindle quickly and what is
left is an often jarring nature to the poems, for example in ÒDescending the
SlopeÓ:
Do
you have guts?
Yes
I have guts and a balloon.
We
underestimate the process.
The poem
ÒTransmigration SoloÓ includes a reference to the character Arjun from Mahabharata:
See
the black bird
in
that tree
trying
out the branches, puzzled.
I
am up here with you
puzzled
against the rain
blinking
my eyes.
As a child, Arjun and
his brothers are practicing shooting with an arrow and a bow. The instructor asks each boy what he
sees in the tree and while others answer either ÒleavesÓ or Òa birdÓ, Arjun
responds that he sees the eyes of the bird. He is told to shoot and kills the bird instantly. I illustrate this point because I feel
that Ceravolo too sees his own direction, but that like Arjun, there is some
hesitation (later in the Mahabharata) that keeps the poet from achieving his
goals. However, in the end,
Ceravolo ends up where he should be poetically.
Transmigration
Solo,
I believe, is an attempt to remain in an older, less conversational style,
perhaps reaching back to Whitman more than other New York School poets
had. Where he differs, however, is
that in attempting to perhaps measure himself in terms of othersÕ writing, he
has created a new style for himself, explaining again why he is in many way
separated from other poets of his generation. While obviously others in the New School have gained more
prominence that Ceravolo, to an extent their poetry is now seen as much more
clichŽ than Ceravolo, perhaps due to the reputation of his poetry as being less
immediate and accessible. He does
not move towards a Confessional style, nor an aloof style, remaining in motion
around the two. Whomever
wrote the Wikipedia entry even says that his work is Òoften less directly
humorousÓ than other poets of the New School, suggesting that perhaps Ceravolo
lacks a friendliness to his poetry that allowed others such as Koch or OÕHara
to thrive while Ceravolo remains in the shadows.
I
doubt much of anything can be done to raise further awareness of CeravoloÕs
work as there seem to be various high hurdles. His family seems to be keeping
the proverbial lid on his work, perhaps happy with the minimal level of
interest others have in him. IÕve
talked with others who would love to see new editions of all his work, but
weÕre discouraged by othersÕ attempts at reaching CeravoloÕs wife. And while other works are more widely
available, such as Spring In This World of Poor Mutts or the selected
poems of The Green Lake Is Awake, a book such as Transmigration Solo is more or less a
rare find, and more than that, a rare piece of conversation.