The News - Jeffrey Brown

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is a credible, human-scale exchange of words between two people—traveler and hotel porter—along with a sense of the planet itself, in its astronomical scale. That concentrated vision of the local and the global is achieved partly by how the poem’s final words, “a wider world. // And you in it, you carried in it,” echo an earlier stanza:

      Uniformed, night-shifted

      a man crossing borders

      in the satellite’s beam—

      The satellite’s beam, transmitting news of the world, possibly illuminating as well, prepares the scale of the “wider world” one can enter, and be helplessly carried by: the human, social world and the planet, both irresistibly, necessarily in motion, reflected by rhythms of stanza and line.

      Another example of art, from “Haiti”:

      La Saline—the giant slum

      on a sun-soaked shit-soaked morning

      as the children filled their buckets

      from a makeshift well. The pigs

      scavenged while a rat watched

      all. Why bother to hide?

      The approximately three-beat lines begin with a rational juncture after “giant slum” and the same, a little more rapid, after “shitsoaked morning,” then more rapid again as the sentence strides across the line break, noun to verb, on “The pigs / scavenged,” and ending at the most violent enjambment: “while a rat watched / all.” The tension between line and sentence, reflecting the tension between poetry and fact, increases steadily. In the space between the observer and these plague-menaced children, the emotion builds.

      More than once, the poems deal with extreme situations by letting someone in the place and of the place have the last word. “Haiti” ends not with the poet’s voice but with the words of a man whose son was among the many who died: “I am a bird left without / a branch to land on.” Another poem, “Taha Muhammad Ali,” cites the Arab poet, who has said, “No ‘Palestine,’ no ‘Israel’ in my poetry /… but ‘suffering, longing, pain, fear.’” Taha Muhammad Ali, in the poem’s last words, presents a question: “Do you know the meaning of a meal?” This artful resolution by quoting, or attribution, is partly the resource of an expert interviewer. It is also a way of resisting resolution, a gesture away from various frames—the newsman’s viewfinder or screen, the poet’s page or stanza—toward the actual, bewildered, or bewildering texture of one person’s experience.

      That focus on particular lives also governs the sequence “Honor Roll,” which attends to particular soldiers and marines. Their deaths are against the backgrounds of Afghanistan and Iraq, along with the reported and imagined texture of each individual. The poems of the sequence are as direct and plain as snapshots.

      The News also includes poems based on the poet’s own life. Others are based on professional conversations with artists, including Mark Morris and Philip Roth. At the center of all, implicitly or explicitly, is the main concern: trying to see past the surface, past what the camera can show or mean. The recurring action is one of deferral rather than arrival—an acknowledgment that the very act of observing, every necessary effort to report, creates its own distortions. The last poem in the book, again set in Haiti, again ends with the words of someone other than the poet:

      In Kacite they passed out purification tablets

      displayed with pride their new latrine.

      A woman sweeping her dusty steps—

      asked to act naturally for the camera

      to act as though we’re not here—

      more honest and aware than us, replied:

      How can I pretend that you are not here?

      Was that not you who spoke just now?

      By honoring the human voice, Jeffrey Brown has brought a remarkable, fresh kind of attention to these questions of identity and presence, delusion and awareness—in the specific realm of television news and in life itself.

      Robert Pinsky

      Dedication

      To the porter in a Tucson hotel

      who took my bag and asked:

      Do you yourself love poetry?

      Uniformed, night-shifted

      a man crossing borders

      in the satellite’s beam—

      and now, he said, a reader of poems.

      Chance and change in a desert hotel.

      Imagine him there, the porter

      imagining a wider world.

      And you in it, you carried in it.

      Consider the camera, its gaze

      as long as the cloudless night

      focused yet false, distorted.

      Hear the story of the air

      the voices straining to breathe

      the sound of sand sifting away.

      Ask yourself the questions:

      Who what when where

      and why is the sky suddenly ash?

      Why the laughter, why the dead

      what the child said when asked

      who and where and why?

      Clarity, cliché—polished package

      that wraps the unwrappable.

      Here it is, your day.

      If it bleeds it leads

      and if it bleeds it feeds

      the want of eyes

      and I who bring you

      this festival of fear

      If it bleeds it leads

      and if it bleeds it sees

      the devouring eyes

      and I who recite you

      this carnival of crime

      If it bleeds it leads

      and if it bleeds it reads

      the hunger of eyes

      and I who offer you

      this parade of pain

      If it bleeds it leads

      and if it bleeds it needs

      the sanction of eyes

      and I who perform you

      this theater of theft

      If it bleeds it leads

      and if it bleeds it heeds

      the fickleness of eyes

      and I who play you

      this symphony of sin

      If it bled it led

      the broken the dead

      the aversion of eyes

      and I who sing you

      this lyric of loss

      “Epidemiologically this area is terrifying”

      La

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