Alchemies of Distance

Caroline Sinavaiana-Gabbard

I am sure there are readers out there who squeal with delight every time they pick up a book, open it, and find "America" spelled with a k. Well, folks, flock to this book, because you'll find it in abundance here. Keep the question in the back of your mind, though, why a poet-- someone who understands and communicates primarily through the written word, would feel that willful misspellings are both warranted to get across the message, and more important than communicating in such a way as to reach the greatest number of readers with the greatest understanding possible.

Ms. Sinavaiana-Gabbard's critiques of modern American culture are more than apparent without the willful misspelling. In fact, you'll be hard-pressed to find someone who reads this book and doesn't get the point. That, ultimately, is its biggest problem-- as with so many below-average books of so-called poetry, the message so often overrides the medium that the book becomes not poetry, but political screed broken up into short lines to make it look artistic. This is nothing new, and it's not overly shocking. What makes it all the more depressing in this case is twofold. First, Ms. Sinavaiana-Gabbard's introduction to the poems makes it obvious that she is exceptionally well-read in many different schools of poetry, and the lines she has chosen to quote from others to reflect different settings and feelings that drove her to write these poems makes it equally clear that her ear for poetry is far better than the voice she displays here; she knows how to recognize a great poem when someone else writes one, but falls very short in her own efforts time after time after time. The second thing is that when the hammer does hit the nail on the head, it drives it through the two by four and out the other side. Caroline Sinavaiana-Gabbard has written some astounding material here. For the most part, the images are washed away, quickly to be forgotten, by the political ranting, falling here and there in the screed like gold nuggets in the Colorado River. But the book's very last poem, "Pilgrimage," a haiku cycle, is like panning for those nuggets and suddenly discovering a solid-gold cast of Shelley's famous statue of Ozymandias. It's as close to perfect as some poets will ever get, closer than most. It is precise, observant, and profound, and it is a shining example of what this poet can do when she sets her mind to writing poetry. Worse, there's obviously a political message to be had from the poem, and like all great poems, "Pilgrimage" allows the images to speak, and lets the reader glean what's between the lines for himself.

Given "Pilgrimage," the rest of the book looks that much shabbier. Better to have left it out altogether and present a less-than-mediocre collection than to put it in and show what could have been.