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Black Threads

William Doreski Department of English Keene State College Keene, NH 03435-1402 wdoreski@keene.edu Black Threads, by Jeff Friedman. Pittsburgh: Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2007. $14.95 paper. ISBN 0-88748-460-3. “Truth or Death?”, the question asked at the end of “The Golem in the Suburbs,” could be the framing motto of Jeff Friedman’s fourth collection. The problem of negotiating between imaginative truth and autobiographical truth—one endowed with the immediacy and power of life, the other death-haunted—defines these poems. “Crow,” the concluding poem, acknowledges the hold death retains on life, even when pushed into the background, by “offering, // the corpses of mice and birds, / bundles of bones.” This ceremonial gift serves as a metonymy of Freidman’s many poems about a past troubled not only by the predictable death of parents but by the power of a Judaism that has passed beyond the issue of faith to become a potent, irresistible, but ghostly language. These past events and present forces together generate a poetic idiom shaped by the stern notes of the Torah and the casualness of the quotidian. The tension inherent in this idiom has a specific autobiographical basis, as “Night of the Rabbi” demonstrates: “No son of mine is quitting Hebrew school,” my father declares, pounds his fist on the table. Judah trembles in the South and glittery forks twirl in air like 5-pointed stars, and the rabbi closes his eyes as he rocks in the squeaky chair. In a most immediate sense Friedman has remained in Hebrew school all his life, so that even poems about work—and no one writes better poems about blue-collar work than he does—seem haunted by Old Testament imprecations. That stern morality glooms over the petty cruelties and dubious working conditions depicted in poems like “Late Shift, Minneapolis Welding Rod.” The resonance of these narratives of ordinary work derives from a Rousseau-like sense of imprisonment in culture (a consequence of Original Sin) and the uncomforting distance from nature, the cold world outside the factory. This is not to suggest that Friedman’s world is fixed and schematic. To the contrary: escape from the moral suasion of the past by means of confronting, incorporating, and transcending it empowers these poems. The collection contains several poems about the speaker’s mother’s dying days. The last two, “Beam” and “The Waiting Room at St. Mary’s Hospital,” allow the speaker to escape the tension of the situation: the first through a night-highway encounter with a fox, the second through an ambiguous engagement with children playing in the waiting room, oblivious to the offstage drama of death: As the kids hurled themselves into the open couch, laughing and screaming, I pointed my index finger, cocked my thumb, then picked them off, one by one. Is he entering into the spirit of play, or acting out his frustration and helplessness in the face of his mother’s imminent death? Probably the speaker himself isn’t sure. Because the story of the persona of these poems is the movement from an angst-ridden childhood of family drama and muddled religiosity to an equally angst-ridden but secularized adulthood, it is hardly surprising that the poems about Old Testament personae purge themselves of immanence. “Jacob and the Angel,” dealing with one of the most familiar of biblical mini-dramas, presents the angel as a reluctant seductress, “wrapping / her arms around her breasts.” When the speaker—Jacob—realizes that the angel is part of himself, he succumbs to his own vision, “falling beneath her.” This angel of the self is Jacob’s anima, a projection of his own apprehensions. This Jungian mode of reshaping familiar allegorical figures into psychic projections is one of the more striking aspect of Friedman’s poetics, but also commanding attention are his terse rhythms, which even in a long-lined poem like “The Long Heat Wave” generate a sense not only of compaction but dramatic urgency: Give me back the long heat wave, the sweat dripping from eyelashes, the stained blouses, the black windows, the spiders dangling from their silver bridges, the wasps lighting on the branches of the cedar bushes…. The rich imagery of this poem illustrates Friedman’s trust in the natural object to generate mood and atmosphere. At its best, this imagery can be dramatic and compelling, as at the close of “Summer of ‘69”: and the moons spun its terrible tale to the broken nests and the quiet feathers falling for miles smothered the dark fires of the street. The success of Friedman’s poetics derives from the ability of language to not merely represent but embody the stories it tells. While this implies that words are transparent to the world—a notion unpopular with linguists—this has always been the inescapable stance of poetry, endorsed by centuries of reader response. Like Ashbery and some of the other strong poets of our era, Friedman offers a model of secular redemption from the burdens of family, self, and religion through appreciation of the finely textured ecology of the material and social world. PAGE 3