Michael Earl Craig's Poetry

In the spring '72 issue of The Seventies, Robert Bly told us that there are two types of surreal poetry: leaping poetry and hopping poetry--lines that leap in disparate associations from the emotional psyche to haunt and disturb the readers by challenging rational thought and the dominant culture; and lines that have a sense of play, wit and fun in their associations but don't jump very far and aren't very committed to "the inner world" of the Other. In all of his Neo-Lutheran gravity, Bly comes down sqarely on the side of socially defiant(Spanish-speaking) leapers and poo-pooes the French hoppers and American counterparts like John Ashbery, Frank O'Hara, and the St. Mark's or New York School--and, by extension, James Tate and Michael Earl Craig.

What I like about Michael Earl Craig's poetry in "Yes Master" is that, frankly, he doesn't give a flying fuck. When he says "yes, master" in his poetry, he could easily be mouthing off to the somber, indignant unconsious of Bly and his Spanish leapers--as well as his own. He doesn't mind letting us know that he's not rationally in control of his poetry, so if it's witty, sardonic, and hops, well, what the hell is HE supposed to do about it, write in accordance with some doctor's prescribed form of the unconscious? "It's as if the nurse has adjusted my cheeks/with the cotton balls, has turned/in her chair to shop at Nordstroms,/and my open eyes begin to ice over like bird baths."

The act of writing poetry is so selfconscious that only an idiot would pretend that he/she's the oracle of his/her uninterrupted libido. I mean "What is the word/for when a nun rolls a boulder/away from the mouth of a cave or tomb?" What if, when you pick up cashews, you "roll/them over and over,/examining their little/spines, searching for eyes/and assholes/and so on"? Are you supposed to pretend it's not happening because it doesn't seem profound? Craig sums it up well, "I'll just have to keep typing/toward you, who are unhappy/with my driving. Understanding/that when a lover is undoubtedly dead,/her shoes will fall off."