Rare photo of Russell Edson as a young man
As America's foremost prose poet, Russell Edson (1928-2014) counts a number of chapbooks, plays, short stories, fables along with two novels and many full-length prose poem collections to his credit. For most readers, when it comes to Russell Edson, the prose poems are the thing - and for good reason: Edson's prose poems are short (usually less than a page), pithy, powerful and oh, so very accessible. Here are two examples:
FATHER FATHER, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
A man straddling the apex of his roof cries, giddyup. The house rears up on its back porch and all its bricks fall apart and the house crashes to the ground.
His wife cries from the rubble, father father, what have you done?
THE LONELY TRAVELER
He's a lonely traveler, and finds companion in the road, a chance meeting seeing as how they were both going the same way.
. . . Only, the road had already arrived at its end; like a long snake, its eyes closed to the distance, asleep . . .
One can ask: What kind of writing did such a unique poetic voice produce in his younger years, prior to hitting upon his distinctive, highly original prose poems? The answer is provided in Ceremonies in Bachelor Space, a collection of short-short stories, poems and notes originally published in 1951 when Edson was a lad of 21. And there's great news: this collection is currently republished by Tough Poets Press in a handsome, affordable edition.
The pieces are quirky, prickly and oh, so very Edson. As by way of example, below are the beginning of two of the stories, the first lines of two poems and two of the notes. I highly recommend this collection, most especially for Russell Edson fans.
THE FEAR
I am going to the hills. I have finished my stay here. They ask me where I will go; I do not know; but that I crave hills, I shall be that place of hills.
How I miss this landscape - the shadow-drift of the area. Shadows gaining into the mind, engraved there as scenery of the mind.
THE VILLAGER
I have an ugly face though my mother and father were considered good looking. They say, I must be a throwback to some rather ugly ancestor, who, being so long ago, is not remembered by any in the village, though I imagine many in the village sit at night trying to recall the ugly ancestor of mind. Of course it is none of their business; but they feel it is, since all of us in this village are related somewhat to each other, and they feel it is in a way a village blemish. Their thought is obviously totalitarian.
OH MOTHER MOTHER IT IS BROKEN
Oh mother mother it is broken
Trees and days
And leaf taken
And the clatter
And the sky bladder
And mother
And all sky
And all things
Such as things seem
REMEMBRANCE
A wingless person walks
on the scopes of land,
Unvisioned as we see,
And rarely so
And so constant of the forest -
Til perhaps the house beyond the sight -
And he submerges in a rock or valley below -
Stumbles on the saplinged hill -
Enters behind a window and is still.
NOTES
Salid is a green and glorious death; eat it, turn it earth. Turn your head - Speak; and deliver not the greenery on your breath when you speak so
. . . Nor rump-steak recall most vivid bull who fought to lead, and now lies passive to my plate. Nor drapes recall the fields of flax. Relax, for the wine is not grape nor wine nor sun; nor anything . . . . . Speak!
I remember when first I stopped in spring and heard little winters filling my mind; then was your name applauded in my lips, as babbler harlot, I caught all things to heart.
Till land is rust: my autumn come.
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