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Spear-Fishing on the Chatanika

John Morgan

ISBN: 978-1-907056-24-6

Page Count: 138

Publication Date: Sunday, February 14, 2010

Cover Artwork: by Jim Orvik


About this Book

Spear-Fishing on the Chatanika: New and Selected Poems is the culmination of over forty years of writing by the distinguished Alaskan poet, John Morgan. It opens with a gathering of recent work, ranging from poems of family and travel to explorations of landscape, dream and history.  Generous selection from Morgan's three previous books, (each of which was chosen for publication in a national competition in the U.S.) follow, and the collection concludes with a moving sequence dealing with his son Ben's near-fatal coma due to encephalitis and the long term consequences of that illness.  Annie Dillard has written that Morgan's poems "are strong and full of carefully controlled feeling.  They are tender and precise evocations of the moral and sensory life of man."


Author Biography

Born in New York City, John Morgan studied with Robert Lowell at Harvard, where he won the Hatch Prize for Lyric Poetry.  At the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop, he was awarded the Academy of American Poets' Prize.  In 1976, he moved with his family to Fairbanks, Alaska, where he built a home overlooking the Tanana River, with a long view south to the Alaska Range.  Morgan has won the Discovery Award of the New York Poetry Center (92nd Street Y), held a John Atherton Scholarship at the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference and was a fellow at The Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, Massachusetts.  His work has appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, The American Poetry Review, The Paris Review, The New Republic, The Kenyon Review, Prairie Schooner, and many other magazines, as well as in more than twenty anthologies. He recently served as the first writer-in-residence at Denali National Park in Alaska.  His website is: www.johnmorganpoet.com


Read a sample from this book

Mourning Cloak

        Fairbanks, June 9, 2001
        for my son, Jeff, also a poet


Sandbars channeling the flow, a floatplane
skimming low above the river, and capping
the ghostly front range, purple avatars of snow.

Brooding on the strains of work and cash,
last night you called-one year of school to go-
and damned the tennis shoes that kids in

Guatemala make, whose lives we trample on.
I said, though better off, we still have labyrinths
of choice and chance to hunker through to shape

a life. A flicker on a tree trunk hammers
for a bug. Shaggy spruce logs dumped in shallows.
Smell of sage, no roses yet, an ancient

cola can blanched white, and moving in
behind a wobbly V of cranes, a late
Alaska jet. But why, you asked, do poets

speak a privileged tongue and paid-off schoolmen
skulk such shady paths? 'Is everything political?'
I said, knowing the way a line turns on

itself has lots to teach of tact and tactics
in the greater world. But spurning the merely
personal, 'Bullshit!' you explode. 'So what

if my grandma's dead, and suppose I write
of it-who'll give a fuck?' I sucked in breath,
feeling my heart beat fast, orphaned again.

Last March at her rainy grave site among
the Orthodox, easing our hurt with Hardy's
darkling thrush, we shoveled on farewells of dirt.

And now, by luck or art, this butterfly
intrudes-a mourning cloak, near black with
golden fringe and sash of azure stars, a shred

of night by day. I hear the buzz of bugs
awakening to spring and watch a busy
moth, ants trailing up a branch. Like gravediggers

who forge their drastic living from the dead,   
we schmoozed and argued half the night away.


Copyright © John Morgan 2010


Reviews

Review: Morgan's no-frills 'Spear-Fishing' an excellent poetry collection
by Libbie Martin / For the News-Miner
May 2010

FAIRBANKS - I always get excited when I discover a new, to me, poet. Some people like to unwrap presents - I unwrap poems, watching them unfold into pictures of another person's viewpoint. A good poet can take the most mundane subject and turn it into a lyrical vision, pulling me out of my mundane world into that vision.

So when John Morgan's new book, "Spear-Fishing on the Chatanika," arrived in my mailbox, I was elated. Not only was it a new book, it was a poet I hadn't read before, so I got a double package in which to delight myself.

You may wonder, "How do you make spear fishing poetic?" Not everyone can. But Morgan does, with his title poem, "Scouts Spear-Fishing on the Chatanika."

Cross-legged on the bank around

a stylish blaze our fathers counted coup -

how beautiful from the air

those cities lit by bombs,

the giddy godless scare

of elemental flack, blue sequins

on the black...

Equating the glistening fish with the "bursting" of bombs, this poem takes a few readings to really get its meaning. But it sticks with you - I found myself turning back to it several times as a phrase in another poem jolted some small understanding into my head.

Morgan takes on the typical Alaskan themes - boundless landscape, teeming wildlife, overwhelming beauty. But anyone can write poetry about that. What puts Morgan a notch above is the way he takes the usual and makes it unusual. In "A Little Night Music," Morgan begins:

Look, I can do the impossible:

I am driving a large yellow

bus backwards up this steep hill,

steering in reverse by the outside

mirror through the on-coming traffic,

avoiding the deflecting streetcar

tracks, the vans, bicycles, and so forth.

Perhaps this is the career I

missed out on - driving backwards

up a hill a large yellow bus.

Nothing prosaic here. Just a keen, observational eye and a way with words that makes me really jealous.

One of my favorite poems was "Cape Prince of Wales, Alaska: A Suite." With suite (and sweet) titles such as "Dead Walrus on the Beach," "A Village Littered with Bones," "Neighbors: Gossip," and "B.I.A. Housing," this poem, for me, was an excellent picture of Alaska today. The juxtaposition of modern and traditional, of Alaskan and Outside, of snowmachine parked next to dog sled, is a photograph of the history and legacy of Alaska.

In Suite 7, "Privilege," Morgan writes:

Awed by this place

the top of my head comes loose

and tears assault my eyes. Hairy

with impending ice-ages

I see the past arriving at

our shore: mammoths, mastodons,

and man. All

times are crowded into this

small village, its

magic, my privilege.

Morgan is at his best when he writes about the personal. He has numerous poems dealing with his family, especially his sons. One suffered a childhood debilitating illness that affected the entire family. Morgan writes of that time with all the passion and fear of a parent watching a child near death; but with a remarkable detached eye. He is able to see the little picture inside the big picture.

The final poem, "Spells and Auguries," is introduced by Morgan this way: "In November, 1993, without warning, our son Ben went into a coma. This sequence deals with his illness and its long-term consequences."

Straightforward, simple, truth. But the suite of poems that follows is anything but.

In "Prologue: Song for Ben," Morgan recalls a night ritual every parent knows:

The night sky bouncing with a thousand strands

of light, up and down the room I walk, holding

your warmth - blue bundle, chilly ears and hands.

Above us, in green shadow, the sleek Egyptian

cat, a plaster statuette you twist to smile at.

That simple scene is wrenched away with the second suite, "Sirens and Flashing Lights."

Your cry, half howl, half moan, rocks us awake.

That's a nightmare every parent dreads, and it resonates with fear, anguish, anger, and doubt. Morgan has captured a visceral emotion and given it voice, given it color. It made goose pimples rush up my back, and I dropped the book to call my three daughters, just to assure myself they were OK. They're all adults, but that fear never really goes away.

This is a poem in 24 parts, covering the extent of illness and recovery, from sitting in the hospital waiting for word, to flying his son to another state for treatment, to the doctor's angry "Why didn't you bring him sooner?" to the diagnosis - it's a road map for a family dealing with the disaster that is illness. Between the worry and the fear, there is the horribly routine - Who will pay for all this? Why am I signing all the papers again? Don't they listen?

Amazing how Morgan was able to put that into beautiful, simple but complex, lyrical words. They flow across the page, dripping the emotion, but not enough to distract the reader into wanting to clean them up.

In addition to 22 new poems, Morgan drew from several books for this collection, including "The Bone-Duster," "The Arctic Herd," "Walking Past Midnight," and "Spells and Auguries." This book is crammed with excellent poems. Morgan is my kind of poet - not frou-frou, not overly sentimental or maudlin, just a master of words. I will definitely be checking out the older books, and hope he writes many new ones.

Libbie Martin is a freelance writer who lives in Fairbanks, Alaska.


Review: "Reading the North", The Anchorage Daily News (Summer 2010)

This gathering of poetry is the culmination of over 40 years of writing about family, travel, explorations of landscape, dreams and history. Generous selection from John Morgans three previous books follow, and the collection concludes with a moving sequence dealing with his son Ben's near-fatal coma due to encephalitis and the long-term consequences of that illness.

'See his blueprint for a universe
which contracts as it cools.
There, the moon is a mirror
made of dust, a doll
shaken till one eye sticks open.'"


Review: The Midwest Book Review's Internet Bookwatch site:

"The man of Alaska has seen and done many things most others wouldn't even think of. "Spear-Fishing on the Chatanika" is a collection of poetry from John Morgan as he presents over forty years of his work and thought. Award winning work, "Spear-Fishing on the Chatanika" is a thoughtful and recommended collection. "The End": One gray animal walked to the edge of morning./The moon was behind it and the road/wound north, an infinite hill./And as there was simply no reason to proceed/with the project it had set out on days before, it sat down.//Eyes/are all I see of its gray face/staring into the morning/chilled past all desire/having at last come to the end."


Review: Spear-Fishing on the Chatanika reviewed  by Ann Chandonne tfor the Wild Goose Poetry Review

A mood of calm pervades every page of John Morgan’s latest collection, Spear-Fishing on the Chatanika. This sensitive, expressive book is a perfect example of Wordsworth’s idea of emotion reflected in tranquility–even at those high-tension moments when he describes being frantic about the health of a family member or recalls the frustrations and missteps of virgin sex.

I first encountered John Morgan’s work in Field’s 1979 anthology A Geography of Poets. It stood out then. Later I met Morgan (he taught at the University of Alaska Fairbanks for many years), and even participated in readings with him and other Alaskan poets in Juneau and elsewhere. He is also calm in person, and his students remember him fondly.

Morgan grew up in New York City. His experiences working in the Peabody Museum of natural history led to the title and several poems in his first collection, The Bone-Duster. Bones, ash and tenderness are constants throughout this larger collection, too. When spear fishing, the fisher never knows what threatening denizen will appear through the bubbles of surf and the tremulous strands of giant kelp. Morgan repeatedly surprises the reader with his images and with the sybillant clang of many of his final lines, as well as sudden whiffs of cinnamon, damp gears or spruce.

The difficulty with reviewing a book like Spear-Fishing on the Chatinika is that almost every poem calls out for its fifteen minutes of fame. “The Psychoanalysis of Fire” is notable for its arresting strings of multisyllable adjectives. “Spells and Auguries,” the 24-poem section for his younger son, struck with encephalitis, is freighted with medical terminology and stone-hard, one-syllable words as well as waking dreams and horrible possibilities. A teen deals with the siege of Leningrad, trying not to be overwhelmed by the gathering bodies of his family and the spectre of hunger. (Note the almost secret rhyme in these stanzas.)

Annie Dillard has written that Morgan’s poems are “strong and full of carefully controlled feeling. They are tender and precise evocations of the moral and sensory life of man.” Morgan reveals a human being built on a steely skeleton of responsibility, clothed in the flesh of painful consciousness. Over and over, he feels life “going deeper” until it is “salt in [his] pores.”

Although many of Morgan’s poems deal with the landscape of Alaska, where he spent decades, these lines visit many other countries and centuries. He has memories of Robert Lowell as well as a beach in Mexico. Often, as in “The Beach Walk at Port Townsend, Wa.,” he is trying to find the space to escape grief and guilt in order to find the right details, the right metaphors for all the other things in life he wishes to record. When he writes of Anton Webern “sickened by the recent loss of his son/strafed to death on a train,” his concern for his own son–strafed to coma by a sudden illness–surfaces like an unexpected episode of vomiting. The same lurch occurs when he writes “Walking Past Midnight” for a fellow poem whose infant daughter is stricken with meningitis.

Bike riders and bones in the ditch, pizza and Phenobarb, Morgan reaches right and left, backward and forward through time and space. His poems for his wife Nancy are especially touching, love poems being the hardest poems to write without turning honey into gall. His portraits of her innocence and bravery make an indelible impression on the reader. For instance, “Then” is one of the most honest and touching poem I have ever read. In another of his poems for her, “May,” the ripples, stipples, roots, kisses and chortles of nature come to fruition in the final line: “the tune the earth is singing to itself” –a tune that expresses his happiness in their continuing relationship.

At Harvard, Morgan won the Hatch Prize for Lyric Poetry. At the University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop, he was awarded the Academy of American Poets’ Prize. His work has appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, The Paris Review, Prairie Schooner and many other prestigious journals.

Spear-Fishing on the Chatanika is a collection to read and re-read with pleasure–watching for glass but sipping cocoa on the couch.

Ann Fox Chandonnet is a poet and non-fiction writer who lives in Vale, North Carolina. She is the author of Canoeing in the Rain (Mr. Cogito) and other poetry collections, as well as history and nonfiction such as “Write Quick”: War and a Woman’s Life in Letters, 1835-1867 (Winoca Press, Wilmington, N.C.)

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