by Jay Rafferty
Perspective, like gender and cats, is a forever fluid thing. In September I observed this truth nowhere clearer in print than from the movement of the poems found in Constance Bacchus’ chapbook collection Swirl. The physical perspectives of the images depicted and those from the Lyric I’s view are constantly in motion, regardless of your reading speed. It’s like when you’re a kid and notice for the very first time that the clouds aren’t stationary when you look at them hard enough for long enough. Bacchus captured that feeling and bottled it, or I should bound it.
For you nitty-gritty technical-terminology types I should say this affect is achieved primarily through the lack of periods and (for the most part) traditional punctuation. In an odd but effective visual the poet consistently uses keyboard shorthand rather than words, such as replacing “with” for “w/” and having ampersands in place of ands throughout the collection. Also, the compelling and curious use of enjambment feel just like being caught in one of Swirl’s clouds. However, although these poems are constantly in motion it doesn’t feel quite distinctly like stream of consciousness. While that aul Modernist argument could be made for some pieces (‘firecracker coulee blue’ and ‘flooding’ spring to mind), the collection as a whole read like erratic experimental snapshots, like a drone caught in hurricane. Take for instance ‘written by candlelight when the power went out’. The constant repetition of “the dark & the rain// & water” in the first few stanzas is hypnotic, it reads like a prayer or an incantation, like something learned off but not understood, repeated to oneself in times of trouble or need, in a storm for instance.
This collection is truly captivating. It’s a window into the soul of every storm chaser, into the integral Rube Goldberg-esque machinery of nature and the very small seating gallery that still likes to watch it unfold. If you’re in that minority, like myself and Bacchus, you’ll undoubtedly appreciate Swirl. Did I have a favourite poem in this collection? I did. Am I gonna tell you what it is? No. But what I will say is when you get to a stanza shaped like the Grand Canyon, you’re getting warmer.
Jay Rafferty is an uncle, an Irishman and an eejit. He’s the poetry editor for Sage Cigarettes Magazine and a Best of the Net Nominee. You can read his poems in several journals including Dodging the Rain, Lights on the Horizon and the Alcala Review. When not playing games of pool he, sometimes, writes stuff. You can follow him on Twitter @Atlas_Snow.
