Reviewed by: The Last Peacock by Gerald Dawe Jordan Smith The Last Peacock, by Gerald Dawe (Loughcrew, Oldcastle, County Meath: The Gallery Press, 2019, 55 p., paperback, $17) What to make of a diminished thing? Weldon Kees's Robinson poems, Donald Justice's "Tremayne" and "Men at Forty," pages of Philip Larkin, Walt Whitman shamefaced and begging—there is pleasure in the poetry of reduced expectations that maps the doldrums with precision, recounts their passage with the wry shrug of shared experience, commiseration, even affection. Or perhaps not the doldrums in Gerald Dawe's The Last Peacock, but a littoral zone, the indeterminate boundary where a country shelves off into the sea, an insular culture into a cosmopolitan one, memory into elegy. What is the risk of walking along this eroding strand? That the wind will carry your words away. [End Page 141] Unless you place them properly, squarely, a drystone mason's craft of exactitude, as in the opening poem, "East Pier": Not a bad day todayby all accounts. Little bitsof mist hang aboveour encampments— Like the view on a commonplace shoreline drive, much of this might pass without comment, except for the carefully canceled flatness of the first line's double negatives and the way the speaker deflects judgment to others "by all accounts," then reduces the romantic tourist standby of mist to shards, just before the encampments are revealed as villas wedged into cliff facethe grand terracesoverlooking the bay:an older order of things. Encampments, villas (of the noble sort), grand terraces invoke an older order of wealth-as-power; the same words in their modern Airbnb usage (just google "villas Ireland") suggest transience, the cliff-hanging of middle-class comfort and pretension and convention. The self-effacing (or is it self-mocking?) demotic tips the scales toward the latter, and yet the half remembrance of lost elevations underscores this complaint about complaints: Along with the sprightlythere's one or two giving out,on the latest iPhones,unassuageable complaint. The new order is designed in Cupertino and manufactured in China, but the lament of its subjects is an old one: nothing suffices, unless this does: I keep to the east pierunder this cold blanketof sky, patches of mistlike smoke from a fire. This is a slow trawl through a short poem, but you wouldn't want to walk this stretch of pier quickly; there is too much you might trip on (that slightly archaic "sprightly," say) and too much time involved, centuries of grievance going back from the dominance of the cell phone to the rise of the bourgeoisie to the smoky fires of encampments, each a stage in what never would turn out to be a liberation. There are similarly themed, equally deft poems in this collection that have less in mind—"Rock Bottom," "Neighborhood Watch"—but even at their briefest, [End Page 142] Dawe's sketches provide the clear satisfactions of concision and of a free verse line that is as deliberate in its composition as in its effects. This is the versification of the post–World War II generation, not the exuberant experiments of the early Modernists or the prosy nonchalance of our own time, but a line, carefully balanced between an ear for implicit meter and an eye for natural but emphatic phrasing, that served so well the directness of poets such as Donald Justice and James Wright and Elizabeth Bishop: At the Coal Harboura handful of trawlersnudge each otherin the swell, swooping gulls fallupon a crab shelland play. This is it.This be all. And that's it, "Rock Bottom," the whole poem, a plain postcard of a landscape except for the care with which the sounds are knit into the details. Two- to three-stress lines predominate, but no two scan alike, and some stretch, some contract. Syllables echo, consonant and vowel, and the full rhymes are so casual and so appropriate to the scene as to seem both accidental and inevitable. Imitation is at work here, not of the susurration of waters, but of the dialectic of nature's composition as Ralph Waldo Emerson described it...
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