Claire Bateman published her second and third books of poetry almost simultaneously in 1998: Friction (Portland, Oregon: Eighth Mountain Press) and At the Funeral of the Ether (Greenville, South Carolina: Ninety-Six Press). Like most of us, Bateman had some difficulty getting a second collection published, in the years following Bicycle Slow Race (Wesleyan, 1991), and she accumulated a large manuscript which became Friction (124 pages); At the Funeral of the Ether (64 pages) collects even more recent poems. Bicycle Slow Race was a moderately good book, I thought, but it didn't especially grab me. two new books are something else. There is a greatness caroming around in Bateman's two new books, a greatness flashing within and between many of the poems. I say this uneasily, because I try to maintain a conservative and even dourly guarded relation to the idea of greatness, cherishing it as a possibility even in the po-mo postcolonial worldwidewebbed carnivalesque cacophony of post-twentieth American culture, while remaining intensely skeptical of the claims made for most big-name (and middlesized-name) poets of the Seventies-Eighties-Nineties. A greatness in the work of Claire Bateman. Uneasily I say it, also because I've found myself hazarding the g-word in the past year with reference to several poems by Larry Levis, and The Glass Essay by Anne Carson. Am I getting soft? One indicator of the presence of greatness is that you turn to great writers instinctively in your effort to take the measure of the work at hand. Blake, Shelley, Whitman, Dickinson--such giants walked in my musing while I read Friction and At the Funeral of the Ether; not because of any facile allusions by Bateman but because of her fierce blatant obsessive engagement with the eternal theme of the relation between matter and spirit. Another g-indicator is that you want to ponder the poems over and over, you want to think and re-think about them, you're not content to rest in a cloudy overall impression; you sense there's a meaning waiting to be gathered, as you re-read the poetry, whose richness goes beyond the ideas you've had about any three or four individual poems. Of course, several big vague things would have to be said (about alteration of one's essential sense of life, for instance) if the task were to define greatness, but luckily my hope now is just to show why Claire Bateman's two new books got me started on this g-buzz. everyone they started out enormous, even, some say, infinite. You could travel no, longer-- your whole life-- on a single one, never even catching a glimpse of the punctures marking entrance & exit. of course, things are different; the eyes of the Lord run to & fro throughout the earth seeking a wound small enough to match. This poem from At the Funeral of the Ether, though considerably shorter than most of Bateman's poems, displays characteristics which we'll notice frequently in her work. It seems to offer itself disarmingly as a transparent summarizing declaration of a familiar state of affairs-- As everyone knows, Now, of course, things are different... But its tone of conviction turns out to have an occult quality, professing an awareness of reality on such a vast scale, and with such strange assurance about its metaphor, that the too-popular word visionary seems called for. Like Blake's on, Mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau or Yeats's News for the Delphic Oracle, Bateman's poem startles us with its unexplained explanatory authority, whose confidence seems to disdain any decorative elaboration. Stitches is cosmogonic and cosmological, proposing an account of the making of the world and the principle of the world's ongoing condition. …