Necessary Myths
Grant Clauser
The Broadkill River Press
ISBN: 978-1-940120-92-8

Reviewer: Amy Small-McKinney


          On the cover of Grant Clauser’s book, Necessary Myths, winner of the 2013 Dogfish Head Poetry Prize and published by The Broadkill River Press, is the image of Romulus and Remus. You might remember that Romulus and Remus were twin brothers suckled by the she-wolf, that Remus died, and Rome was founded. Out of tragedy, Rome was built. In his poems, Clauser offers few other guarantees. All we can be sure of is that humans destroy and create and then tell ourselves and each other whatever we must to endure. In the title poem, “Necessary Myths,” one brother places a hand over his suffering brother’s mouth:

And in the morning,
after collecting and washing the eggs
walks the mile to his neighbor
to borrow a suit.

It’s hard, yes, to love
the stone in your shoe
when your whole life
is spent walking.

          The living brother is compelled to continue his daily tasks, no matter what. Throughout Clauser’s book, we encounter this implicit prescription—we must go on with our daily work of being alive, no matter. Like a river, we proceed, sometimes wild, sometimes calm. Clauser gives us that much hope. Reminiscent of the American philosopher Henry Bugbee, he shows us the importance of place, of tasks, and of nature. His poems are imbued with a similar Western-Taoist worldview. It strikes me that Clauser is both old-fashioned and incredibly audacious. 

          And, always, there are hands. Hands kill. Hands bury. Hands tie knots or catch catfish. In his poem, “Remains of Two Infants Hidden for 65 Years in the Basement,” Clauser tells us:

The real ghost is gravity
like her hands pulling
the world together
as they pull it apart.

          Because terrible things happen, because we harm one another or the world harms us, humans then decide that anything, even the myths we tell ourselves, are undeniably true. In the first poem of the book, Clauser begins, “If it’s true.…” 

          Later, in the poem “The Sea Mother,” Clauser writes:

and I will be here
in the last brackish light
of sea birds
telling you everything
you believe
is true.

          Sometimes, it is clear that what humans choose to believe constitutes a danger or even evil. But, throughout this book, Clauser expresses a sense that what we need to believe as true in order to survive and persist is usually good enough. 

No Geometry

There are tools to measure the rightness
of angles, the trueness of wheels,
but no geometry more reliable
than this river revealing the slow
erosion of solid things, and how much
we miss when not paying attention
to water’s cold melody over rocks.
The commitment it takes just to watch
the young leaves breathe in the wind
lets us forget our small suffering loves,
our soft skin and short time.

          Clauser believes in nature, its woods, rivers, stones, and in the fragility and resilience of loving his wife and his daughters. And always, he returns to the hope of those hands—the complicated simplicity of hands. 

We have the tent, staked
through rocky ground, leaves
swept clear and a fire ring
for later, for tending with sticks
and marshmallow, the sweet
on our fingertips, the round
of our lips. From what our hands
have held, we bring the pot
and water, the match and heart,
you moving through smoke
and me tying the boat to a tree.
From what our hands have done
we make evening, the gray
it spreads on grass and petal
the pulse it weaves into wind.
The more our hands have held,
the more we want, the more
we taste, the more we thirst,
the more we leave behind,
a warm mark on the ground,
embers smoking in the ash.

(“From What Our Hands Have Done”)

          The myths and rituals we create to survive, and to keep our lost ones close to us, protect us against the knowledge that there are few guarantees except danger. Danger lurks everywhere in this book—drowning, the possibility of falling from the edge of massive rocks, a miscarried brother, cancer.  In his poem, “Happening Again,” Clauser listens for danger:

Is that a lion stalking in the attic
or just the wind
arranging itself on the roof?
A white flag tail
of warning spreads
across your face.

          But, we will be okay; we have the sweet repetition of humanness. In “Dragging Wood for the Fire,” Clauser shares the ritual of gathering wood for a fire with his daughter. I sense that he hopes this memory of wood-gathering, this myth they are creating together of father and daughter keeping fear at bay with fire, will sustain her. He begins his poem:

I give her the smaller branch
we find along a trail, back
from the lake, light shrinking
to small orange tongues on the water.

and later in the poem says:

Rough bark and rot
stain her hands.
I know it won’t wash easily.

          In spite of it all, in spite of brutality, randomness, loss, Clauser is grateful for life, and Necessary Myths is a truly affirmative collection, ultimately a testament to the beauty of life. I will end with this remarkable poem, “Practicing Gratitude.” In spite of everything that occurs during a life, there is room for gratitude.

Practicing Gratitude

Not the water, but its conversation
against the creek’s rocks
like a cat against a post.
Not the cat, but the puma stealth
of its shoulders as a breeze
shimmers light over its fur.
Not the light, but the way grass
changes color throughout the day
as the sun shifts its point of view.
Not the grass, but the pink lines
it leaves on skin, impressions
like footprints on your back
as you rise up from the ground
to look around at the day
for the first time and notice
it all over again.