Arse poetica!: A Junket Through Jill Stengel's lagniappe
(Dusie Kollektiv/Nous-zot Press, 2009)

Red keds needed for this read, I find myself "whisked" through Jill Stengel's word-weave of memory-magic, childhood associations at every turn (of the page), the dream already dreamed, a Kristevian chora, whose ultra-soundscape gives way to a playground of plosive children and the liquid nothingness of sugar-plum sleep. It's here, "I I I I I I I" find myself, all prinked up in pink tights to "follow my own arabesque" on a jaunt through Stengel's "glissando arcade." Lagniappe is a miniscule book of poetic prompts–picture the cover's yin-yang rattlesnake, coiled ever so sweet as any Valentine heart, flashing BEWARE!–these poems may appear minimalist, but they are set to strike on a multiplicity of levels. Stengel provides a bare-bones gestalt of image and word associations, the framework for each individual reader's unique textual interpretation.

Lagniappe is a baedeker through one's own imagination. It is a book to be read as one might take in a glass of prime wine, swished slowly in the mind, if one is to appreciate its nuances, its subtle bouquet. It's pages are a labyrinth (see the cover image again) through which one rambles, as in dream–a meditative, nonlinear (try reading it backwards, or simply open this little gem to any random page) experience. Here, let's give it a try: and so, I light on "bandolier / gondolier / panda bier [joke] [poke] / sag paneer." I am in a soundscape of extremes, vibrant alto "ee"'s juxtaposed with deep bass "o"'s, mirroring the overall form of the book's focus on gaps (that Kristevian chora, the womb from which meaning arises). My pink tights have given over to a pirate costume. One eye patched I pole the River Styx, my bandoleer of extra camera batteries strapped for images galore, pet panda bear bold beside me. The sag of time hangs in the air, and I remind myself of the absurdity, the joke, the hilarity of a life lived long and full of. . . . something I appreciate about Mina Loy's poetry, and that's where I am now, in Loy's world of articulations inarticulate articulated intelligently, a homage to the feminine (Cixous' feminine body pasted in kindergarten on the page), a "poke" at the patriarchal structure. Stengel's book is for the lover of "jovial jeepers" and personal association. Each poem reflects the whole; each its own portal (like "eight doors to the outside" of Stengel's own "funny little house"), each its own "leprechaun" bidding "we we you you we we you you" enter. Find the entrance to "jazz," or "flowers," or "music," or "trees," and doodle in your own impressions; Stengel gives you the page. Readers googling for spoon-fed images will be disappointed–"dear sir, get over yourself–" this is not the book for "he she it." Stengel's is a coloring book; bring your own crayons.

Langniappe offers "a little something extra," in the most ironic sense; it opens worlds of possibilities for the "we you him her they us" with a "kittenish need" for plenty of "quirk" and "quack." Most interesting, perhaps, is that this little book is certainly an "accretion," transcending the gaps to honor the individual reader's own imaginative "process." And indeed, on some level, this is a book about process. One need not indulge in theoretical concerns to appreciate Stengel's wee-big book, however. Simply throw on a pair of old sneakers, and come dressed for play. "Loopalooza," what a "doozy," "beefalo," "viola."

Ekleksographia:
Wave 4.1.c

August, 2010

Review

Rhonda dean Robison

Rhonda dean Robison, English professor and poet, specializes in language-play. Her poetry has been published in a variety of media, including journals, such as, Knock, 27 Rue de Fleures, and Moondance; a collaborative chapbook, Other Sticky Valentines; and a film, Acadie. She teaches at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette.