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Alban Lake, 2017. 24 pp. $6 paperback; $1.99 Kindle. albanlake.com
I’ve read a lot of G. O. Clark’s poetry, but I can’t remember a collection I enjoyed as much as this one. Clark takes all our favorite robot tropes: Robby the Robot, Asimov’s Three Laws of robotics, Gort, Bradbury’s the Electric Hound, and even the Tin Man, and puts them into a collection that covers a lot of our hopes and fears about our A.I. friends.
It never occurred to me that Baum’s Tin Man is indeed an A.I., but Clark makes that clear in his simply titled “The Tin Man”:
He’s heard tales
about the wizard, who
performs miracles in the
mythical city they just happen
to be traveling to. A good heart
specialist would be more logical,
but he lacks insurance
Ah, yes—that’s always the case with robots, isn’t it? Their logic is superior to ours, or at least they consult it more than we do. And speaking of heart, here’s a stanza from a poem that is right after my own clockwork one, titled “The Steam-Powered Robot”:
The steam-powered robot
is from another era, one where he still
had time to dream at night, the 24/7
work week not yet standard.
There’s no shortage of sexbots in this book, either; mostly they are treated with humor, although “Lady Robotica” is pure horror:
Your bones are but
balsa wood in her embrace,
and your flesh a practice hide
for this tattoo artist’s painfully
With all the fun ideas there is some lovely imagery, too, as in “Distant Target”:
The engines of darkness
are idling in the night, awaiting
the slow alignment of the stars,
I’d say that Clark does a pretty good job combining robots from popular culture with the conflicting emotions we have about the whole idea of mechanical men and artificially intelligent beings. This is accessible poetry, and I’d highly recommend the book not only to poetry readers who are SF fans, but also to robot fans who have yet to see how much fun poetry can be. So score this one highly for me, as it’s the kind of book I’d give as a gift to any robot fan.
But just as I’m about to smile and say how fun this one is, I reread the selection titled “It’s All in the Programming.” Perhaps Clark hasn’t been talking about robots at all, at least not completely…
It’s a discontented robot
who lounges upon an old park bench,
head propped against the rusty, cast iron arm,
all too aware of the waking nightmare
of existence, wishing its processors
would just fail.
In the end, robots are just reflections of those who made them. Nothing makes that clearer that this set of highly enjoyable poems.
Built to Serve: Robot Poems is a book of great science fiction ideas. If one of the keys to speculative poetry is to speculate, or ask questions, then G. O. Clark spreads his imagination wide and asks some bizarre questions about robots. How would electricity taste for a robot? What would a robot be like if it were a Luddite? What would a robot prostitute be like for a human being well past one hundred years of age? What would a peeping Tom see if he caught a robot undressing? Clark attempts to answer these and other questions with his poems.
Unfortunately, Clark’s craft is not up to the task. His poems suffer from basic flaws. For example, Clark’s lines are littered with abstractions that leave the reader with vague impressions of his visions, but little else. Describing a robot Casanova in the poem “Built to Serve,” we are presented with a robot who
is ever ready to serve
its mistress, and
is fully functional,
programmed in the arts
of pleasure, classic
Lines like these possibly allude to something sexual, but the language is so hazy and unformed as to mean almost anything. This sort of language seems especially prevalent at the end of Clark’s poems. There seems to be an idea that ending on abstract language sums the poem up in some profound way. So a poem about robots preparing to build the human bodies of their masters after a long space journey ends with the fuzzy lines “memory banks ready/to download the essence of those/too finite to go the distance,” which provide a vague understanding of the scene at best, but offer the reader no way in to the poem, no way to experience the situation for themselves.
Occasionally, Clark produces a stanza of strong imagery or language. For example, describing a robotic dance that occurs while the humans are still in cryosleep, he writes
Bathed in red light,
the robots twirl beneath the
view-ports, whirl about like dervishes
before their god, gravity and
the dance intensifying.
While not perfect (“dervishes” is a particularly weak and obvious vehicle for “whirl”), there is at least some visual imagery here for the reader to participate in. There’s also this section from the poem “Museum Piece,”
He has a coffee pot
for a head,
an aluminum hot water urn
for a body,
two stainless steel, conical
lamp shade breasts,
arms and legs shaped from
miscellaneous pipes and scraps,
and a billowing skirt made from
an aluminum saucer-sled.
Again, readers can clearly visualize this robot. Examples like this are rare, and stand out all the more so for it. It’s clear that Clark can use imagery, but for some reason chooses not to in the bulk of his poems, and the reader suffers for it.
Apart from the issues with the poetry, there are clear editorial and design issues as well. The pages are littered with basic errors, from missing or unnecessary punctuation to some misspelled words. While one might expect one or two of these errors in any given text, the overabundance of them here makes the reading and enjoyment of the poems difficult. The biggest issue, though, are the three two-page ads for Clark’s other books on the press. These are major distractions for the reader. One argues that song lyrics are poetry, which is problematic in itself, and uses some of the most unpoetic lyrics to prove its point and sell Clark’s other book. The other two ads are for Clark’s fiction books, and have nothing to do with poetry at all. The overall effect of the ads and other issues is that this book is merely a vehicle to plug Clark’s other works, and that the poetry is secondary to the money.
There are a host of other problems in this book, from clichéd language to misunderstandings with poetic form to ineffective line breaks. Primarily, though, the abstract language and extreme lack of imagery is what separates this book from the reader, and that’s a shame, because the ideas behind these poems have a lot of potential and deserve to be explored fully. Ultimately, this is a collection of really great questions and concepts that are poorly executed.
Crystal Lake Publishing, 2017. 245 pp. $3.99 ebook. CrystallakePub.com
Over the years, Bob Frazier and Bruce Boston have written poems and short stories set in the mutant rain forest, a fantastic place of dangerous wildlife, both animal and vegetable. Visions of the Mutant Rain Forest brings that narrative together, a history in prose and poem of what happens when nature’s limits are not just exceeded, but torn apart. The book contains 8 stories and 39 poems, some written in collaboration, some by Boston or Frazier alone. I’ll focus in this review on the verse. Full disclosure: I’ve published poems by both of these authors in Dreams and Nightmares.
From “Night Fishing on the Caribbean Littoral”
I’ve heard a Carib whisper of stunted duendes,
hairy four-fingered throwbacks who fly the canopy,
fleeting as ghosts, and “cut de t’umbs of de unwary,”
because “dey so bad wanna be like us, mon.”
I could have sworn that the Carib were exterminated long ago, but perhaps I am mistaken. Be that as it may, this account of a foray in questionable company, and perhaps straying a little too close to the mutant rain forest, takes the narrator into a sea where he can’t depend on natural law, known fact, or anything else. The rain forest spreads its arms and lunacy flourishes in its shadow. Human devolution is accompanied by every kind of evolutionary change that’s possible, but magnified and accelerated beyond all possibility of humanity to deal with it, or even apprehend it. Here, we doesn’t have to wait for bacteria to carry genes from a squirrel to a rat, or from maize to dandelions, one by one. Any two or more species can form chimeras, any can borrow traits and organs, capabilities and aspects, from any other. And they do. Visions of the Mutant Rain Forest are dark, as befits a book based on the (only slightly) outlandish idea that, one way or another, for our cavalier treatment of the planet there’ll be hell to pay.
From “Phantom Limb”
Flesh made of wingless bees
A skin of interlocking mites
In this way he strides home
On the rebirth of his sole
Some few do leave, returning, if not to sanity or normalcy, at least to humanity’s realm. There’s plenty of irony in Visions, but little out-and-out humor. So I hope you at least let out a chuckle. If this is the exception that proves the rule, what is the rule? Life may be grim, but it is surprising and wonderful as well. Keep your eyes open, and be ready to offer up far more than most would expect.
From “A Gourmand of the Mutant Rain Forest”
the pains which
rack his portly belly
do not lessen his desire
for spiny bone-white guavas
seasoned with banana moss.
The rash of radiation welts
which erupts upon his chest,
his throat and forearms,
does not delay his hunt
for the perfect table red
These poems are rife with imagery, as if attempting to capture on the page an ecosystem so complex and so unfamiliar that one book is not enough. Which is nothing but the truth. How much has been written about the mundane rain forest? Do we understand it yet? This poem is one of the few in Visions of the Mutant Rain Forest that does not take place in or adjacent to the forest itself. The gourmand has illicit rain-forest products imported to his home in a domed city. The domes are the only bastions of safety that remain in a world wracked by pollution. But what do the elites do? Perhaps it’s a form of cabin fever. Some explore the rain forest, usually coming to bad ends. Others bring the rain forest to them, with equally problematic results. This poem reminds me of Tim Powers’ Dinner at Deviant’s Palace, which features a dinner of similarly dangerous treats.
Frazier and Boston are doing the kind of worldmaking that usually calls for a novel. Or three. Imagine that trilogy torn apart, and most of it recycled. This is what’s left. Images, scenes, and sequences sampling a fecund world not so much mad, but alien. One senses that there are rules, there are reasons for trees with faces, cats with words, carnivorous butterflies, and so on, but we don’t know them. We can’t. They’re changing too fast for that.
So, I’m thinking that before it’s too late, you should buy this book. It won’t help you navigate a natural disasterscape, but it might help you prepare for one emotionally.
—David C. Kopaska-Merkel