This little book of poetry is a brilliant conceit, with some nuggets of genius and quite a few moments in which the endeavor falls flat.  Anthony Caleshu, a New England-born poet currently based in the U of Plymouth in the UK, has taken Moby-Dick and hashed it into a short book of poems.  I remember finding the first, and best, of these lyrics in the TLS a few years ago —

I am imagining what you are imagining

To be conscious of your head is to be conscious of what it might

hit: a table’s corner, a fire surround.  When your head hits my head,

we see a picture of a whale that is not a whale at all…

The book’s full title, from Melville’s chapters 56-7, lay out the poet’s ambition to hitch a ride on the whaleman’s manic journey: Of Whales: In Print, in Paint, in Sea, in Stars, in Coin, in House, in Margins.

The sub-story in these poems appears to involve a father & a newborn son, and at times its cozy domestic drama strains against the Melvillean grandeur.  No reason these things can’t be made to fit together — but they don’t, here.

Which leaves the best bits as the most explicit engagements & pastiches of Melville: a great poem that admits that Bulkington “might be our favorite chapter” (30), another on Charles Olson’s “two Moby-Dicks” theory of the late-breaking creation of Ahab (43), some fine descriptive poems based on illustrations from 19c whaling manuals, one of which appears on the cover.  Also a concluding plea not to sink too deep into obsession: “We remind ourselves that it is just a book, even if it tells the story of our lives” (66).

My favorite moment concerns Melville’s sister Augusta, left at home with the task of “making fair my brother’s cryptic hand.”  She reads with interest an episode in which the crews joys in their triumph over the White Whale.  which leads her to make a few changes —

Without Herman looking over my shoulder, and remembering the words of Augustine, it occurred to me that God’s fair hand was only as good as his heavy one.  So I duly sunk the Pequod and Ahab and all but the storyteller from the whole heathen crew.

That’s the way to read a great American novel!  We should do this sort of thing to other texts.  Don Quixote is the obvious choice, or The Tempest, or maybe Cortazar’s Around the Day in Thirty Worlds…

I wanted to like Jorie Graham’s Sea Change more than I really like it.  I firmly believe in addressing our climate crisis with poetry as an important tool, and I also like the visual experiment of her two-pronged lines.  The very long lines spilling on top of the very short lines — the left margin of the shorter lines begins in the middle of the page — creates a compelling asymmetry, a disorder or partial order that mimics the ecological processes she’s writing about.  But the gaze remains too earth bound to really wow me.

She’s got some nice lines here, driven by careful focus and particularity of vision, as when she writes about the boundary between self and world through recognizing

how the world is our law, this indrifting of us

into us, a chorusing in us of elements, & how the

intermingling of us lacks in-

telligence…

Perhaps it’s just that my blue water vision balks at too many leaves & branches, but the stronger poems here are really about midwestern winters and out of season blooms.  She has one pretty good invocation of the deep blue in the poem “Full Fathom” —

…hiss of incomprehensible flat: distance: blue long-fingered ocean and its

nothing else: nothing in the above visible except

water

Of course I stumble over her “flat,” which is what the surface of the ocean never is, but she makes nice hash of Ariel’s anthem — “those were houses that were his eyes”; “there is a form of slavery in everything” — and struggles compellingly with the imposing meta narratives of climate change.

What I’m looking for is deeper and less familiar, I’m afraid.

This novelistic portrait of the Sundarbans, the massive swamp delta and mangrove forest at the mouth the Ganges on the border of India and Bangladesh, overflows with riches, including a smartly-handled love triangle that involves an American grad student doing field work on river dolphins, a fisherman with whom she shares no common language, and an urbane, egotistical translator who is also a descendent of the idealistic Indian couple who built the only hospital in the area.   Plus a wonderful political back-plot of exploitation and eco-politics, a through-line about translation of Rilke, some gorgeous descriptive writing, and perhaps the best storm scene I’ve come across in 21c English prose.

No reason not to start with the storm.  It arrives as a plot-mechanism and in due course clears the overcrowded decks of the love plot.  But part of the appeal of this novel is to employ traditional devices — poetic allegory?  symbolic animals? a brutal land-grab? — in ways that don’t have to be novel to be moving.  When our triad gets separated by the storm, with the wordly translator wading ashore in Lusibari and losing an important manuscript in the flood, while the dolphin-researcher and the fisherman cling to the top of a tree during the two phases of the cyclone — first before, then after, the stillness of the eye — it’s impossible not to be transfixed by sheer narrative force, a whirlwind in itself.  What happens simply must happen, or so the narrative makes us believe in the middle of the storm —

But something had changed and it took Piya a moment to register the difference.  The wind was now coming at them from the opposite direction.  Where she had had the tree trunk to shelter her before, now there was only Fokir’s body.  Was this why he had been looking for a branch on another tree?  Had he known right from the start that his own body would have to become her shield when the eye had passed?…She could feel the bones of his cheeks as if they had been superimposed on her own; it was as if the storm had given them what life could not; it had fused them together and made them one. (321)

There are other great touches here, including a wonderful description of a grad student finding a life’s project in obscure but meaningful research — “it would be enough; as an alibi for a life, it would do” (106) — plus a great poetic image of the tide country as a book whose pages dissolve everything they encounter, including themselves (186).

An interesting eco-twist on the political plot also: poor refugees are displaced and eventually massacre because the area on which they are squatting must be preserved as a wildlife refuge.  Which leads to some interesting speculation about political, if not biological, differences between humans and animals —

As I thought of these things, it seemed to me that this whole world had become a place of animals, and our fault, our crime, was that we were just human beings, trying to live as human beings always have, from the water and the soil.  No one could think this a crime unless they have forgotten that this is how humans have always lived — by fishing, clearing land, and by planting to soil.  (217)

Plus I have always loved river dolphins, ever since I caught the barest glimpse of one on the Mahakahm River in Borneo, when I was sitting on top of a river ferry in early 1990.  Ghosh, oddly, does not mention that the Orcaella brevirostris also lives in Indonesia.