Dancing In Odessa,
Ilya Kaminsky. Tupelo Press, 2004. 58 pp. $16.95
reviewed by Eric Gudas
Ilya
Kaminsky’s infectiously ecstatic poems waltz through the boundaries of the
everyday world into the world of myth, as if there were no division between
the two. Dance figures not only in the title of Kaminsky’s debut book,
Dancing In Odessa, but in the poems’ lilting rhythms and compelling
images: “naked in her galoshes she waltzed, / and even her cat waltzed.”
Twenty-seven year old Kaminsky, who emigrated to the U.S. from the former
Soviet Union as a teenager, writes in an English that revels in its own
awkwardness: “[T]o the rhythm of snow / an immigrant’s clumsy phrases fall
into place.” The appeal of Kaminsky’s poems stems from their ability to
turn that “clums[iness]” brilliantly to their advantage in passages that
flirt with banality before side-stepping it:
Love, a one-legged bird
I bought for forty cents as a child, and released,
is coming back, my soul in reckless feathers.
O the language of birds
with no word for complaint! —
the balconies, the wind.
In
a passage like this, Kaminsky demonstrates a “reckless” willingness to break
all rules of North American poetic propriety and — somehow — to make it
work, and sing.
Lest Kaminsky begin to sound like a blissfully innocent naïf, unaware of his
own skill, I hasten to mention Dancing In Odessa’s many homages to
such writers as Celan, Mandelstam, Montale, and Brodsky. These homages,
which comprise roughly half of the book, demonstrates Kaminsky’s eagerness
to situate himself in a lineage of the twentieth-century witness-poets whose
strengths rest both in the political sweep of their work and in
extreme idiosyncrasies of style. Oddly enough, however, these literary
tributes betray Kaminsky’s youth more than his poems about love and family.
It is difficult to makes poems about other poets as compelling about poems
about one’s own experience—even when, as seems the case with Kaminsky, the
experience of reading and identifying with Mandelstam et al is as
much an experience as eating. Indeed, the best poem in Kaminsky’s sequence,
“Musica Humana: An Elegy for Osip Mandelstam,” contains a recipe for “‘Cold
Mint-Cucumber Soup.”
In “Praise,” the book’s closing poem, Kaminsky triumphantly claims, “I have
learned to see the past as Montale saw it.” If the claim is perhaps less
compelling to the reader than to Kaminsky, there is, nonetheless, optimism
and joy to spare in Dancing In Odessa. The book’s title section, and
the sequence of love poems “Natalia,” contain enough verve for an entire
book. I love the presence of Aunt Rose in these poems — “From her mouth, a
smell of wild garlic — / She moves toward me in her pajamas / arguing with
me and herself.” At their best, Kaminsky’s poems compel us to feel, “How
magical it is to live!” (35).
Eric Gudas's
poems have appeared in American Poetry Review, Iowa Review, Southern
Review, and other journals.