Golems, dwarves and life in the factory

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Editor’s Note: Maine Bound is a column featuring new books written by Maine authors or set in the Pine Tree State.

THE NARROWS, by Alexander C. Irvine; Del Rey-Ballantine Books, 2005; 342 pages, trade paperback, $13.95.

Jared Cleaves has problems. While World War II rages, a childhood injury prevents him from enlisting in the Army. This shame has created a troubled distance between him and his wife. Trying to fulfill his patriotic duty, he toils thanklessly in one of Henry Ford’s factories. Plus, he has bad dreams.

All this seems straightforward enough, but we learn upfront in “The Narrows” that it’s not – Jared’s job is to sift through muck that is used to manufacture golems, which are artificial humans from the dark side of Jewish mysticism, shaped in mud and quickened by a supernatural spell from a rabbi. Jared’s assembly line is Henry Ford’s secret contribution to the war effort: The golems are being sent off to fight the Nazis.

Jared’s weaselly boss pressures him to pry information from his wife about what’s going on in a nearby factory. Soon Jared is at the center of a spy intrigue that he both fears (because of his wife and little daughter) and enjoys (because it makes him feel important to the war effort).

It takes a lot of energy to keep his family separate from the spy game. Yet the central difficulty is neither the family nor the spies, but the dreams. Jared, like his wayward dad, has visions of an obscene dwarf who (history has proven) foreshadows catastrophe in Detroit whenever he appears.

“The Narrows” is a crisply written, peculiar book. Its supernatural, “alternate history” subject matter resembles Philip K. Dick’s. Its ever-present dry humor is like John Nichols’. It depicts factory-worker life in 1940s Detroit with startling realism and sympathy, while its characters (and governments) unblinkingly accept golems, giants, imps and shamans as everyday facts.

Whether all these elements fit together successfully is a matter for study. Many pages vividly detail Jared’s relationship with his family but do not advance the plot, and it feels as if several different literary worlds have been glued to each other’s edges.

But at the same time, all these parts make “The Narrows” hard to put down. It keeps moving even when it roams, and it’s easy to see why Alex Irvine has gained national recognition as a writer of science fiction and fantasy.

Previously a reporter for the Portland Phoenix, Irvine won several awards for his first novel, “A Scattering of Jades.” His second novel, “One King, One Soldier,” was published in 2004, and “Life of Riley” in 2005. His stories also have appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction and Asimov’s Science Fiction, among others. He is presently an assistant professor at UMaine.

AH-MEDDY-GA, by Michael Campagnoli; All Nations Press, White Marsh, Va., 2005; 54 pages, paperback, $10.

“Ah-meddy-ga” by Michael Campagnoli of Rockland offers three sets of poems about outsiders in America. There’s nothing unusual about this – outsiderism has probably been No. 1 on the Top Ten Topics list of American belles lettres for several decades.

Usually outsiderism is treated in one of two ways: The author casts himself as an outsider and explores his family and-or ethnic past; or the author casts himself as the compatriot of certain ethnic, racial or gender groups that at one time or another were alienated from Western culture, and fumes on.

It all becomes pretty tiresome, as the topic’s basic air (solemn reflection, fiery or snide outrage) and message (Western culture oppresses) have been pretty much the same for longer than many of us care to say.

Campagnoli’s outsiders are Penobscot Indians; an immigrant Jewish-Russian dancer, Annie; and an Italian immigrant family. They’re all having a hard time finding a place in the flow of life in America, or as one character pronounces it, “Ah-meddy-ga.” But what’s unusual in these poems is that the outsiders are realized as human beings, rather than pitied or campaigned for.

Especially in the Penobscot poems, the imagination of life on a bewildering fringe is remarkably distinct. These poems, subtitled “Snapshot: Chief Peter Setate’ket Nicola in Headgear and Kilts,” have the atmosphere of Peter Anastas’ 1973 book “Glooskap’s Children,” which conveyed authentic glimpses of life on Indian Island. In recent decades the ability to imagine anything outside the personal ego and its inflammations has seemed like a lost art, but Campagnoli has it, and it’s a breath of fresh air. He gives believable shape to voices, personalities and circumstances that are not his own.

In a book of verse whose main shortcoming is muffled melodies, the Penobscot poems are the most economical and accomplished. But throughout, the poems’ directness and honesty convey layers of feeling not usually present in the self-mimicking literature of outsiderism. This book is actually revealing.

Michael Campagnoli, who’s lived in Maine for 25 years, has held numerous jobs, and pursued doctoral studies for a time at Indiana University. Copies of “Ah-meddy-ga” are available through www.allnationspress.com.

ONLY HUMAN: POEMS FROM THE ATLANTIC FLYWAY, by Patricia Ranzoni; Sheltering Pines Press, Kennebunk, Maine, 2005; 44 pages, paperback, $8.

In our time poetry is widely believed, mostly implicitly, to serve one of two primary purposes: It’s either a vehicle for self-expression, or it’s a forum for making social and political statements.

Among poets who have found their ways out of the creative writing workshops, these two aims can fold together. Poems written as self-expression may arouse feelings in readers beyond the range of “Sorry to hear of your troubles,” and successfully communicate, or “share,” sharply felt emotions and ideas about how the world shouldn’t be. This is, in general, what we find in Pat Ranzoni’s new collection, “Only Human.”

Poems such as “Fledging” and “When the Great Blue Heron” offer keenly perceived natural images. Others express the feel of personal attachments, such as “Returns,” displaying bits and pieces of Indian life, and “To Our Friend at the Maine Women’s Correctional Center,” a self-expressive nature poem with a subtle sociopolitical overtone.

The opening lines of “Hearings” are characteristic of the book’s homeliness, and knit in a political idea:

It’s true, icicles formed through February could be the frozen paths

of bullets and bombs fired to kill any chance of what could be decided

about a stove with mutual regard and health.

Poems on these topics have a relatively wide readership, and “Only Human” is likely to be well read and praised because it balances self-expressiveness with instructiveness on matters of the environment, war and peace, and the oppression of downtrodden beings, especially women.

It’s not to say that poetry has no other purposes. It does, though anyone who thinks so runs a risk of being thought either too erudite for Planet Earth, or morally irresponsible. Poetry can expand into ranges barely touched in our time, where words actually blast open territories in the psyche and create awakenings well beyond the sphere of sociopolitics. It hardly ever happens now – catching a novel buzz off a quirky arrangement of words is not a psychic awakening, nor is repeating certitudes about the ills of society. But it’s something to keep watch for.

Dana Wilde can be reached at dwilde@bangordailynews.net.