{"id":10662,"date":"2025-01-14T21:52:53","date_gmt":"2025-01-14T21:52:53","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/farefwd.com\/?p=10662"},"modified":"2025-01-14T21:55:13","modified_gmt":"2025-01-14T21:55:13","slug":"boxed-juice","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/farefwd.com\/index.php\/2025\/01\/14\/boxed-juice\/","title":{"rendered":"Boxed Juice"},"content":{"rendered":"\t\t
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Hold the Pulp<\/h2>\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t
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Chapman\u2019s sophomore collection skillfully and delicately marries joy with despair, bitterness with optimism, and hope with disappointment.<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t

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Review by Josiah Cox<\/em><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t

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Someone recently shared with me that her family and friends had questioned, at times, subtly, her terminal illness. This shocked me, as my own refusals of reality rarely do. It seemed clear to her that they did so out of a coddling optimism. When she joked about walking off into the countryside to die alone, the oil, for a moment, mixed down with the vinegar.<\/p>

Levity has a similar earthward thrust in Danielle Chapman\u2019s Boxed Juice<\/em>. The title of her second collection, alone, suggests a pleasurable measure of it. Well before Chapman references Gerard Manley Hopkins\u2019s poem \u201cSpring,\u201d one has already gotten the sense of \u201call this juice and all this joy\u201d from Chapman\u2019s description of clouds (\u201clavender croissants of vole fluff\/ such soft smudged smut\u201d) and of what she sees within the Ocean Hall aquarium,<\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u2026Of course, it would be
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 the sea dragon oscillating galleon sails
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 delicate as scallion skins
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 through cylinders of glycerin. (\u201cOptimism\u201d)<\/p>

One already knows, too, that as much as these small marvels are \u201coff to war\u201d with pain and hopelessness, they are wrought with them. And perhaps inversely warped by them, in the case of \u201cOptimism.\u201d So \u201cLeaving Boston\u201d opens the collection to say, wherever the poetry is going, hope is a rigorous way <\/em>of going:<\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Burgundy geometries of waiting chairs recede
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 and magazines flap open behind us<\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 as we smack through overpasses
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 like waves of a whopping headache
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 and rowers in late sun
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 dip trim oars into the Charles in unison.<\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Ibrutinib. Ibrutinib.<\/em><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 There is a discipline, a sport to hope:
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 to pray for prayers that break the surface whether<\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 you\u2019re better or (please Jesus never<\/em>)
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 worse.<\/p>

Chapman sets such a strong literal backdrop for such gentle metaphors that they ripple back up from the penultimate stanza. The repetition of a cancer drug\u2019s dactylic name evokes exertion in addition to a daze. One considers prayers as oars, but also gets a sense for the trimness of those prayers. Hope can be considered as a collective effort. Hope can, this poem allows, go clear-eyed into a \u201clate\u201d situation, take despair seriously, row with the belief that a particular effort or situation is doomed. Whereas Chapman\u2019s portrayals of optimism in this collection suggest that eyes have somewhat glazed or gauzed over.<\/p><\/div>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t

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Chapman is a rare poet, who can harness a charge in things like childhood and spring flowers without sentimentality, triteness, and bald designs diffusing it beyond any power.<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t

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Context which Chapman\u2019s debut, Delinquent Palaces<\/em>, introduced in its final section, Boxed Juice<\/em> reconstitutes as its bulk: illness, children, and spring. They\u2019re inextricable in the heart of the book, \u201cAnyway in Spring,\u201d where a woman reckons with the \u201cblessed-in-forsakenness\u201d of having twins while her husband tries to survive lymphoma for the umpteenth time. Elsewhere in the periphery, mostly, this core tension makes Chapman\u2019s vision sound:<\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u2026though through the window
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I wade into yellow
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 warmth as if into the aural form
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 vision has been tunneling toward\u2014<\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 tigered lemon flutes
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 trembling acetylene
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 and, past the nauseating pain,
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Easter, blistering. (\u201cFriday Migraine\u201d)<\/p>

Which is to say, Chapman\u2019s aesthetic is no anesthetic. Although, she conveys the Jobean idea that wonder and beauty can refigure one\u2019s perspective on pain in at least a few poems. \u201cCatch-All,\u201d for example, expresses no regrets for tearing into a neighbor\u2019s nettles as a child:<\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 they stung me into seeing\u2026<\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u2026the quivering gobble of [Lottie Shoop\u2019s] chin,
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 teacup clicking dentures as she sprang
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 up in her wattled hut
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 and broke a rib<\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 of aloe vera\u2013
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 gel belling the top of that claw goblet.<\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It didn\u2019t cool the sting, and yet, noticing
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 sunshine thumbing plums in a string
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 catch-all<\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I was already well.<\/p>

One feels in Boxed Juice<\/em> an electrical tether between language and life. This description of aloe vera, especially, is strangely exact. Chapman is a rare poet, who can harness a charge in things like childhood and spring flowers without sentimentality, triteness, and bald designs diffusing it beyond any power. Her slant, intermittent, and displaced rhymes help, though I hear tradcore poets huff as I admit it, while her whimsical aural chimes compound to an off-kilter fullness.<\/p>

Often Chapman\u2019s \u201caural form\u201d works inversely to the spiritual law (\u201cwe lower when we need to lift\u201d) that Simone Weil recognized. Diction elevates in \u201cAfter Ashbery\u2019s Last Reading\u201d only to \u201cround and brake, round and brake down seven levels\u201d of a \u201cBrutalist carpark.\u201d Hard not to hear the Dantean hell in that, but Chapman\u2019s \u201cAlphabet City\u201d takes the collection to its lowest and truly brutal level. The tone lifts in its cartoonish second line but drops something far more serious than an anvil in the third.<\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 On the other side of Stuy Town, pronounced
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Stoy! Tone!<\/em> between glugs on a forty of OE
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 by the skater who was about to rape me,
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 we climbed a graffitied wall as if the projects were
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 a Babel you had to risk your feudal life to breach.<\/p>

The rhyme is perversely perfect and devastating. It is very poignant that the speaker will go on to quote Shakespeare\u2019s Gloucester, whose eyes have been gouged out, to give voice to her trauma. \u201cAlphabet City\u201d like King Lear<\/em> is through and through a tragic poem. The ending proffers neither healing nor positive light:<\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u2026Could I
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 have guessed how long I\u2019d have to lie there
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 staring at the ceiling crack observing
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 myself my soul escape my skin sulfured
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 by the searchlight tower\u2019s Stalinist glow\u2014
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 twenty-five years of, where did she go?
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 was it my fault? who where her clear gods?
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 did they cut off her ears that I might hear You?<\/p>

It does suggest clarity, though, whether the speaker recognizes through these questions an illusion that she had held or recognizes these questions themselves as harmful illusions that must be let go. The literary critic Terry Eagleton might identify in it the tragic hope of King Lear<\/em>, not a flourishing but excising self-deception as a precondition of it: \u201cIt is not true that language can repair one\u2019s condition simply by lending a name to it, but it is true that one cannot repair it without doing so.\u201d<\/p><\/div>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t

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It\u2019s an enjoyable modulation of style in Chapman especially, whose revels in particulars and unpredictable metaphors can sometimes muscle up to what appear to be, and I\u2019m unfairly ripping Chapman\u2019s own phrase, \u201cincomprehensible flights.\u201d<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t

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Alphabet City\u201d represents the most bitter note in Boxed Juice<\/em>, and is reminiscent more of the stark landscapes, moments of spiritual desolation, and torqued grit that pervaded Delinquent Palaces<\/em>. But its inclusion is apt because so much of Boxed Juice<\/em> concerns seeing things as they really are. An inherited spirit that will admit no weakness, former shades of self, a niceness that \u201clets out what should be hemmed,\u201d fundamentalisms that obscure more elemental and dynamic knowing, literary nonsense\u2014these are some of the things that get an honest revision, more typically with sane humor and the savor of joy.<\/p>

Chapman\u2019s poetic remains distinctive and mostly unchanged from the mere decade between her two collections. I previously mentioned her penchant for aural play. And meter, to alter Glyn Maxwell\u2019s metaphor, remains the silent, skeletal, but fairly scoliotic frame from which her free-verse creatures ride. In \u201cLeaving Boston,\u201d you sense dactyls and anapests thrust into, and through, iambic throbs. Also recognizably Chapman is Boxed Juice<\/em>\u2019s Shakespearean range of tone (i.e., angry, ecstatic, affectionate, exasperated, silly, defiant, contemplative, etc.) and diction (from the pharmaceutical \u201cIbrutinib\u201d to lyrical \u201ctigered lemon flutes\u201d to, why the heck not, \u201cStinky Butt\u201d). I suppose this consistency further confirms what Ilya Kaminsky praised in her first book, the evidence of \u201can already developed, master poet.\u201d<\/p>

But there\u2019s at least one subtle development in her latest work. Chapman more often inclines toward direct, uncomplicated expression: \u201cYou know it hadn\u2019t a drop to do with love,\u201d \u201cThe heart won\u2019t make it\u2019s point,\u201d \u201cThere\u2019s a spirit in me that admits no weakness,\u201d \u201cI will not quarrel or cry out, nor call anyone Hitlerian\u201d (all first lines). Other first lines, like, \u201cCatastrophe closes us into this house,\u201d or these initial lines which precede the sea dragon in \u201cOptimism,\u201d<\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I made a fascinating box. Then I broke
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 some boxes down. I smashed them
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 into boxed juice. Then I pulled over at Ocean
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Hall to see what monster might rise up within\u2026<\/p>

even have a Kavafian elegance. Simplicity of statement gives the root image full exposure, while line breaks heft the adverb\u2019s sequential movement to afford associative throws more delight as they land. It\u2019s an enjoyable modulation of style in Chapman especially, whose revels in particulars and unpredictable metaphors can sometimes muscle up to what appear to be, and I\u2019m unfairly ripping Chapman\u2019s own phrase, \u201cincomprehensible flights.\u201d Poems like \u201cSaint\u2019s Novella\u201d and \u201cApologies to Borges\u201d also reflect a broader influence than typical of current American poetry, striking the symbolists\u2019 brass.<\/p>

Though Boxed Juice<\/em> never asks, I sense it agonizing over the question, does hope disappoint? Or, does optimism? A firm answer flows from narrow terms. The two concepts and their relationship remain ambiguous in this collection, but Chapman\u2019s after \u201cunfiltered exactitude.\u201d These are poems to enjoy. Boxed Juice <\/em>gives vinegar without gall.<\/p><\/div>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t

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Josiah Cox<\/strong> won the 2024 First Things<\/em> Poetry Prize, selected by Amit Majmudar. He\u2019s from Kansas City and currently works as a property manager in Baltimore. His work and contact are on his\u00a0website<\/a>.<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t

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Boxed Juice<\/strong> was published on October 8, 2024, by Unbound Edition Press. You can purchase a copy from the publisher here<\/a>.<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Chapman\u2019s sophomore collection skillfully and delicately marries joy with despair, bitterness with optimism, and hope with disappointment. Review by Josiah 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