The Name is Todd Moore

 

          The Dillinger Poems, book one, Uzzano #8, 1978, $2.00;

          The Name is Dillinger, book two, Midwestern Writers

          Publishing House, no price given; and The Dark and Bloody Ground, the Browns Mills Review Press, $2.00.

 

 

     The poetry of Todd Moore extends the past forcefully into the present.  There is a lot of subtlety in his poetry but nothing subtle in the force of that pull of the past clinging so tight to certain individuals that to see them clearly is to also recognize how deeply are we immersed in history.  Moore's poems are quick, hard, flashy.   But they are not the poetry school exercises we all know too much of.  They are written out of a desperate need to survive, and they come at you with the slickness of the smooth arc of fear that trails after the bank robber's Thompson machinegun.  Moore's Dillinger poems begin with the individual snapshots ‑‑the camera as gun‑‑ of John Dillinger in his many poses.  And behind them all is JD the man moving through history as he makes it as it makes him and us:

     Dillinger Had That Shiteating

 

     grin

     he flashed

     fast as any pistol

     on hookers

     lawmen cameras

     & all the fatassed

     bank mothers

     ...

     he thought how jesus

     perfect things were

     going like in the

     movies or legends

     he'd been told

 

The Dillinger Poems, book one contains 40 poems. Which at $2.00 is 5 cents a piece.  Cheap.  But I don't know if there are any copies left.  If there are it's first come, first serve for a collector's item.

     The Name is Dillinger is a problem.  If you are expecting 40 more poems that is.  It is one long 23 page chant of piss, pain, and blood that realizes the myth of the man not just the story.  It fixes John Dillinger into the hurt that is the essential quality of too many of the names that proclaim our landmarks.  And Moore begins with the land, for Dillinger is mid‑west hero ‑‑no mistaking that, and takes us through the many possibilities of the heroic, the fake and fabulous, and the con we too often accept as genuine myth.

     where the rivers converge

     where the forest line thins to cornfields & apple orchards

     where the prairie begins & a man w/a stick stands in a field

     ...

     I sign my name dillinger

     ...

     which rhymes w/derringer cocked & aimed just like that

                                                    pistol

     ...

     dillinger

     dillinger of the fists

     ballpark dillinger

     ...

     dillinger who might have been

     son of Butch Cassidy

     ...

     mebbe was

     I am Clark Cable Dillinger

     ...

     Douglas Fairbanks high in that

     leaping up beyond bullets

     hands & history

     ...

 

     The latest book, The Dark and Blood Ground.   This was the name given to Kentucky by the early frontiersmen but Moore shows us that the name applies to too many places in this country which we must claim as ours.  There are two poems ‑‑and this is another one of those bargains, 32 poems for $2.00‑‑ on the same page that are similar but with two different time frames and it is this difference that forces us to look all that more closely to what is happening to us now.  It is the need for this kind of looking as well as the artistry and the ambition of what he has done that demands that we take this man, this poet, seriously.

 

     FROZE                                TOLD OF COMING

 

     in a prairie cabin                         from sweden to

     after her husband had                 america the

     run off got bush                          wisconsin country

     whacked or lost in                      where frozen

     snow she'd stuffed bits                lakes resemble

     of torn dress & quilt                   blank eyes

     in all the chinks &                       staring at the

     cracks around window               moon married

     & door wrapped herself             early husband

     tight in a buffalo robe                  worked the docks

     & sat on the chilled                     came home those

     sod floor in front of                     nights shaking

     the fireplace watching                 couldn't stop

     the last chair go up                     his teeth from

     the letter she started                   clicking or

     to write to her sister                   stay warm all

     began the snow the snow           he could talk

     an icicle was growing                 about was that

     from her hand                            damned icy

                                                      wind knocking

                                                      ships' hulls

                                                      took sick the

                                                      fall of his 36th

                                                      year died the

                                                      company gave

                                                      her a cold sack

                                                      of flour


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