Grit & Grain: Jeanpaul Ferro on Drake A Lightle’s Self-Inflicted

Self-Inflicted, Drake A. Lightle, Goldfish Press, 2011

The latest release from Goldfish Press is the debut poetry collection, Self-Inflicted, by literary newcomer Drake A. Lightle.  A Missouri native, Lightle takes us on a journey through the nihilism of one man’s own self-destruction, through the despair that besets him as he realizes what truly matters, and finally through the baptism of the redemptive power of a penitent soul.  Self-Inflicted echoes with the haunting turmoil and restless syndrome we find throughout the suburbs of modern day America.  Along Main Street, hope has been substituted with loss and despair.  The ideals of the American family have been replaced with these ostentatious dreams of celebrity and grandeur.  All of this necessitates a pastime of distraction well documented throughout Lightle’s new collection.

Turn on cable TV on any given night and it won’t take you very long to figure out that the new religion of the 21st Century has become our very own escapism.  This new television show stars Oprah Winfrey as Jesus, Charlie Sheen as Dionysus, and Sarah Palin as Voltaire.  People are listening to the scripture and sonnets of these talking heads and then they are going about living their lives on the edge, watching helplessly as their families disintegrate and fall apart; and then they sit there in contemplation wondering why.  With no answer to be found, they then seek out what feels good, so they won’t have to feel bad, even if this only lasts for a few seconds of stardust and high.

In “Sacto Sheraton,” Drake A. Lightle takes us to a hotel bar where our protagonist sits with a woman he is in love with, a married woman perhaps, someone he knows he can never be with in the end, but he wants her no matter the cost:

we’re here with the hipsters

and gangsters,

and yuppie yippie wanksters,

trying to blend in

to the scenery,

you drinking wine,

me drinking vodka,

and thinking about where we really should be,

somewhere else,

In “Ametropia” Lightle confesses: “it was more than a little myopic / to have allowed my heart / and head / to be there / in the first place.”  We all know what we are doing, but we do it anyway.  You cannot get any truer than that.

Throughout Self-Inflicted we find that we are peering in on the soul-tearing confessions of a man who has screwed up big time and is trying everything the streets have to offer in order to make his pain go away.  In “Bug Under the Skin” he confesses: “these thoughts make me itch like junk sickness / make me want to tie up / find a vein / and cotton-cloud oblivion.”  In “USER_DELETED (Monkey Edit: Short Re-Mix)” hope and wonder have completely been vanquished while humanity is simply a tool to be used as a means to an end:

two buildings,

each filled with row after row

of cubicles,

with skies of buzzing florescent light

casting soft whiteness on gray faces

sitting in chairs at desks

in front of more buzzing light

from monitors;

fingers surgically attached to keyboards;

eyes reading words of desperate prayers –

poems and prose and plays and short stories

and novels spilling from the minds of monkeys

banging on keyboards in a virtual zoo –

monkeys searching for truth and meaning

in experience,

meaning of hate and despair and sorrow

and love and hope and bliss;

monkeys freezing in the shadow of the monolith of life

desperate to make sense of it all.

Sometimes life can be a long and darkly lit road.  Everyone thinks they have some kind of answer yet no one really seems to have any answers at all.  Words and emotions are simply props to be used as propaganda now.  There are millions of people on various highways all going somewhere different yet all these passengers want to get home to the very same place.  In the end, Drake A. Lightle sums up this journey through his final homily aptly entitled “Self-Inflicted.”

I’ve embraced my proclivity,

I’ve let it guide me—

like magnetic North guides the compass needle—

through the hazardous and absurdly vain thought

that my will might be stronger than my nature.
I’ve made peace with passion.
You can follow the breadcrumbs.

I’ll follow the blood.
The freeway is still the way home, and it’s time to go.

Self-Inflicted is a superb literary debut full of this grit and grain that usually gets lost within most debuts.  Hopefully we will be hearing a whole lot more from Drake A. Lightle.


An 8-time Pushcart Prize nominee, Jéanpaul Ferro’s work has appeared on National Public Radio, Contemporary American Voices, Columbia Review, Emerson Review, Connecticut Review, Sierra Nevada Review, Portland Monthly, The Providence Journal, Arts & Understanding Magazine, and others. He is the author of All The Good Promises (Plowman Press, 1994), Becoming X (BlazeVox Books, 2008), You Know Too Much About Flying Saucers (Thumbscrew Press, 2009), Hemispheres (Maverick Duck Press, 2009) Essendo Morti – Being Dead (Goldfish Press, 2009), nominated for the 2010 Griffin Prize in Poetry; and the forthcoming Jazz (Honest Publishing, 2011).  He is represented by the Jennifer Lyons Literary Agency.

He Cannot Find It Within Himself To Be On Any One Side: Thomas Alexander on Jeanpaul Ferro’s Essendo Morti

essendo morit

Essendo Morti—Being Dead, Jéanpaul Ferro, Goldfish Press

Providence poet and novelist Jéanpaul Ferro has created a masterpiece with his first full-length book of poetry, Essendo Morti – Being Dead (Goldfish Press, 2009). Written in the winter and spring of 2004, it captures a stark, brutal, and sometimes morbid post-9/11 world in which the living exist in a trance of orange and red terrorist alerts and the dead are the only ones who can remember America. Suddenly, the United States has been transformed from a concept that Ferro was once in love with to this almost intangible entity that he doesn’t even recognize anymore.

In The Book of Mary (America), Ferro’s country, positioned as the girl in the poem, has set herself up in opposition to the veneration that she once received so freely:

You and I are a million words that don’t exist yet,
startled one hour, starving for each other the next,
both of us underdeveloped in our togetherness,
cutting each other’s wrists in the kitchen sink,
blood the color Henry Miller would write it,
in a moment when we both realize there is no use lingering,
pain like God’s pain, his eyes bulging from the wars,
through the blue room you can feel it in your throat,
you tear your clothes off, hang yourself by your hands with rope,
you are the most secret thing in the world, rain on a dark child’s face,
you break me because you want all of me,
you love me because the pain is that enormous,
this is right now, tonight, yesterday, a million years in the future,
I drive in a yellow cab looking for you everywhere,
“Come,” I hear you saying; “Come,” I hear in darkness;
“People are just things,” you keep signing to me in my hand—
as though we can both just edit a lifetime full of mistakes.

Experimentation shows up throughout Essendo Morti – Being Dead not unlike the experiment that is the United States. But this United States has been taken over by Neocons and Neolibs as though they were the only ones who exist. Ferro often uses the page as a blank canvas where words, equations, and digital characters can be used to paint a vivid picture or a dream of alienation. In Election Day (Between Midnight and Dawn) he cannot find it within himself to be on any one side:

Electron in hydrogen atom,
two centrical figures,
two sides, and I’m not on either one:
|B> = b1|A1> + b2|A2>

There are other poems such as The Elementary Particles that are created so that they are both a painting and a poem. Some of these metaphysical poems are experimental to the extreme while others simply make words go up hill or push letters of snow across a page. There are other poems that are simply stunning and beautiful with the mere use of their imagery as in Watering a Post:

We were all born from the sons of pain,

an L of stars that graced the four corners
of the nighttime sky,

Helen, we called one;

she looked like a finger pointing right back at us,

Robert was another;

he looked like a lost man in the dead of winter,

The September 11th terrorist attacks play an underlining theme throughout the book. American has become this place haunted by an act of war carried out by ghosts we cannot see or attack directly—a scar that has changed the very landscape of her soul. Ferro sees these acts as something that the country cannot articulate or won’t articulate (even now). Maybe it is out of self-preservation. Maybe it is due to the fact that it is easier to look outward than it is to look in the mirror. The Hours Happened is set on September 11th, but now almost 8 years later the feeling in the United States about that day really has not changed or grown from those very first hours of destruction:

We drove out of Vendian and out into Ordovician,
The air moist and warm blowing through our hair,
New York City rising in gray vaults off on the horizon,
Abandoned dreams behind us in our rear view mirror,

We stepped all through the hot ash after reaching ground zero,
Leaving only our footprints to prove that we were there,
A part of me couldn’t grasp what had just happened,
You looked at me and said: “Can you describe all of this?”
I looked over at you and I said: “I don’t think I ever can.”

Author Michelle De Winter has recently stated that Jéanpaul Ferro is one of the great voices of his generation. Most of his work, and most of Essendo Morti – Being Dead, is topical and based on contemporary events. It is difficult to look at the death camps of North Korea or the direct aftermath of the Iraq war, but Ferro does it with both grace and dignity. Like any great poet or writer, he does not try to make the decision of what is right or wrong for you, but he reports what he has witnessed and leaves the truth of the consequences up to you in poetry that none of us will be able to forget.