The First Flag by Sarah Fox (Coffee House Press, 2013)

I read a ton of fantastic books, thanks to this review column. But still, it is rare that a book gets me so excited that my notes fill up pages and pages, and I simply can’t wait to start reviewing it (although now that I’ve started reviewing it, I’m at a loss of where to begin). The First Flag did that for me. It got me even more excited to hear Sarah Fox read tonight with an amazing array of local poets at Maeve’s Session in NE Minneapolis. I devoured The First Flag in one totally immersive and hungry sitting, and have since gone back for seconds, and thirds. I’ve started and re-started this review many times, and I still haven’t said all that I have to say about this book—there’s too much packed into the 150-page book of poems. So please, just buy it and experience it yourself. It’s a mesmerizing trip of re-birth, although not in a religious way. Rather, Fox’ re-birth is earthy, sticky, and painful, yet strangely pleasurable at times.

An impressively large collection of poems, the book takes the format of five sections (plus a preface), which contain countless epigraphs from various sources including I Ching and Alice Notley, and a slew of humorous and educational footnotes. There is so much curiosity and knowledge that it can’t all be absorbed in the first read-through. This is a book that is best read with a medical dictionary, a smart phone, and an astrology book by your side. Not for the weak of stomach, the second half of the book includes photos from Fox herself, such as photos of a dead deer skeleton that Fox found and a photo of one of her doula client’s placentas as Fox encapsulated it. Other images include medical depictions that accompany the poems.

The title of The First Flag is referenced immediately with the first epigraph from “The Fetal Origins of History” by Lloyd DeMause: “In fact, the placenta of the pharaoh was placed on a pole and carried into battle. This is history’s first flag.” This placenta, and the act of birthing is the most obvious theme here, drawing on Fox’s work as a doula and her own birth, as well as that of her daughter’s. Fox casts a surgical eye on messy familial relationships that shift between mothers, daughters, and fathers. Abuse and rape also come up frequently, in especially raw moments. Her other fascinations become obvious: Rome, deer, weed, astrology, yoga, and performance artist Marina Abramovic. When I was researching some of Abramovic’s work, her arguably most well-known performance, Rhythm O, struck a cord with my reading of Fox’s work. In this performance, Abramovic placed a bunch of objects around her (including a feather, a scalpel, honey, a gun, one bullet,etc) and sat in silence for six hours while the audience was instructed to do to Abramovic whatever they wanted with those objects. The situation turned menacing after the audience’s initial hesitation. Anyway, back to Fox’s work: some of the opening poems are titled as objects: “Daughter Object,” “Transitional Object,” “Wife Object,” etc. She’s placing these objects from her life in front of us, and inviting us to do with them what we will. These objects have caused her pain and pleasure, and now they are in the hands of us, the audience. The first poem, “Daughter Object,” brings out the delicate balance of familial relations right away:

[…] My father
found himself repulsed, and finally indifferent.
He hung me to cure in a tree. The birds

strung me up with mysteries, dark cravings—
wove nests from my hair, sang through me.
I was a bird brothel, atremble; I was too much frenzy
under the moon my father dreaded in passing
and shunned. Father-shadowed entities gaze,
they root and coil and hunger, tongue my every
aspect. If they weren’t the only him I had
I’d ask the birds to peck out their eyes.

There is not one set form here, and Fox doesn’t fall into the trap of re-using the same poetic elements over and over again. She keeps the book surprising by letting each poem and each section follow their natural course and form. Fox combines conversational tone and stream of consciousness tangents with lyrical imagery plum full of rich language and word choice to keep us on our toes. Fox’s witty humor also keeps us engaged, as does her frequent direct addressing of the reader, such as in “Biting Through:”

I really can’t tell you how long I’m going
to make you listen to me. Are you
even there, or is that just your aftershave?
Whose you are you? Furthermore,
whose you am I? Anyway, “listen to me”
isn’t exactly what I’m making you do—you’re
actually listening to yourself make my shit
come out of your own mouth. You know?

There is so much to this book that I can’t even begin to fully cover all of my thoughts about it.  But then again, my purpose isn’t to satisfy your need for this book through a comprehensive review. I’ll just let these surface scratchings tempt you enough to get out and buy this book. If you’re in Minneapolis tonight, you’re in luck: you can hear Sarah read at Maeve’s Session, which we’re co-presenting with the fantastic Matt Mauch. Get your poetry lovin’ hiney there for a beautiful spectrum of poets.

(Side note: this book also solidifies my already apparent love for Coffee House Press for publishing some of the best and daring contemporary literature that get me excited in all sorts of ways.)

What poets mesmerize you with their fascinations? What other authors pull from a wide base of background knowledge in their work, so much so, that you read their work with a dictionary by your side?