{"id":459,"date":"2012-11-24T04:04:43","date_gmt":"2012-11-24T04:04:43","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/crowreviews\/?p=459"},"modified":"2016-11-29T03:42:59","modified_gmt":"2016-11-29T03:42:59","slug":"mcaloranthenonherein","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/crowreviews\/2012\/11\/mcaloranthenonherein\/","title":{"rendered":"The Non-Herein, Michael McAloran"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Poetry<\/a>The Non-Herein<\/strong>, by Michael Mc Aloran, published by Lapwing Press. Reviewed by Elynn Alexander for Full Of Crow. <\/em><\/p>\n

Of the non herein<\/em>
\n Ash upon drought as if<\/em><\/p>\n

It could be uttered<\/em>
\n Set to light<\/em><\/p>\n

Broken cleft absent<\/em>
\n In whip of<\/em><\/p>\n

Spinal affluence<\/em>
\n Dragging out the magus<\/em><\/p>\n

Pulse of futile<\/em>
\n Again once again<\/em><\/p>\n

Till none<\/em>
\n Asked of without quarter<\/em><\/p>\n

(In Abacus)<\/p>\n

Michael Mc Aloran\u2019s collection \u201cThe Non Herein\u201d from Belfast publisher Lapwing Press invites the reader to anomie and paradox, what lies within is self-negating. His poems mirror back life, (\u201copiate\u2019s glass<\/em>\u201d . (Traceless of), \u201cnaught of the sheet glass\u201d<\/em> (Never Once) reflected as decay, vitality that reaches to extinguishing, the \u201cjugular ash<\/em>\u201d.  (Into Echoing)<\/p>\n

\u201cTorn\u2026into echoing\u201d<\/em> suggests reluctance, the tendency to resist the dead sun, breathing- the \u201cscuttling<\/em>\u201d, drive of purpose that regardless, terminates as \u201cscum<\/em>\u201d.  Some readers might search for optimism in McAloran\u2019s work, might perhaps see the work of such a prolific poet as optimistic in itself, by virtue of his endurance. In this, we might impose ambition.  But I think we would be wrong to do so. His position is consistent:<\/p>\n

Traceless of-<\/em><\/p>\n

Spoken\/ no not ever<\/em>
\n (Asked of\/   echoing)<\/em>
\n Erased\/ asked of once<\/em>
\n Exile of scattered<\/em>
\n Breathing<\/em><\/p>\n

So why, then, does the poet, so nihilistic and negating, bother with the poem at all? The artist, too, is scuttling. The artist must often reconcile the drive to create internally with purpose, with the role of art in their context. Context seems important here because McAloran\u2019s poetry so clearly leads us away from the constructs of human ego and aggrandizing, from the idea of contributing to a collective human civilization whose sum can be stacked as valuable stock.  To what end, in this universe? Toward what, to what end, does humanity toil? \u201cScuttle\u201d<\/em> suggests an insect, or a crab,  without direction, whose movements beyond survival needs are aimless, yet frantic.
\nThis is McAloran\u2019s human:<\/p>\n

Scuttle of meat<\/em>
\n Spasm of dread held like an empty room<\/em><\/p>\n

(Shadowing)<\/p>\n

McAloran makes the distinction between frantic pursuit and biding one\u2019s time. While we don\u2019t come away with an answer to the question of \u201cwhat end?\u201d this is because he doesn\u2019t offer one. The purpose of one\u2019s work in that context does indeed lack a universal imperative and becomes the simple scuttling of biding time, in between survival. One\u2019s actions are often an extension of that survival- vocation, for example, an extension of self-sufficiency. Acts of love might be an extension of the basic needs of procreation and nurturing. But what about the artist?  The poet?<\/p>\n

Speech ever<\/em>
\n Slivers of<\/em>
\n Trace of the without<\/em>
\n Knocking upon<\/em><\/p>\n

(never entering)<\/em><\/p>\n

Ever of the traces of it<\/em><\/p>\n

(Of The Traces of)<\/p>\n

What drives the poet to write in the face of such a sense of futility, if it is viewed as futility? Does this interject a certain nobility, to the act, undertaken without that connection to survival? Or would the cynic say that it becomes another tool, a complex tool, that can still be traced to human needs? In some ways, the artist can be seen as a more advanced version of the bird that preens, or dances to attract a mate. Absent that, what drives? And why seek notice? What is the bounty?<\/p>\n

A closed fist of <\/em>
\n tongues<\/em><\/p>\n

(bounty\/bounty)<\/em><\/p>\n

(Never to)<\/p>\n

Perhaps it can be viewed on a continuum of desperation, that element of frantic, running away from negation tied in the end to social currency. To McAloran, negation seems inevitable. \u201cIn the space between the one and naught\u201d<\/em> (Till Headless Asking) The artist creates, the poet composes, perhaps, to fill hours and to do so simply because it is more enjoyable than another pursuit.  (\u201cashen hands<\/em>\u201d, \u201cblack pulse disappearing\u201d<\/em>  (Till Headless Asking) Call it hedonist, Dionysian, call it post-modern or call it dada, there is art for its own sake and then there is anti-art, but McAloran is too disciplined and deliberate for the latter.  (tread\/tread alone, step, non-step<\/em>) He is concrete then transient, corporeal then vanishing, present then absent.<\/p>\n

Bankrupt hand<\/em>
\n Flexing of<\/em>
\n The corrupt light<\/em><\/p>\n

(In Cornered)<\/p>\n

McAloran selects the jugular because it is the conduit, it feeds the mind, a life force, and yet he renders it to ash.  And again, pulse:<\/p>\n

Snare of the pulse<\/em>
\n Echoing still<\/em><\/p>\n

Again the ash of it<\/em>
\n Once more the turning of<\/em><\/p>\n

Till dredging of<\/em>
\n The once lest there be<\/em><\/p>\n

Hollow<\/em>
\n In a flame of naught<\/em><\/p>\n

Hissing upwardly at the<\/em>
\n Vacancy of none<\/em><\/p>\n

Embers   embers<\/em>
\n doused by  final piss<\/em><\/p>\n

(Doused)<\/p>\n

The final piss, the dousing, concludes both physical and creative life, in self destruction or inevitable dousing. All are extinguished, all meet the same end, in this termination. But part of our nature is to turn away from this inevitability toward life, light, vitality, until either realization sets in or reality. Our time is finite.<\/p>\n

The eye is \u201croving<\/em>\u201d and then \u201cbreathless<\/em>\u201d.  The eye is then \u201cvacant of pupil\u2019s light<\/em>\u201d. The \u201ccadaver guillotine<\/em>\u201d severs a neck already dead, the termination, again, of a \u201cscuttling\/in the dark.<\/em>\u201d  (As If It, Vacant Of) (Scuttle vast\/Ebb as if to follow\/Onward<\/em>  (Traceless Flowers)<\/p>\n

In contrast to the frantic, the sun offers \u201cadagio<\/em>\u201d. (Never to).  Light is often impulse, \u201cset to light<\/em>\u201d (In Abacus) \u201cabsent light<\/em>\u201d (Never Having) \u201cclaimed as a cadaver\u2019s\/Light<\/em>\u201d (Never Once)<\/p>\n

In \u201cPoignancy\u201d:<\/p>\n

Skull\/<\/em>
\n Droplets of<\/em>
\n Rampage<\/em><\/p>\n

The dead eye\u2019s wastage of it<\/em>
\n(light or other else)<\/p>\n

In the \u201coblivion tide<\/em>\u201d (Shadowing As Of) awareness is intermittent, oblivion consuming, context is elusive, the light, the impetus, the drive, all seem severed from the cadaver, the human- purpose, were it to be found, is an unknowable realm, the domain of the sun, or \u201cthere else<\/em>\u201d.<\/p>\n

Asking of the what<\/em>
\n As if it could<\/em><\/p>\n

(Shadowing As Of)<\/p>\n

As if we could find answers, as if we could even know or experience our context, the denial of that disconnect, the human is severed, born into the \u201cdust of nothing<\/em>\u201d to return there.<\/p>\n

Rain rain upon the pissoir night<\/em>
\n Till broken<\/em><\/p>\n

Wrench from out of the bile of it<\/em>
\n Still-born<\/em><\/p>\n

Where drag and hollow<\/em>
\n Dreft unto none<\/em><\/p>\n

Of the herein<\/em>
\n Spits out the carcass winds<\/em><\/p>\n

(Carcass Winds)<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Without emptily<\/em>
\n Knowing of the which or when of naught<\/em><\/p>\n

And the brutal fist<\/em>
\nOf the herein<\/em><\/p>\n

(Breath (Till Knock))<\/p>\n

In many of the poems, McAloran refers to both mocking and tearing:<\/p>\n

Laughter till the lungs bleed dry of corrugated flowerings<\/em><\/p>\n

(Molasses)<\/p>\n

And the laughter lung of it<\/em>
\n Plague of the incomprehensible<\/em><\/p>\n

(Plague)<\/p>\n

Of the redeem<\/em>
\n A torn sky\u2019s carcass<\/em><\/p>\n

Breach of<\/em><\/p>\n

No end<\/em><\/p>\n

In spit of silenced <\/em>
\n Murmurs<\/em><\/p>\n

(Non-Else To)<\/p>\n

Tearing, severing,  \u201cin garrotte\u201d<\/em> (Fading (Wishful) Ever) it seems, is realization and a certain grief of the conclusions, inevitable, and the mocking of the human submerged in hubris and denial whose need to reckon with significance is asserted by confrontation with the vast, at least where regarded. Heaven seems best \u201cnever claimed<\/em>\u201d (Till Final) \u201csalve of no purpose\u201d<\/em> (Till Bounty\u2019s Tread) This is not reality, or truth, this is the shattering of an unknowable glass.<\/p>\n

Trace of tongue across shattered glass<\/em><\/p>\n

Mockery of lung<\/em><\/p>\n

(Till Final)<\/p>\n

The poet refers to murmurs and \u201cscattered speeches<\/em>\u201d often, (Of Cylindrical, Dredged, etc.) and the \u201cshit of dreaming else\/ Of cylindrical\/ Nights\u201d<\/em> (Of Cylindrical) and the span of time, life a series of actions, repeated, in the servitude of nothing.<\/p>\n

The magistrate<\/em>
\n Violent cries clawing the circumference of none<\/em><\/p>\n

(Circumference Of)<\/p>\n

Ever the <\/em>
\n Cold marrow\u2019s murmurs<\/em><\/p>\n

(The Bone Dissolve)<\/p>\n

Do scattered speeches become, then, our means of reaching out, whether frantic or living passively, a mechanism of default, or a manifestation of the human wanting to be seen and at times, regarded, in spite of himself?<\/p>\n

Speech once more<\/em>
\n velvet it mutters<\/em><\/p>\n

(Never Lest)<\/p>\n

Counting out the shadow\u2019s <\/em>
\n Longing<\/em><\/p>\n

Murmur throughout<\/em><\/p>\n

(Till Eye Resend)<\/p>\n

And the drunk stun purpose of the redeem<\/em>
\n Asking of the shedding<\/em><\/p>\n

(Till Eye Resend)<\/p>\n

What is shed is that frantic imperative, the impulse to legacy or self-delusion, turning away from the scuttle but still living, still with breath. He doesn’t leave the reader quite convinced that their speech should cease, the inclination to reach is validated. But nor does he try to legitimize, romanticize, idealize.<\/p>\n

In the final poem:<\/p>\n

Fading wishful fading ever knowing of
\n(image of immense sky\u2019s limbs)<\/p>\n

Dread one less<\/p>\n

Brutal<\/p>\n

As a reader, I am often struck by Mc Aloran’s brutality, and his ability to connect the abstract to physicality, to biology, the imagination to corporeal meat- life, death, bones, piss. His phrases are oddly placed, his manipulation of language so uniquely strange, his poems both disturb and evoke. This collection rivals “Attributes” as one of the best collections of his poetry that I have read to date, and delivers more of the same sentiments that so deeply resonate.<\/p>\n

“The Non Herein” is available from Lapwing Press here<\/strong><\/a>, perfect-bound with a stark, minimal aesthetic, hand assembled in Belfast.<\/p>\n

The Non Herein-
\nMichael McAloran<\/p>\n

ISBN: 9781909252080<\/p>\n

Please support the independent press and the poets, writers, artists, and editors involved. To explore Full Of Crow, please check out the links to our sections. <\/em><\/p>\n

Find out more about our perspective on “reviews” here.<\/a> <\/p>\n

Elynn Alexander is the editor and founder of Full Of Crow Press, promoting poetry, fiction, art, and independent creativity. You can contact Elynn Alexander (Lynn) at poetry@fullofcrow.com and www.elynnalexander.com. <\/p>\n

Facebook “Page”: www.facebook.com\/elynnalexander 
\nTwitter: @elynnalexander 
\n(Also on Instagram, Pinterest, Ello, YouTube, Goodreads, Etsy, and more. HMU.) <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Non-Herein, by Michael Mc Aloran, published by Lapwing Press. Reviewed by Elynn Alexander for Full Of Crow.  Of the non herein Ash upon drought as if It could be uttered Set to light Broken cleft absent In whip of Spinal affluence Dragging out the magus Pulse of futile Again \u2026 Continue reading → <\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"sfsi_plus_gutenberg_text_before_share":"","sfsi_plus_gutenberg_show_text_before_share":"","sfsi_plus_gutenberg_icon_type":"","sfsi_plus_gutenberg_icon_alignemt":"","sfsi_plus_gutenburg_max_per_row":"","ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[11],"tags":[17,221,47,228,227,220,81,84,226,103,222],"class_list":["post-459","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry","tag-full-of-crow","tag-belfast","tag-chapbooks","tag-elynn-alexander","tag-lapwing","tag-lapwing-press","tag-lynn-alexander","tag-michael-mcaloran","tag-poetry","tag-reviews","tag-the-non-herein"],"yoast_head":"\nThe Non-Herein, Michael McAloran - Crow Reviews<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/crowreviews\/2012\/11\/mcaloranthenonherein\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"The Non-Herein, Michael McAloran - Crow Reviews\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"The Non-Herein, by Michael Mc Aloran, published by Lapwing Press. 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