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H.
L. Hix's Perfect Hell is the most original, accomplished,
and intriguing debut volume I have seen in several years. I am so
impressed by this dark and disturbing volume by a little known poet
that I could easily offer up a dozen more plaudits, but these three
terms of commendation seem especially appropriate. Perfect Hell
speaks in a wonderfully original voice–an unexpected
but alluring combination of almost surreal procedures set to formal
music. Not uncommonly Hix's poems consist only of sentence fragments
or catalogues of mysterious unconnected images. A few of his titles
will illustrate his queer and quirky sensibility: "So Many Rats,
So Many Florins," "As With the Skull, So With the Nose," "The Spindle
Turns on the Knees of Necessity." But Hix's poems are utterly accomplished.
Unlike most experimental poems, his succeed as forceful, expressive,
and memorable lyrics. Their poetic frisson remind us of how many
allowances we normally give experimental works of art. So grateful
for some meaningful novelty, we forgive avant-garde literature many
failings if it does something new well. Finally, Hix is consummately
intriguing in his unrestrained exploration of the poetic
possibilities of our eclectic fin de siècle.
Perfect
Hell joyfully combines stylistic elements we seldom see joined.
To Hix, rhyme and meter do not seem incompatible with fragmented
syntax, surreal dream logic, or collage. In less capable hands (or
without a perfectly pitched ear), this postmodern eclecticism might
prove disastrous, but, mirabile dictu, Hix brings it off.
The poems not only cohere; they emanate energy. Hix's nonpartisan
omnivorous aesthetic is particularly intriguing because it hints
at the potential of American poetry beyond the current Poetry Wars.
Why not combine the seldom realized associational excitement of
Language Poetry with the musical rigor and narrative savvy of New
Formalism and then add the dark violence and sexuality of early
Surrealism? One might create, as Hix has, sonnets that sound like
inspired collaborations between Richard Wilbur, Nathanael West,
and Andre Breton as in the macabre opening of "No Less Than Twenty-Six
Distinct Necronyms": "Father dead, we will call her, or
Niece dead. / Cousin in car crash. So many names fit.
/ Sister cut wrists, Brother shot in the head. / Grandfather
wandered off, Great uncle hit / By train while drunk. . . "
Partial quotation does not adequately convey the intricate musical
effect of Hix's poems, but this brief passage provides at least
a sense of his deliberately disturbing subject matter.
How
will a poet who has debuted so remarkably develop? This is an impossible
question to answer, but I worry. Hix's voice is so extreme and idiosyncratic
that if he wrote with less consummate musicality or probed less
deeply into his secret and uneasy material, the poems might seem
merely odd. But Perfect Hell stands beyond such criticism.
Sadly, however, I must end on a cautionary note. Although Hix's
poems are superb, the typography of Perfect Hell is dumbfoundingly
dreadful. But Hix shouldn't fret. Poems this good will be reset
and reprinted many times.
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