By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
By Steve Weinstein
By Araceli Cruz
So there's plenty of choice music on So There, and enough of it improvised to pass the test as jazz. But what makes the music poetry is the poetry. The shortest of the poems here is "Ambition," 16 words spread over three stanzas:
Couldn't guess it, couldn't be it wasn't ever there then. Won't come back, don't want it.
Beginning with the strings voiced in steep intervals and ending with jagged piano clusters counterpointed beneath Creeley's voice, Swallow's setting knowingly recalls Monk. But the syncopation and staccato were already there in the text, and you find yourself wishing more jazz singers possessed Creeley's absolute rhythm.
All of which explains why So There is unusual, but it's equally movingthe separateness of the poetry and music turns it into a eulogy delivered in the deceased's own voice, one that already sounded a little worn on the handful of recordings Creeley made in the '60s, when he was barely middle-aged. In the case of "Return," a reverie on a Cambridge street described as "quiet as is proper for such places," his voice even comes across worn on the page:
Enough for now to be here, and
To know my door is one of these.
The surprise on looking it up in Creeley's Collected Poems is learning that "Return" was Creeley's first completed poemwritten shortly after his arrival home to his mother's from a tour of duty in Bombay with the American Field Service in 1945, when he was almost exactly the age I was when I began reading him. It's So There's oldest poem by far, but its quiet acceptance earns it a place amid numerous reflections on impending mortality and the insults of old age ("Lift me into heaven/Slowly 'cause my back's/Sore . . . ") that are as powerful as any in English since Yeatsand already becoming as meaningful to me as Creeley's ardent early love poems. That's something else Corinthians never figured on: the ongoing shock of recognition in following the work of a favorite writer from adolescence through the years, as his outlook on life evolves ever slightly in advance of your own.