Sarah Lawson draws attention to a posthumously published collection in which Sarah Gettyâs intelligence and wit still live on
Clap Hands
Sarah Getty (2017)
ISBN: 978-1543193299
103 ppÂ
Available from amazon  $12
These fine poems were published posthumously by the poetâs husband from a manuscript she had prepared two months before her death. Chicago-born Sarah Getty (1943-2009) writes from an expertise in English literature and a keen eye for the here and now. One long poem is spoken by Mary Shelley after her husbandâs death; another, a villanelle, takes its epigraph from Macbeth and contains allusions to Sisyphus, Procrustes, Francis Thompson, Jack and the Beanstalk, and Lazarus, but is a very personal riff on insomnia by âa white-haired lady poet, past her prime / wearing a plain white L.L. Bean nightgownâ.
Fortunately, a few notes at the beginning of the collection identify some of her quotations and allusions. (The title comes from Yeatsâ âSailing to Byzantiumâ.)
âLamentationâRelictâ is a long monologue by Mary Shelley, now an old woman looking back on her life. We find her sitting in Percyâs boyhood bedroom mending a jacket lining while recalling her own children. Her mother died after giving birth to her, and she lost three of her own four children in early childhood. Percy, as we know, drowned in the sea off Italy. Mary has much to ponder. She ruminates on life and death and creationâwhether of her babies or her fictional monster and his would-be mate. Getty manages this scene-setting and the pleasing interplay between past and present in a spare, imaginative wayâthe old lady, now living with her son (also named Percy) and his wife in the old family home and mulling over the events of her youth.
âLamentationâRelictâ is one of a series of twelve poems called âThe Brood of Nightâ, based on an idea in The Dream and the Underworld by James Hillman. Other poems in the series deal with such topics as envy, old age, sleep, Nox and Eros, but there is nothing predictable about any of them, for all that they share a common inspiration. Sarah Getty has used the themes as a springboard for her own richly imaginative development of them.
The second section, âFirst Contactâ, begins with a homage to Wallace Stevensâ âAnecdote of the Prince of Peacocks.â Her âAnecdote of the Grandmotherâ introduces the very personal tone of the poems in the rest of that section. âA Little Song from Your Grandmaâ is addressed to her unborn grandson. âOh, little one, are you on your way? / We are wonderingâhave you started? / Spring has come all at once. The big old oaks /are opening tiny pink fists, bushes are yelling / yellow all over town.â It is a charming poem by a charmingly impatient grandmother. It ends: âAlready I, your motherâs mother, / have knitted this little song. / Have you started? Are you on your way?â
Another playful poem, the 16-line âBabyâs First ABCâ, describes the conception and birth of a baby, and most of the principal words are in alphabetical order. As with âAfter the X-ray Appointmentâ, it is always a good idea to check for sly games in Gettyâs poems, like the first letter of each line spelling out words (âBATTLING THE ELEMENTSâ in this case). It seems to be a poem about shovelling the snow in a car park and struggling indoors with a bag of groceries, and the envelope containing an x-ray, but the sharp-eyed will notice the extra message down the side.
A poem about her grandsonâs peanut allergy, âForbidden Fruitâ, is a 26-line poem, each line beginning with a letter in alphabetical order. The poem is so skilful and conversational that you hardly notice the device.
But not all of Sarah Gettyâs poems feature these little games. Some of them are comments on travel destinations. In the third section, âInto Egyptâ, the Nile Valley yields some thoughtful observations. In âModerneâ she visits the temple of Hathor at Dendara. A zodiac is carved on the ceiling along with a figure of the goddess Hathor apparently flying. Getty makes the connection between this ancient Egyptian figure and an Art Deco motif: âNo longer daughter of Ra or sister-wife of Ged, sheâs become her own / streamlined New Woman, with a flapperâs bangs and pouting mouth.â The irony is that such an ancient personage comes to be a symbol of the latest thing: âsheâs come a long way escaping the old stories, morphing her form // into new incarnationsâondine sculpted by Lalique, âSpirit of Flightâ / at the â39 Worldâs Fair, Myrna Loy and Garbo sheathed in satin, / Radio City angel trumpeting the end of all thatâs old.â
Part four, âOnce out of Natureâ, combines some concerns and approaches evident in the earlier sections. Looking at huge carved sculptures left by the Olmec civilisation, she marvels at their size and even the gigantism of surrounding nature: âAround us / ginger torches kindle, mammoth philodendrons / thrive, wound round with ivies fit to lasso dragons.â How inadequate the tourists are, âsmall and sweating in polyester blendsâ, to communicate with the enormous heads. âThe great heads press their lips / together tight; the corners of their mouths turn down.â
Clap Hands is a tribute to a poet whose voice has stopped but whose intelligence and wit live on in her poems It is well worth sampling her poetry in this volume and catching up with her two previous collections The Land of Milk and Honey (1996) and Bring Me Her Heart (2006).
London Grip Poetry Review – Getty
February 6, 2018 by Michael Bartholomew-Biggs • books, poetry reviews, year 2018 • Tags: books, poetry, Sarah Lawson • 0 Comments
Sarah Lawson draws attention to a posthumously published collection in which Sarah Gettyâs intelligence and wit still live on
Sarah Getty (2017)
ISBN: 978-1543193299
103 ppÂ
Available from amazon  $12
These fine poems were published posthumously by the poetâs husband from a manuscript she had prepared two months before her death. Chicago-born Sarah Getty (1943-2009) writes from an expertise in English literature and a keen eye for the here and now. One long poem is spoken by Mary Shelley after her husbandâs death; another, a villanelle, takes its epigraph from Macbeth and contains allusions to Sisyphus, Procrustes, Francis Thompson, Jack and the Beanstalk, and Lazarus, but is a very personal riff on insomnia by âa white-haired lady poet, past her prime / wearing a plain white L.L. Bean nightgownâ.
Fortunately, a few notes at the beginning of the collection identify some of her quotations and allusions. (The title comes from Yeatsâ âSailing to Byzantiumâ.)
âLamentationâRelictâ is a long monologue by Mary Shelley, now an old woman looking back on her life. We find her sitting in Percyâs boyhood bedroom mending a jacket lining while recalling her own children. Her mother died after giving birth to her, and she lost three of her own four children in early childhood. Percy, as we know, drowned in the sea off Italy. Mary has much to ponder. She ruminates on life and death and creationâwhether of her babies or her fictional monster and his would-be mate. Getty manages this scene-setting and the pleasing interplay between past and present in a spare, imaginative wayâthe old lady, now living with her son (also named Percy) and his wife in the old family home and mulling over the events of her youth.
âLamentationâRelictâ is one of a series of twelve poems called âThe Brood of Nightâ, based on an idea in The Dream and the Underworld by James Hillman. Other poems in the series deal with such topics as envy, old age, sleep, Nox and Eros, but there is nothing predictable about any of them, for all that they share a common inspiration. Sarah Getty has used the themes as a springboard for her own richly imaginative development of them.
The second section, âFirst Contactâ, begins with a homage to Wallace Stevensâ âAnecdote of the Prince of Peacocks.â Her âAnecdote of the Grandmotherâ introduces the very personal tone of the poems in the rest of that section. âA Little Song from Your Grandmaâ is addressed to her unborn grandson. âOh, little one, are you on your way? / We are wonderingâhave you started? / Spring has come all at once. The big old oaks /are opening tiny pink fists, bushes are yelling / yellow all over town.â It is a charming poem by a charmingly impatient grandmother. It ends: âAlready I, your motherâs mother, / have knitted this little song. / Have you started? Are you on your way?â
Another playful poem, the 16-line âBabyâs First ABCâ, describes the conception and birth of a baby, and most of the principal words are in alphabetical order. As with âAfter the X-ray Appointmentâ, it is always a good idea to check for sly games in Gettyâs poems, like the first letter of each line spelling out words (âBATTLING THE ELEMENTSâ in this case). It seems to be a poem about shovelling the snow in a car park and struggling indoors with a bag of groceries, and the envelope containing an x-ray, but the sharp-eyed will notice the extra message down the side.
A poem about her grandsonâs peanut allergy, âForbidden Fruitâ, is a 26-line poem, each line beginning with a letter in alphabetical order. The poem is so skilful and conversational that you hardly notice the device.
But not all of Sarah Gettyâs poems feature these little games. Some of them are comments on travel destinations. In the third section, âInto Egyptâ, the Nile Valley yields some thoughtful observations. In âModerneâ she visits the temple of Hathor at Dendara. A zodiac is carved on the ceiling along with a figure of the goddess Hathor apparently flying. Getty makes the connection between this ancient Egyptian figure and an Art Deco motif: âNo longer daughter of Ra or sister-wife of Ged, sheâs become her own / streamlined New Woman, with a flapperâs bangs and pouting mouth.â The irony is that such an ancient personage comes to be a symbol of the latest thing: âsheâs come a long way escaping the old stories, morphing her form // into new incarnationsâondine sculpted by Lalique, âSpirit of Flightâ / at the â39 Worldâs Fair, Myrna Loy and Garbo sheathed in satin, / Radio City angel trumpeting the end of all thatâs old.â
Part four, âOnce out of Natureâ, combines some concerns and approaches evident in the earlier sections. Looking at huge carved sculptures left by the Olmec civilisation, she marvels at their size and even the gigantism of surrounding nature: âAround us / ginger torches kindle, mammoth philodendrons / thrive, wound round with ivies fit to lasso dragons.â How inadequate the tourists are, âsmall and sweating in polyester blendsâ, to communicate with the enormous heads. âThe great heads press their lips / together tight; the corners of their mouths turn down.â
Clap Hands is a tribute to a poet whose voice has stopped but whose intelligence and wit live on in her poems It is well worth sampling her poetry in this volume and catching up with her two previous collections The Land of Milk and Honey (1996) and Bring Me Her Heart (2006).