Some of My Favorite Poems Are Trash

A Review of Rod Smith’s Touché

Rod Smith is that rare American poet who is better than the movies. If we extend this analogy a bit, we might liken Smith’s work to that of the great character actors of modern cinema: performers like Bob Hoskins, Jean Arthur, and Ned Beatty, whose sheer command of persona elevated many good films to greatness, and on a number of occasions prevented mediocre films from being simply awful. The character actor neither proselytizes nor apologizes but simply occupies the space with a resolute density, his presence more factual than phenomenal. Like a good character actor, Rod Smith has shown the capacity to be many things: a poet, bookseller, teacher, and small press impresario. His diverse undertakings subscribe to the broadest possible definition of poetic work, and he treats each of these activities as potential sites of communal engagement. Rather than simply viewing the reading public as potential consumers, Smith makes clear his commitment to the decidedly less glamorous aspects of literary culture. At their best, activities like publishing, editing, and teaching inform poetic practice as much as they enable it. They double as points of resistance, as independent editors and writing collectives offer counterexamples to systems of publishing and authority that are increasingly corporatist in their orientation. Without free agents such as Smith, much of the best poetry would be consigned to oblivion by the very structures that profess to support it. Smith’s newest volume, Touché (Wave Books, 2015), demonstrates the tension between the world and the written word. Like many of his past books, Touché adopts a lyrical persona that ultimately refuses the conventions and imperatives of the mode. Rather than function as conduits of wisdom or precious objects of sympathy, Smith’s narrators more closely resemble the long lineage of trickster figures, whose insights and comedic critiques are among the oldest and most revered in the cultural landscape. Take this passage, from the poem “Buoyancy”: