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(More customer reviews)This spectacular collection reminds this reviewer of the best of Lyn Lifshin's breakthrough "kiss and stack" neo-romantic Madonnesque period (once humorously if mistakenly labeled LL's "kiss and stalk" period).Eschleman's rare dabbling into "the icky" should be excused as mere curiousity seeking - But when a poet purposely drags along his readers into imagery as abhorrent as actual excrement squeezing with bare digits, even if those digits be the poet's himself, one has to be a slim second from getting up and walking out in the middle of the film! don't do it. give this poet a second chance. He produces.C.E. deserves a larger following for certain. I plead with him not to "give readers what they want" but instead stick to his guns, keep a stiff upper lip, and wait out those unbearable seasons upon seasons of obscurity. His time will come. His work will come out of the closet of derivative artaudian genius and be read by a new, hungry, and influential coterie of beloved academic lunatics worldwide. Mad poets by the thousand! What english professor/writer could ask for more? Publish or perish, indeed.
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The title of this book comes from a hotel in the town of Les Eyzies in the French Dordgne, where the greatest concentration of Upper Paleolithic decorated shelters and caves are found. In 1868, in the Les Ayzies rock shelter called "Abri de Cro-Magnon" ("Cro-Magnon" meaning "big hole" in the local patois), the first skeletons of our direct ancestors were discovered. The shelter, now scoured of its holdings, can still be visited; it is part of the rockwall that undulates as the spinal backdrop of Les Eylzies; one section of the wall serves as the back wall of Hotel Cro-Magnon. The hotel can thus be thought of as the social outgrowth of our discovery of who we are.
The poetics of Hotel Cro-Magnon are based on the belief that there is an archetypal poem, and that its most ancient design is probably the labyrinth.The first words of a poem, from this viewpoint, propose and nose toward a confrontation with what the writer is only partially aware of, or may not be prepared to address until it emerges, flushed forth by meanders and dead-ends. Poetry twists toward the unknown and seeks to realize something beyond the poet's initial awareness. What it seeks to know might be described as the unlimited interiority of its initial impetus.
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