Review of "Overcome"

Poetry by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Photography by Cynthia Etheridge
Published in limited edition by kendra steiner editions

Eight pages, printed in limited edition, I have #40 of 61 copies, on thick art paper stock, hand cut and stapled, how cool is that? Overcome says the title page on yellow paper. There's a black and white photograph of the charred wood uprights of a burned out house through which is visible the faint outline of city highrises in the distance. Names are printed, Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal & Cynthia Etheridge. The backcover presents the publisher's info, with another photograph of half-burned wood siding, naked nails exposed in stark sunlight, the same house?

Eight pages. I am compelled to count them and appreciate the heft of the art paper, the personal attention to the hand construction of the book. Three staples, not perfectly spaced or aligned. Of course - adds to the charm. And this is book number 40 of 61. I am sure the staple alignment and hand trimmed edges are different for each of the others in this series. 61 is a curious number, too. I think kendra steiner editions are going for the "eccentric, edgy, appealing to the literary fringe" market. Can't help that; it's just my marketing geekiness coming through. Still, my expectations are set.

First page, now. First poem, On Our Own. Images of birds in sunlight, sounds of birdsong, inspirations of birdsong, culminating with birds asleep and sleepwalkers and our "grudge against the world" - "on our own." Whoa! Tickle then slap. Bittersweet; a worn out word. Berriozabal never uses the word, never stoops to cliche, yet these poems are so deeply bittersweet.

There are eight more, nine in all, each one creates a deep feeling of anxiety, then relief. His title poem, Overcome, on the third page, deconstructs a rose. Exposes it to fire and water then feeds it to the fishes, leaving us pricked by its thorns then soothed in the waters. I come back again to "bittersweet."

Page four has my favorite, Without Knowing. His refrain, "I talk without knowing" is revisited by the beauty of birdsong, which he thinks is the more beautiful voice. I am feeling an emptiness in my gut as I read these poems.

Cynthia Etheridge's black and white photographs, rough cuts of treewood, fragments of charred wood on dirt, driftwood on dirt, thin branches without blossoms against a clear grey sky, seven in all, from front cover to back, are interspersed throughout Berriozabal's words. Mismatched, I think at first; another editor with disjointed tastes, throwing together two unrelated artists because they can. But, no, I'm wrong about that. The editors at kendra steiner editions nailed this union of stark landscapes just as sharply as that naked nail on the back cover photo.

The photos and poems both increase the depth of angst I feel as I turn each page, read each poem, peruse each photo. Hoarder's Blues speaks "Abandon so you could go on" while the photo of charred wood, with coiled bare wire beside, vie for visual distinction against so many coarse pebbles and dirt, almost indistinguishable. Almost, but not quite. Still distinguishable after all, when I abandon my efforts and relax my eyes.

Yes, I get it now, I recognize this feeling, this "bittersweetness." These photos and poems invoke a visceral identity and release of raw emotion that the ancient Greeks called catharsis; "Medicine. Purgation . . . A purifying or figurative cleansing of the emotions, especially."

Exactly! That is what I am feeling as I read and peruse. Emotional angst released. The purging of deep negative feelings of fear and inadequacy. Is there a profound answer at the conclusion? No, just identification. Berriozabal captures so beautifully the struggle we each experience with asking the deep questions; why, how, where? The answers aren't his focus, he provides none. But, his asking of the questions is so skillful and stark. He offers identification with a comrade encountered on a hard road. Is anybody out there? Apparently Berriozabal is. He is out there and asking, too, "Is anybody out there?"

He is struggling just as we. In Look At The Stars, he is hoping to be heard, "I trembled at the thought of death muffling my song." Identification. Isn't that how we all feel sometimes? "Yes!" Pointlessness. Haven't we all shouted into the dark against such emptiness? "Yes!" At the end, in Stone Fingers, he strikes us with a stone, but leaves us with "the weight of love." Pointlessness and a stifled voice lurk in the darkness of all our fears, sometimes we feel nothing, yet sometimes there is relief and "the weight of love."

Is anybody out there? Upon reading these poems by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, we can answer with a resounding, "Yes!"

MH Clay
Mad Swirl Poetry Editor