Walter Ancarrow, ETYMOLOGIES
pumpernickel from German pumpern,“to pass gas,” and Nickel, “goblin,” for its unpalatable properties—fart goblin,ass kraken, Puck of petarade, ghost of dinners past, bumyip, Poot the MagicDragon, Zephyrus unzipped, Eurus of your anus, Boreas of the ass-burp, Notus ofthe not-me, riddle of the stinks, will-o’-the-whiff, Sirens but deadly, nereidof the nether burble, Pan’s toot, the Vegetable Lamp of Fartery, flight of theNachtkrapp, munchkin of the butt-scrunch, bansheesh, shiffrit, CHAOS WHO ENGULFEDTHE WORLD AND BROKE THE WINDS. Father, expel my inner demons.
I’mintrigued by New York City (and Alexandria, Egypt) poet Walter Ancarrow’sfull-length debut, ETYMOLOGIES (Berkeley CA: Omnidawn, 2023), a lyricexamination and play of etymologies, threading multiple languages and denselyric, holding to small spaces and expansive perspectives. Ancarrow’sbook-length suite threads through a sequence of self-contained and formallydaring and fresh lyric sections that accumulate their way through the polyglot,akin to a field notes on language itself. “what we know of the body:,” hewrites, mid-way through, “that it comes from Old English bodig; that it/begins with lips parting and an exhalation of breath; that it ends in why; that/ it is ‘otherwise of obscure origin’.” Referencing Greek origins, Dharawakaborigines, Mandarin, Old English and Saints, Ancarrow articulates theinterconnectedness between a variety of world cultures and how words, and eventhoughts, are connected and formed. Ancarrow’s playful and quick wit speaks tointerrelated and polyphonic meaning, pulling apart origins and conventions, andhow deeply we are all interconnected. This is a startling and thoughtful debut.
A fabulist told ofnull-country, a realm in the shadow of Tagalog bundok, mountain, whichcity-goers called the bookdocks. These mountains drew zigzags along thesky as if signed by an illiterate. In their folds sheep slid from onevalley-side to another, beads of abaci adding nothing of value. The flowerswere meaningless because unsensed.
In another version it wasnot the mountains that were a wasteland but the city. Its depths harboredbarbarian ships and argots, while the subway map to get there was clear only tothose fluent in color-speak. Neon signs flashed on and off unsure of their decrees.Each alleyway ended in longing because you did not go down it.
In both the moral was thesame: people between city and mountain are most unhappy. For them, meaning isalways everywhere else.
