The Surreal Michael Earl Craig

Part of the Wikipedia definition of surrealism goes like this. Surrealism is a movement “asserting that liberation of the human mind …can be achieved by exercising the imaginative faculties of the ‘unconscious mind’ to the attainment of a dream-like state different from, or ultimately ‘truer’ than, everyday reality.”
I have to say, I didn’t feel particularly liberated after reading Craig’s collection of poems – confused, sometimes – disturbed, sometimes – but never liberated. Let me open the door to my mind and walk you through what might be my typical reaction to one of his poems.

“I’m Glad I Found The Horse Doc”
(Oh…a poem about a vet)

Another day, not
even drinking coffee on
the toilet makes me smile.
(ha ha ha – that’s a funny example, but probably a pleasant-enough
experience to make one smile.)

Today so apparent: someone
Should have kicked Kinski’s
Nosferatu in the nuts
HARD.
(ha, ha – that’s funny, too. I should know who Nosferatu is.
I better google it)
Or duct-taped him
to a pool table & raped him with a carrot.
(WHAT? Weren’t we just trying to think pleasant thoughts about
coffee and toilets?)

As a unit of nourishment
my cheeseburger comes at me
through the drive-up window.
(How'd we get to the drive-thru, and who calls a burger a unit?
How does it come at him?)

& later the local horse doc with
a fleck of placenta on his cheek
I put a hand on his shoulder
(He’s got placenta on his cheek?
How does Craig know it’s placenta?
I’m confused.)
I tell him “draw a face on
the side of your hand you’ll have a friend all day.”
Who says this to a grown man? I’ll
bet that the vet responded, “My
friend feels like punching you, jerk.”)

He tell me “one man’s journey
the inverse of another’s”
(Huh?)

So, this is pretty typical of my experience. Despite my foreknowledge that the poetry was surreal, I tricked myself into believing that the next poem would be a nice, realistic piece. This is probably attributable to several factors. First, according to English 510, my expectation of realism comes from the society around me, where everything must be “real.” I buy into that. Also, the poems contributed to all the trickiness by starting out somewhat normally. Then, out of nowhere, children would be licking bookshelves, brain-eating parasites would be headed for cake, and unfortunate people would be plagued with a particularly nasty asshole type of halitosis. What? Yep, you’ve lost me. Contrary to my mind being liberated, it’s just somewhat confounded. This is not to say that I hate the poems; I liked more than several of them, including “In the Januaried Mountains” and “I Rattled Off to Work Today.” I even liked “The Accomplished Hand” – that is, until the crowd turned into an angry amoeba about to beat the hairless woman.
Yep. All in all, I’m left wondering, Am I supposed to understand these and don’t? Is there some logic here? Ultimately, I don’t feel quite as bad as Craig does, like “a turd washed up on the shore of a quiet lake at a child’s birthday party,” “like one of the world’s largest assholes,” or “like a seahorse with his throat slit.” But, I don’t feel real great, either.