Reviews -- "Iced at the Ward, Burned at the Stake"

So writes Paul Swenson in his debut book of poems, Iced at the Ward, Burned at the Stake. In many ways, the imagery of this poem, steeped in amorphous shapes and somnambulistic twilight, evokes the blasted landscape of Lehi's dream. However, in Lehi's dream there is a sure way—an iron rod—that leads to a bright, distinct region. In Swenson's poem "Another Country,"

In many ways, Mormonism is the religion of an explorer. It was started, after all, by a fellow who wasn't willing to follow the status quo. And many of his followers are famous for stabbing into the wilderness, seeking their own new country. But, as is the way with organized religion, Mormonism can also be unimaginative and resistant to change.

Swenson's poems seem to revel in the original sense of exploration that launched Mormonism. They set off to find that unknown country despite the fact that

Swenson, it seems, goes on mental and theological safaris almost as a matter of habit. And it's interesting to see what he's found. If I were to describe Swenson's findings in one word, especially if it were a word that would really add some zing to a book review title, I'd choose "nipples." He writes in his poem "Negative Space":

One of the major themes of this collection of poems is that Mormonism's negative space—its nipples, if you will—needs to be explored; otherwise, Mormonism runs the risk of being defenseless and weak. The two negative spaces Swenson seems most interest in are the role of the human body and the idea of a female deity.

Let's take on the body first. If you gathered the inhabitants of Hieronymus Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights, including the frolicking nudes, the nightmares with beaks, and Jesus himself, poured them into a church house and shook it up like an ant farm, I imagine you'd come out with something like Iced at the Ward.

Enter the chapel in "At the Church of the Generic Seagull," and you'll find that "Each chandelier's / a chocolate-tipped vanilla kiss or glowing / breast with dark brown nipple." As described in "Carnal, Sensual & Devilish," an anonymous church-goer is likely to notice the backless dress on the music conductor and

But not all the fun is being had in the church house. In "Eternal Digression," our valiant comrades in a heavenly symposium "vibrate to each other's bodies, meanings, / minds." The symposium's hotel sports ankle-deep carpets, room service, and lingerie fashion shows.

Swenson's unique genius—or disability, depending on your point of view—is that he doesn't seem to notice the difference between the sacred and the profane, the spirit and the body. Somehow, it all fits together. In "Exejesus," he imagines Jesus, not as the bland lawgiver so often preached in our chapels, but as a "women's man," who "Wouldn't leave the wedding till the wine was gone," and

It would probably make a more conservative reader uncomfortable, but even when Swenson is contemplating deity, he often takes a carnal approach. In "strange gods," he isn't abashed to say:

Reading Swenson's meditations on the idea of a female God made me realize just how little I had ever considered Her possibility. I remember a Sunday school teacher saying that he believed we didn't talk about Heavenly Mother because She would be dragged through the mud by blasphemers the way Her Husband was. However, in Swenson's "God Plans Her Day," a page from God's day-planner that somehow made its way from heaven onto Swenson's desk, God—the female version—is planning to "Get the New World Feminist edition of the Koran," "Hike to Mount Baldy," and at the end of the day, "Spank the pillow." I don't know—She sounds like She could give blasphemers a good run for their money.

And this is what I think Swenson really has to offer the Mormon reader: an interpretation of Mormonism that is forever inventive, forever reflective, and forever playful. But it isn't just play. It's deep play. You remember that deep play was first theorized by the British utilitarian philosopher Jeremy Bentham. He describes deep play as when a person is engaged in an activity where "the stakes are so high that . . . it is irrational for anyone to engage in it at all, since the marginal utility of what you stand to win is grossly outweighed by the disutility of what you stand to lose."¹

From an orthodox perspective, Swenson is definitely playing with fire. It would be easy to condemn his forays into the negative space of Mormonism. How often do we hear the warnings against contemplating the mysteries, much less publishing poems about them? How close does Swenson come to blasphemy as he seeks clues to Heavenly Mother? Is his levity about holy things beyond the pale? Is he selling his soul for a 96-page book of poems Jerry Johnston of the Deseret Morning News panned as one big Scroogish gripe?²

I'm not going to make that call. But as the poet Diane Ackerman says, "Deep play means no analysis, no explanation, no promises, no goals, no worries. You are completely open to the drama of life that may unfold."³

But I also think Swenson's approach to Mormonism may have a bit of usefulness to it. As I've heard in general conference and elsewhere, pornography consumption among Mormon males is on the rise. I wonder, sometimes, if that isn't partially due to how difficult it is to talk about the negative space of sexuality, our bodies, in a nonjudgmental, or perhaps even playfully serious, context. I also wonder if we might benefit from the ability to concretely connect with a feminine divinity. Swenson's poems seem to be good pointers in that direction.

I should admit, however, that it took me a long time to get to the point of appreciating Swenson's poems this way. I've heard some of them before because, well, Paul is my great uncle (great in both the genealogical and the "what a guy!" sense), so I've heard him read at family reunions and other venues. Still, when I first read this collection, I felt like it sacrificed depth for cleverness (even though in his poem, "Redacted," Paul specifically reminds himself that "clever never lasts"). I felt like it skipped along the top of Mormonism, taking pot shots here and there. Indeed, his poems often read very quickly, perhaps leading the reader to doubt the possibility of depth. But after much work, I can bear my testimony that there is much to be found in Iced at the Ward.

You have to be the right sort of person, though, to get the full effect of his poems. And this is the main reason why Swenson's book will probably not find a large audience outside (or even inside) Mormon circles. To see if you qualify for pure Swenson appreciation, read the list below and circle each trait that describes you.

I would suggest you be able to circle at least half the listed traits in order to get your fifteen bucks worth out of this book. Or be willing to put in a little time on Google and iTunes. I still can't circle all of these, personally.

¹Quoted in Diane Ackerman, Deep Play (New York Vintage, 2000), 18.
²Jerry Johnston, ""Why Waste Space with Ire?" Deseret Morning News, 20 December 2003.
³Missy Gilberman, "'Deep Play' Isn't Child's Play, Says Ackerman," Cornell Chronicle, 24 September 1997, online at www.news.cornell.edu/chronicle.

The Salt Lake Tribune, Martin Naparsteck
Who has greater responsibility, the poet or the reader, to make certain the underpinnings of a poem are familiar to the reader? Most of the forty-two poems in Paul Swenson's collection, Iced at the Ward, Burned at the Stake and Other poems, invite that question.

These poems require some knowledge of Mormon theology, of Utah's Mormon culture, and of controversies within the church. William Mulder, a retired English professor at the University of Utah, recognizes the problem and provides some useful guidance in a short foreword. For example, he notes, "No church goers can miss the associations of 'forever families,' 'uncorrelated,' 'eternal digression,' 'in her cellar a two-year supply of love,' or '[wedding] dresses of disallowed desire.'"

Without an understanding of such terms, many of these poems will fail to make sense to many, even careful readers. But that's not new to intelligent poetry. Dante's "Divine Comedy" cannot be fully understood without some understanding of Roman Catholicism. Similarly in prose, many of the stories of Bernard Malamud fall flat without some knowledge of contemporary Judaism.

Swenson's poetry does have some of the elements of universality that make Dante, Malamud, and other religious writers appealing to readers of all religious backgrounds. The poems teem with a sense of rebelliousness, of scolding church leaders for what the poet sees as failures, and of the pain and anger felt by those the church does not treat kindly.

In "White Gardenia," Swenson writes, "God will not be / mocked, her bishops says," and we are left with a feeling the poet is mocking the bishop for his attitude. In "Negative Space," the poet reports that "One guy at / ZCMI had the / job—hard job / —of sanding off every nipple of all / the store's mannequins," leaving the feeling that the Mormon culture is capable of embarrassing silliness.

More specifically, what approaches universality in Swenson's poems is a search for pan-religiosity, a sense of reaching for what is good in all religions and a rejection of what he finds silly or otherwise unacceptable in his own. He concludes "Strange Gods" with, "i lust for the veiled god / who will not go to war with her children, / will not author famine or floods, will not prune the buds of her most promising flowers / in some grand apocalypse— / will reveal her face at the wedding with the bridegroom; / i lust after strange gods."

The result is a sense that these poems are most likely to be understood by those most likely to reject their premises. Many readers who are devout enough Mormons to catch the references will reject Swenson's point of view.

How could such a reader, for example, not find offense in a passage that says, "the titles of their leaders— /Elder, Bishop, El Presidente, Mein Fuhrer"? The passage is from "Nameless," which is about "a planet where given names are verboten," where "Authority is paid esteem," and where "El Presidente looks naked in his uniform," which makes him like the emperor who doesn't realize his new clothes don't exist.

It's not so much the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints leaders as all leaders within Mormon culture who are targeted by Swenson's critique of what he sees as essential unkindness. In "Rhino Thatch," he refers to Utah's senior senator as a man who "Won't touch liquor / but his shotgun's set / at hair trigger." Earlier in the same poem he says the senator has a "Black heart ... a black box / beating beneath / his white shirt / and his off-white, / show-thru underwear."

"Rhino Thatch" is an unfortunate poem, too harsh for a collection that often chastises others for a shortage of kindness. It violates a standard Swenson sets for himself in another poem, "Redacted": "clever never lasts." The poem should have been left out of the collection.

But that is a small sin in a collection that otherwise challenges the reader to engage in an intelligent analysis, challenges the poems' subjects to search for more kindness and less vindictiveness, and mostly, challenges a culture to reach its potential.

And that brings us to the answer to the question posed earlier. In those poems that urge kindness, Swenson's obligation is greater than that of his readers, and he satisfies that obligation. In the poems that are primarily complaints, and there are a half dozen or so of those, the obligation is the reader's, who largely must ignore the poet's slippages and continue on to what is good in this collection. Those poems are filled with understanding and kindness, and courage, and that's what the careful reader of poetry should seek.