黑料吃瓜

A Witness in the Mist: Jacques J. Rancourt鈥檚听Brocken Spectre

by Amie Whittemore

Reviewed:听Brocken Spectre听(Alice James Books, 2021).

Jacques J. Rancourt鈥檚听Brocken Spectre听is part elegy, part ode鈥攁nd it is also the synergetic place where these forms overlap, which has a name I don鈥檛 know (鈥渙degy鈥�? 鈥渆lede鈥�?) but is a cousin to nostalgia. These poems, in their examination of the lives of gay men during and after the AIDS epidemic, mourn the horrors of the epidemic of the 1980s and 90s while also carrying a wistful longing for community that coalesced in response to this crisis. As noted in 鈥淲estern Wall,鈥�

听 听 听 听 听 I don鈥檛 go to gay bars anymore
听 听 听 听 听 someone tells me & sure enough

听 听 听 听 听 another boards up听听听听听听听 soon there won鈥檛 be
听 听 听 听 听 a need for places like these

听 听 听 听 听 any more听听听听听听听听听 there鈥檚 a word for what we lose
听 听 听 听 听 when we gain听听听听听听听听听听听听听听 our utopias

Thus, in some ways, the 鈥渂rocken spectre鈥� of these poems鈥攖he shadow in the mist as the epigraph from听The Met Office听notes鈥攊s the liberated gay man: free to marry, to fuck, to love openly (for the most part, in most places, in the United States) is a lonely figure: having gained so much of what heteronormative culture withheld鈥攎arriage, medical treatment鈥攈e has also had to pay a steep price. In 鈥淭he Wake,鈥� for instance, the speaker notes 鈥渢hat six hundred thirty-six. / thousand of us died & I did not. / know a single one.鈥� This distance from the terror and grief of the AIDS crisis creates a kind of dissonance: the speaker neither being among nor knowing any of them can only be witness (or voyeur, depending on the angle of the gaze), as in the poem, 鈥淜irby鈥�:

听 听 听 听 听 I can nearly see

听 听 听 听 听 his body failing
听 听 听 听 听 his spirt
听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 in equal measures
听 听 听 听 听 growing larger

听 听 听 听 听 as only someone
听 听 听 听 听 who did not live
听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听through this
听 听 听 听 听 could possibly see

Bound up with this act of watching is a sense of gratitude and love鈥攖he speaker in 鈥淰oyeur,鈥� for instance, observes older gay men at a bathhouse鈥斺�渢hey laugh / silently & touch each other鈥濃�攚hile听 鈥渇or a long time, from behind / the grill鈥檚 steel grate, I watch them.鈥� The speaker鈥檚 gaze in this poem and others then is not so much a violating one as a way of offering tribute鈥攁cknowledging that there are distances he cannot cross even as he shares so much with the prior generations of gay men.

The distances in听Brocken Spectre听also include other grief, other (dis)connections: a cousin鈥檚 death by suicide, a war-haunted grandfather, the distances鈥攐r perhaps, more accurately, the complicated proximities鈥攚ithin a close, intimate relationship. While there is much to admire in this collection鈥攊ts deft attention to the line, for instance, its gentle yet confident diction鈥攚hat I find myself most drawn to are these proximities, these moments where the speaker must grapple with the challenges of intimacy. In 鈥淲here to Begin?鈥� the speaker is flirting with another, presumably married, man, having 鈥渕ade no promises / to monogamy, but what to do / with those who have.鈥� In 鈥�Jacques, from听Jacob, renamed听Israel, which means, in Hebrew,听He Who Wrestles God鈥� the speaker is 鈥渋n the fourth month of our long-distance // the morning after I had slept / with somebody else.鈥� What I admire about these moments is not only how they question monogamy, refuting the idea that monogamy is synonym to loyalty, but also how they refuse to justify or explain themselves: we are not let in on the details of these interludes. Instead, we are positioned as the voyeurs, the problematic witnesses to them instead鈥攁nd who are we to make sense of other people鈥檚 loving?

And who is the speaker to do so? I think that is what these heart-rending, beautiful poems are most curious about: as both personal and collective traumas are examined, held up to the light, yet seen perpetually through a mist, it is not so much clarity that is manifested but wonderment: it is a wonder, though sometimes terrible, that we are what we are, that we do what we do. That we see what we see.