The review is by Drew Blanchard, who says of the anthology, “What the book does present, though, is a look into a contemporary record of Irish, Canadian, US, and European poetry. In so doing, the anthology looks both forwards and backwards in time. A recent Salmon collection by Michael S. Begnal, Ancestor Worship (2007), is an admirable book by a younger Salmon author; and the book’s title poem, included in the anthology, does this work: it looks back at multiple histories as it represents one future of poetry.”

Blanchard then gives the poem in full, and continues on: “Begnal, a dual Irish/US citizen identifies with both countries in ‘Ancestor Worship.’ The power of this poem, though, moves beyond notions of citizenship, beyond ties to nations and ancestries, and questions, in the end, ‘the right hook of history,’ asking, ‘Who’re you?’ or ‘who has history made you out to be?’ While Begnal smartly calls history-creation into question in this poem, ancestry, whether poetic or national or indefinable, is important to him, of course, in many ways. In the past, Begnal has noted the poetic influence of the Irish poet James Liddy who passed away in November of 2008. Liddy, who also had dual citizenship, was born in Dublin in 1934....” (The review then goes on to discuss Liddy and the rest of the book.)

I could not have said it better myself. And I liked the parallel Blanchard draws between Liddy and me. Incidentally, An Sionnach (which means “the fox” in Irish, for those who don’t speak it) is always worth ordering, and ditto the Salmon anthology and the Ancestor Worship collection....

Poetry

Formerly the editor of the Galway literary magazine The Burning Bush, Michael S. Begnal is an accomplished poet, whose new collection Ancestor Worship has just been published. Though American-born, Begnal mingles the Irish and English languages in his work, which reflects on ancient history as well as pop culture. Take, for example, this sample from the title poem, which recalls Frank O'Hara: "It's like when Lennon laid / his New York album on you, / and appeared in pictures / in his new image – / Revolutionary, / sudden Irishman, / Manhattanite." Begnal's poems are filled with similar humor and the joys and anxieties of living in the shadow of those who came before us. ....

....Ancestor Worship by Michael S. Begnal

....Review by Liam Mac Sheóinín

....In his previous exemplary collection, The Lakes of Coma, Michael S. Begnal adroitly reflected on the Michael S. Begnal Cosmos. No less fleshy and turbulent than the first master of American free verse — I mean, the author of Leaves of Grass, the redoubtable Walt Whitman — Begnal continues, collection after collection, to display a Whitmanian genius for litotes. Modern poetry is about understatement. It is about uniting opposites. Perhaps poetry was transformed into a statement of eternal, simple truth by a young Dane enumerating esseric considerations to a severed consciousness. Hamlet argues for continuing his existence when all evidence contradicts his argument. Whitman is a Hamlet healed by words, words, words. Whitman's verse is a series of addresses to the ghosts of his past. Like Hamlet and Whitman, Begnal argues with phantoms.

....Begnal's central argument seems to be with the craft he loves but also hates. The "Agenbite of Inwit" all deconstructionists must feel post Joyce, post Derrida. To his credit, this young poet seems to have an awareness of the futility of a poet's enterprise. He actually admitted in The Lakes of Coma, his brilliant first collection, to being "vulgarized by language." And although I stated in my Abiko Annual 23 review of The Lakes of Coma that Begnal "delights in being a poet," as expected of a Whitmanian, his verse is polygonal: a series of complex propositions. Mercury, the Dime, Begnal's long poem published by Six Gallery Press in 2005, is an elegy on the ephemeral claim a race has on a topography. It is a gentle howl, full of lament and acute observation. In Mercury, the Dime, actually written during the early 90s, Begnal brilliantly declares, "It was a Native American that dreamed Route 66."

Begnal's latest collection, Ancestor Worship, is as remarkable for its moody details. In "Beautiful People," "Dead bird blown down the road / as light as its feathers" is a dazzling, fitting inchoate for a poem that ends with the provocative line "the knife dripping with juice." Like Ginsberg, Begnal realizes a poem must provoke.

The title poem, "Ancestor Worship," is refulgent with race memory, the entelechy of the Eliotian proposal of melding memory and desire. Paradoxically, "Ancestor Worship," located at the near equator of the shining sphere of Begnal's collection, becomes a distant journey into the cavern of the past without ever leaving the present — and possibly with a foot in the future. "Not like the bones of parents / carried out in procession / from their dark vaginal tombs / among the rocks, / mummified skin stretched / and tanned in mockery of death." The journey ends with a burst of confidence: "ancestor worship / is the only religion / truly compatible / with the fact /of evolution." This is a foot projected in the future.

The great poet James Liddy, in his blurb of Ancestor Worship, declares Begnal's latest collection "a journey or pilgrimage." Liddy maintains Begnal takes us to a place where "no one has been quite there before, along the genealogy or amid the furniture." I am in total agreement.

Freddy Johnston, in his review published on the Western Writers Centre site, delights in Begnal's "remaking of language." Johnston, a very gifted poet and writer, cited Begnal's use of the phrase "gorted land" as a prime example of the poet's ability to shift from English to Irish. Johnston explains "gort" is the Irish word for field and "gorta" the Irish for famine. This sonorous echo is Begnal's wink to the polysemantic brilliance of Finnegans Wake.

Imagery, however, remains the predominate ingredient of Begnal's collection. Mercilessly eidetic-eidocentric, if you will — Begnal's saccadic eye turns the page into cinematic experience. This is especially true of his beautiful lament, "Montparnasse Cemetery":

think of all the bridges on the Seine,
that melancholy snake,
men and women have jumped off,
insignificants splash
in the green murk,
tempted

You can see the "insignificants" being swallowed by their own bile. Few poets are as adept at kinaesthetic image as Begnal. In fact, Ancestor Worship abounds with kinaesthetic magic: "Glass of the window / swims as you look / toward the Both Loiscthe bridge."

As a Joycean, in particular a devotee of Finnegans Wake, Begnal submits:

All time in time and all space in space is the underlying theme of Finnegans Wake. So it's no coincidence that in Ancestor Worship, a subtle work of genius, that magus Begnal succeeds in achieving a temporal-spacial perversion akin to Joyce's Wake. Thus Galway and environs morphs into the streets of Prague, the royal botanical garden of Madrid, and "In the jet light of dusk tide" back to ancient Gaul and to the glorious defeat of the dying king of every Celt, Vercingetorix.

After joyously knocking my sconce against the formidable, lisible, scriptible Ancestor Worship, I have arrived at the conclusion that if poetry has produced another Heaney during our time, his name is Michael S. Begnal.
..
..(Liam Mac Sheóinín is a contributing and review editor for The Irish Edition and Abiko Quarterly. His first novel is forthcoming from Six Gallery Press. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He was a finalist for the Eric Hoffer Best New Writing Award in 2007.)