Humor in the Apocalypse:
Al Russell’s Children of the Anxious City
A review by Esteban Rodríguez
Russell Al, “Children of the Anxious City”
Vegetarian Alcoholic Press
72 pages, softcover, $14.95
Listening to non-poetry readers say the reason they don’t enjoy the genre is because of its difficulty and heavy subject matter can be exhausting to hear. Poetry is serious, as any literary genre is, and yes, a case can perhaps be made that certain aspects of contemporary poetry are too “depressing.” But the genre is not as narrow and niche as one might think, and there are plenty of collections where humor and absurdity prevail and even drive the book’s focus. Al Russell’s “Children of the Anxious City” is just that book. Dark, funny, and observant of what otherwise would be overlooked and forgotten. Russell gives readers (regardless of their preferred genre) a collection that is both thoughtful and entertaining.
Russell’s poems are notable for venturing into the macabre. More than once does the author describe apocalyptic scenes in a cautionary yet humorous way. In “End-of-the-World Death Machine Sonnet,” the speaker warns that should a death machine be available to us, we shouldn’t be so trigger-happy to rid ourselves of such immediate misery:
Do not just blow it away. We’ll need it
in the coming months. Everything
will crumble, ash explosions fluttering
dollar bills from out the molten
sky will be our currency.
Better than rain. Do not just
chuck it from the wall plug-in, putz
its cord across the room, hissing, canny.
There will come a time when our “nostrils fill with head-aching / sea water” (a clear reference to environmental collapse) and it is in these last remaining moments that we will question our solitude and purpose, and how best to use what’s at our disposal to ease our suffering. Yes, perhaps this does sound a bit somber, but Russell’s conversational tone makes the subject matter bearable, appealing to readers on a human level. In these poems we are beside the speaker, and the speaker is comforting us, even when the idea of comfort has lost all meaning.
One doesn’t necessarily associate dark humor with poetry, but Russell’s unique language allows such humor to provide moments of meditations in the aftermath of destruction:
“Here in Hell,
there are no birds,”
You say as though
you expect a big
reaction.
I mean,
You’re right.
Dead silence.All these statues
who are they?
This used to be a whole city I hear
but the past is past.
Were they all this size?
The birds, I mean,
big birds,
big as gods,
big old monsters
Here in “Burial Site,” we see that the speaker longs to understand the remnants of a dying world, and to tease out the ways in which the past, now entering a realm of mythology, shapes the present. In “Emaciated Torso,” the speaker finds a thin woman on the brink of death in a parking garage. The circumstances that would lead these two souls to this scene is unclear, but the speaker approaches carefully and finds in a “rolled / curlicue of parchment / in the fey thicket of her top shock” the words: DON’T CHANGE. Like the message from a fortune cookie, the words could mean either everything or nothing at all, but regardless of their significance, the speaker is adamant that they don’t intend to change who they are. It’s precisely this attitude that adds humor to the poem, the fact that even as the speaker lifts this woman, perhaps saving her from her predicament, they are concerned only with the image of themselves and their outlook on life.
As the title of the collection states, “Children of the Anxious City” exudes a constant anxiety that pervades its poems. In “The Bank Robber,” the speaker comes to terms that they “can’t steal [ballpoint pens] anymore” at the bank, and that they must not convince themselves that they’re there to make an important transaction:
And of course, every time I go
through the revolving door
I can pretend I have money.
But now they’re out of my favorite
blue ballpoint pens
I can’t pretend anymore.
There is certain level of absurdity to this that makes one chuckle. How many ballpoint pens does one actually need? The bank as a symbol of capitalism and wealth is obvious, but it’s funny that out of all things the speaker can steal from such an institution, it’s the pens they go for, as if these instruments alone can provide the nourishment needed to survive in an unfair and cruel world.
Other poems follow this same anxious state, even when the speaker is older and in a much calmer setting. In “Plagued by Nightmares,” we see this sentiment played out:
I’m feeble,
my bones are full of holes,
even at eighty-nine
I’m still plagued by nightmares.
The moon, green as a grape,
as round, as full, as wide
aperture in the dark
hand mirror—my whole face.
It is terrifying.
These lines encapsulate the constant state of uneasiness we all, regardless of how skillfully we suppress our anxiety from others, experience at some point. Death is always lingering, and even when we have survived much of what the world has thrown at us, we are still living on edge, still unsure when our moment will come.
It’s refreshing when a poetry collection subverts the expectations that are placed upon the medium. Sure, there are uncomfortable and challenging moments that confront the scenarios we might face should the end of days arrive, but through its blend of seriousness and humor, “Children of the Anxious City” becomes a tool for helping its readers navigate a mercurial world, a light in the face of the destruction, death, and monotony that plagues our everyday lives.
Rodríguez is the author of the collections “Dusk & Dust” (Hub City Press, 2019), “Crash Course” (Saddle Road Press, 2019), “In Bloom” (SFASU Press, 2020), and “(Dis)placement” (Skull + Wind Press, 2020). His poetry has appeared in The Gettysburg Review, New England Review, TriQuarterly, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. He is the Interviews Editor for the EcoTheo Review, a regular reviews contributor for PANK, and a poetry reader for BOAAT. He lives in Austin, Texas.