“McIntosh's imagination is so vivid that the primary response to [his poetry] is delight.” —American Book Review
Sandy McIntosh: Ernesta, in the Style of the Flamenco

 

In Ernesta, Sandy McIntosh’s exuberant imagination breathes fresh excitement into narrative poetry. The title poem, spotlighting a 19th century Spanish pianist who does whatever it takes (such as eliminating the competition) to survive, discloses fascinating social dimensions of music and its impact: “Music will watch us drown.” “Among the Disappointments of Love” are shorter poems that show how dubious ideals of love get punctured, unbridled egos cause romantic relationships to crash, friendship is subject to a disorienting mirror, a victim of the male gaze becomes the gazer, and science colonizes the hapless body. “Nathan, in the Ancient Language” features a narrative about an affluent dunderhead who comically fails at every endeavor yet cannot shake the comfortable fate ordained for him by his family’s privilege. Replete with echoes of Anglo-Saxon music and phrasing and some actual quotations from the old tongue, the poem raises issues about the ownership of language, charismatic charlatanism and its undoing, and the (in)ability to read other people and the material consequences of reading poorly. Further, the poem implicitly asks: How should individuals utilize the power that sometimes randomly comes their way?

"In Ernesta, when McIntosh's title character declares: 'Music has pictures,' it instantly brings to mind this poet's astounding use of language that creates visual landscapes of great clarity. I've been an enthusiastic fan of previous books and recommend you get your hands on as many as you can. This may be the biased sentiment of a devoted fan, but Sandy: You rock!" —Phoebe Snow

"Ernesta, in the Style of the Flamenco, Sandy McIntosh’s latest volume, bursts with brilliance and sizzles with sass.  McIntosh’s new poems are audacious, ravishing, syntactic marvels, clowning-around oddballs.  The energy and wit in this book will make you want to whip out your fan, put on your non-skid sole shoes, and dance.”—Denise Duhamel

"In Ernesta, in the Style of Flamenco, Sandy McIntosh concocts poetry that resembles roulette wheels: the poems have a playfulness, but also a dead seriousness about them.

He can be blunt, as in Our 'Hood:

Neighbors steal from neighbors. They exchange possessions,
dress and thought. And so, over the years, have transformed
themselves into the people from whom they stole.

There are two long narrative poems that begin the book: one about a 19th century composer, told in tongue-in-cheek but fairly straightforward narrative, the other a wildly funny mock mystery called "Minute Mysteries: The New Adventures of Inspector Shmegegi and Monica." These two are followed by a section called "Among the Disappointments of Love," and then another long poem which can easily be read as a dramatic monologue, "Nathan, in the Ancient Language."

There is something very Kafka-esque about McIntosh's imagination, but also something of Raymond Carver. As an example of the Raymond Carver echoes, here's a line from "Our 'Hood":
Our neighbor's house caught fire -- something about a
cigarette tossed into lighter fluid just to see what would
happen.

Is that tone not so Carver-esque, so pointedly bitter and ironic?

But McIntosh's poetry (perhaps more aptly described as flash fiction, in some instances) is more generous than Carver's, more willing to display the author's hand.

Sometimes he reminds one of Grace Paley. The narrator -- and there does seem to be a single narrator for many of the poems -- suffers an array of indignities, most connected to the idea of being scorned.

Here is a passage from "Among the Disappointments of Love" whose biting, ironic dialogue strongly recalled Grace Paley's short short, "Wants" :
"I can't marry you, after all.
Tomorrow I leave
For the Antipodes
Never to return!"

I had not asked her to marry me!

There is a wonderful piece entitled "Partial Menu of Dishes Returned to the Kitchen by a Fromer Girlfriend which consists of a table listing such items as :

Nathan's Coney Island/ Food: Hot dog/ Reason returned: Roll "too mushy"/ Action Taken: Turned nose up at counterman

Or:
Masa, New York City/ Food: Sushi/ Reason returned: "Not fresh enough"

In the end, the breeziness cannot conceal the pain. The poet cares deeply about, occasionally is even angered by, human limitations:

In "To a Former Playmate of the Month," the playmate confides to a friend that she dreams of the faces of strangers. The friend thinks:
. . . For so long
You've been stared at
By adolescents,
Older men
In stale marriages,
Or those too shy to find their own playmate.

It ends:
It seems justice
That you get
To study them
Now.

Even the most appalling hurt can be borne, can be transmuted into wit and irony. That is this writer's admirable skill.--Marianne Villanueva, Galatea Ressurects

ISBN-13: 978-0984117710 $15.95

Praise for Forty-Nine Guaranteed Ways To Escape Death

Sandy McIntosh’s poems are incisive, clever, sometimes cynical, sometimes political, but above all, comic. As the reviewer, I got my copy of Forty-Nine Ways as a freebie. (Eat your heart out.) But I would gladly pay money for it. In the interest of stimulating the economy, you should buy this book. —Rebecca Spears, Sentence 6

Sandy McIntosh’s gift of exploring the “what if” moments of life is most evident in his new vivacious collection Forty-Nine Guaranteed Ways To Escape Death. McIntosh spins a tantalizing web of tales—unlikely encounters with the famous; musical instruments invented not to be easily played, but rather to be beautiful objects themselves; and mega-lists, one of which is the sublime title poem. Constantly inventive, his poems are meta in their metamorphosis—one prose poem even becomes a review of his last book. He mythologizes terrorist threats and re-imagines The Man of Steel. His poems are indeed reminiscent of Superman, zooming into Metropolis to scoop up Poetry and save it from the villains, Boredom and Pretense. —Denise Duhamel

Praise for The After-Death History of My Mother

Sandy McIntosh's entertaining new volume might be mistaken, at first, for a merry romp through personal and literary history conducted by a slightly confused, well-meaning people-pleaser. His confusion begins with his bemused revelation that he has (maybe) two mothers, and continues through various other doublings (dream transformations, reincarnations, literary 'forgeries,' literary mothers both male and female, poems masquerading as prose and vice versa) to a final doubling (double-crossing) that brings with it a 'broade [sic] awaking' to reality.... This is a book of elegies—eulogies, really—to all the literal and literary bastards who have made McIntosh an artist and (maybe) a con. —Laural Blossom, American Book Review

“As the title suggests, the poet’s quest is familial, but it is also poetic. In a way, the poetic mentors McIntosh invokes (such as Allen Ginsberg and David Ignatow) are like fathers, or at least older brothers, to him. A sort of detective, McIntosh uses whatever tools are available to shed light on his family and poetic pasts.... The innovation of this work is most apparent when McIntosh combines as many methods as possible into one piece.”—Erica Wright, ForeWord

"Obsessional," a long poem in parts, comprises the final section.... Throughout "Obsessional," the speaker's work serves as an additional focal point: a literary scandal in 1559 surrounding Cambridge scholar Nicholas Grimald, London Printer Richard Tottel and the publication of Songs and Sonnets.... Intriguing and entertaining enough that it would make an excellent film. —Rebecca Spears, Sentence

The showcase piece of this book, a long sequence titled “Obsessional,” is remarkable for yoking an engaging Elizabethan literary detective story to a personal narrative about life as a grad school poet. Even more impressive than this set-up actually succeeding is the way McIntosh is able to tie compassion to dagger-thrust humor. If that’s what “obsessional” poetry is—personal narrative of neurosis that is aware a world exists outside the poet’s gut, and is not afraid to tell a joke—maybe it will catch on among those still in the stranglehold of the confessional. The ending sequence is balanced at the front of the book by the title sequence, composed of memorial lyrics and anecdotes in prose and free verse, at once touching and chilling. With pieces about David Ignatow, Allen Ginsberg, and H. R. Hayes the book leaves a haunting lasting impression, like the poet’s mother in “The Hospital Chair”—“She touches you and tells you you are healed/ and may go home,” but also warns “No one knows what will happen/ when I leave my tomb in the night/ to touch you.” —Brian Clements, Boog City

Sandy McIntosh’s The After-Death History of My Mother is whimsical, sharp, humorous and clever. It’s multi-hued content reflected in the multicoloured joyful painting of its cover. The joi de vie of the art is a shocking contrast to the stark declaration of death made by the title. This juxtaposition continues through the book with poems sectioned into moments of contrast to those before and after them. It seems to dare the reader to follow the thread of McIntosh’s thought, to try to keep pace with what at one moment is funereal slow and the next as fast as the night creature avoiding the glare of a porch light.... McIntosh’s ability to skip a whimsied path between prose and poetry is one of the most enduring factors of this book. He feels no need to confine himself to one style within a poem; occasionally he brings in drama as well. Perhaps in his next collection he will add lyrics and a news report, and the one after that can bring in a thesis and biblical sermon. I wouldn’t underestimate anything about this poet. He is a wild card, and they are often the best to read and follow. The After-Death History of My Mother is an energetic book. The reader is dazzled, bemused and caught unawares by the way McIntosh approaches his subject. A surreal book for a surreal today!—Fionna Doney Simmonds, Galatea Ressurects


Sandy McIntosh’s collections of poetry include 237 More Reasons to Have Sex (Otoliths), with Denise Duhamel, Forty-Nine Guaranteed Ways to Escape Deathl, The After Death History of My Mother, Between Earth and Sky (Marsh Hawk Press), Endless Staircase (Street Press), Earth Works (Long Island University), Which Way to the Egress? (Garfield Publishers), and two chapbooks: Obsessional (Tamafyhr Mountain Poetry) and Monsters of the Antipodes (Survivors Manual Books). His prose includes Firing Back, with Jodie-Beth Galos (John Wiley & Sons), From A Chinese Kitchen (American Cooking Guild), and The Poets In the Poets-In-The-Schools (Minnesota Center for Social Research, University of Minnesota. His poetry and essays have been published in The New York Times, Newsday, The Nation, the Wall Street Journal, American Book Review, and elsewhere. His original poetry in a film script won the Silver Medal in the Film Festival of the Americas.


Sample Shorter Poems

Woman In the Bar On Meeting John Cage

 

My wife and I took our seats at the bar in Penn Station,
Forty minutes to wait before our train.
The middle-aged woman sitting next to me,
Wearing a frilly prom dress,
A fancy cocktail untouched
Before her,
Leaned over and whispered:
“Hello, sailor. Do you think
You’re man enough
To rock my world?”
“I doubt it,” I told her.

She turned away,
Began whispering to the man
To her left. Their conversation
Intense, but every
Once in awhile she’d turn to me
With the whispered
Play-by-play: “He’s got
A wife in Copaigue, but thinks
Maybe he can catch the later train
If we head over to the
Hotel across the street
For a quick one.”

But by the time she’d turned back
To him, the man had stood up
Red-faced
And was rushing out of the bar.

Silence. The three of us
Alone. Then two women
Entered, and our new friend
Called: “Hey Ladies. Can I
Buy you a drink?”
But the ladies scuttled
Into shadows.
“They probably think
I’m into pussy,” the woman confided.
“Well, I can accommodate.”

It was time for our train, so Barbara and I
Stood up. I turned to say
Goodbye.

“Going so soon?” she asked,
Then sighed. “Oh well.
It’s been
A slow evening.”

 

I’d been moving from scene to scene in my nightly pageant when I came upon a friend at the piano talking to a stranger.

“I’d like you to meet John Cage,”

Cage smiled, not intimidated by my appearance: buck naked except each foot and hand plunged into a box of facial tissues (props from a previous scene).

Cage was inside the piano stuffing objects between the strings—thumbtacks, bits of wood, a tiny bust of the Emperor Lucretin.

“You see,” he told me. “There isn’t such a thing as a random number generator. It’s only an algorithm that pretends to be random. In fact, there is only cause and effect.”

Then we were silent, bereft of polite conversation.

The audience shuffled, coughed nervously. A siren intruded from the street. My friend twiddled his fingers. Then I realized Cage was performing his infamous work, 4’ 33” in which a pianist sits for four minutes and thirty-three seconds in absolute silence without touching the keys.

Growing apprehension: Some people, struggling for nonchalance, displayed grotesque, uncontrollable facial ticks. Others rolled their eyes luridly, watching the big clock in the auditorium, which was telling us not even one minute had passed.

I, too, was becoming uncomfortable and ashamed of my nakedness, like Adam expelled from Eden.

Anything could happen now, anything at all: Awful silence weighing on the grand piano, maybe all at once collapsing it through the stage floor, a wild whirlwind following, sucking us all down.