Now with a premise like this, camps immediately begin to form. There are those who will enjoy the work solely based on this setup, native Minnesotans, perhaps, front row center. Another camp, those say with a more critical sensibility, is naturally cautious for the same reason. Will such a backdrop be used as a contrivance or as a creative springboard?
Initially, Dacey’s poems are ephemeral sketches—overheards and oversights taken in accessible shorthand. Day and night, here and there, he records snippets of his strange and wonderful new home. The resulting sonnets seldom betray their Midwestern roots—often curt, unfiltered reflections that leverage their East Coast otherness:
First month. Have seen no snowmobiles or rats.
Noise? Deep in Central Park, the squeak of swings.
Curt locals? Who cares? At least they’re Democrats.
On subways, furs and sweats, and everything...
Such passages are common in Postcards and, along with their sporadic adherence to one sonnet form or another, able to satisfy readers in Camp One—tales from New York, that urban monstrosity, observed with a voice (and perspective) they know. The strange stays strange, but Dacey connects it to the Midwestern bumper with confidence. The book as a whole lends itself well to local bookstore readings, applause.
Outside Camp One things get a little serious. Dacey’s a Minnesotan in New York—with all the images that conjures. He finds the prevailing chaos of the Big Apple strange and wonderful at once, a sentiment that remains static throughout the work. We don’t see a development of the expatriate in his new environs, aside from the intermittent chronological reference. His use of the sonnet form reflects Dacey’s known penchant for the formal. When used here it is almost invisible, which speaks to ability I suppose, though there were times in which I felt the adherence to form restricted him from delving deeper. Nice, though, that he is relaxed enough with it in Postcards to allow for the odd shiny coin found in the street:
In early morning mist the Manhattan skyline
is a Chinese painting—all ethereal stone.
and
Last night a tiny Korean pianist so good
I swear she got bigger and bigger as she played.
Of course in reality, camps are like Venn diagrams, overlapping in their likes. Many will enjoy The New York Postcard Sonnets for the innocent wonder and affable voice Dacey employs. Others may find it a little light in depth and use of the context. There is, I believe, something for most to enjoy here—the images pleasant, the voice comfortable in my Midwestern mind, the coins usable anywhere.
- Michael Gause