Stuart Ross - The Book of Grief and Hamburgers
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- Book:The Book of Grief and Hamburgers
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- Publisher:ECW Press
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- Year:2022
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A poignant meditation on mortality from a beloved Canadian poet
A writer friend once pointed out that whenever Stuart Ross got close to something heavy and real in a poem, a hamburger would inevitably appear for comic relief. In this hybrid essay/memoir/poetic meditation, Ross shoves aside the heaping plate of burgers to wrestle with what it means to grieve the people one loves and what it means to go on living in the face of an enormous accumulation of loss. Written during the second wave of the COVID-19 pandemic, shortly after the sudden death of his brother left him the last living member of his family and as a catastrophic diagnosis meant anticipating the death of his closest friend, this meditation on mortality a kind of literary shiva is Rosss most personal book to date. More than a catalogue of losses, The Book of Grief and Hamburgers is a moving act of resistance against self-annihilation and a desperate attempt to embrace all that was good in his relationships with those most dear to him.
Stuart Ross: author's other books
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Stuart Ross
70 Kippers (w/ Michael Dennis, Proper Tales Press, 2020)
Ninety Tiny Poems (above/ground press, 2019)
Sos una Sola Persona (trans. Toms Downey & Sarah Moses, Socios Fundadores, 2019)
Motel of the Opposable Thumbs (Anvil Press, 2019)
Espesantes (above/ground press, 2018)
Eleven/Elleve/Alive (w/ Dag T. Straumsvg & Hugh Thomas, shreeking violet press, 2018)
Pockets (ECW Press, 2017)
A Sparrow Came Down Resplendent (Wolsak and Wynn, 2016)
Sonnets (w/ Richard Huttel, serif of nottingham editions, 2016)
A Hamburger in a Gallery (DC Books, 2015)
Further Confessions of a Small-Press Racketeer (Anvil Press, 2015)
In In My Dreams (Book*hug, 2014)
Our Days in Vaudeville (w/ 29 collaborators, Mansfield Press, 2013)
You Exist. Details Follow. (Anvil Press, 2012)
Snowball, Dragonfly, Jew (ECW Press, 2011)
Buying Cigarettes for the Dog (Freehand Books, 2009)
Dead Cars in Managua (DC Books, 2008)
I Cut My Finger (Anvil Press, 2007)
Confessions of a Small-Press Racketeer (Anvil Press, 2005)
Hey, Crumbling Balcony! Poems New & Selected (ECW Press, 2003)
Razovsky at Peace (ECW Press, 2001)
Farmer Gloomys New Hybrid (ECW Press, 1999)
Henry Kafka & Other Stories (The Mercury Press, 1997)
The Inspiration Cha-Cha (ECW Press, 1996)
The Mud Game (w/ Gary Barwin, The Mercury Press, 1995)
The Pig Sleeps (w/ Mark Laba, Contra Mundo Books, 1993)
He Counted His Fingers, He Counted His Toes (Proper Tales Press, 1979)
The Thing in Exile (w/ Steve Feldman & Mark Laba, Books by Kids, 1976)
In memory of Michael Dennis
We are the lucky men.
I want to talk to my dad, but my dad is dead now. I know we cant have a regular conversation so I am trying to stay open to alternatives.
Amy Fusselman, The Pharmacists Mate
Somebody give me a hamburger.
And he balanced a hamburger on his head.
She deals in rubber bands and hamburgers.
For Gods sake, look after our hamburgers.
Who stole Grandpas hamburger?
Four score and seven hamburgers were how many.
After he shaved his chin, he shaved his hamburger.
Not with a bang, but a hamburger.
Hamburgers crept into my poetry in my late teens, about ten years after I started writing. They appeared a few years after Id discovered David McFaddens poetry, and Stephen Cranes, and E. E. Cummingss, and Victor Colemans, and Joe Rosenblatts. I dont know if hamburgers appeared in any of those guys poems. Well, maybe in David McFaddens, but if so, probably not for the same reason they appeared in my poems.
Sometimes the hamburgers in my poems were actual hamburgers. Sometimes they were Frank Sinatra. Sometimes the hamburgers that showed up in my poems were rubber bands. Once they were onion rings. Sometimes they were Frank Stella and Joe Hardy. Or penguins.
The lines on the previous page are not lines from my poems. But they could be. Most of them would likely be last lines. Does a hamburger make any line of poetry better? I mean, better than it was before it had a hamburger in it?
Other poets put an angel in their poems to make them better sometimes the tongues of men and angels. Or the moon. The moon is very popular among poets. Some people put love in their poem to make the poem a good poem.
When I worked with Dave McFadden on his volume of selected poems, Why Are You So Sad?, I thought we would reproduce the poems exactly as they had been originally published, and in chronological order. But first the order thing: Dave wanted them to appear in random order. He presented me with a random order for the poems in the book, but I think the order wasnt entirely random. Dave was wily that way. But the other thing: Dave wanted to edit his poems for this new volume. He was a better poet now than when he had originally written those poems in the 1960s and 1970s and 1980s, and he could make those poems better. In several of his poems from the 1960s, Dave replaced the word love with the word thing. And it was true: it made the poems better.
So Dave was a poet who put the word love into his poems when he was in his twenties and took the word love out of his poems when he was in his sixties.
Heres what I do: I put the word hamburger in my poems when things are getting a little too heavy. Because the word hamburger makes you laugh. So this manoeuvre makes a heavy poem lighter. You can lift it more easily.
My mother was an artist, which she mostly expressed through being a self-taught interior decorator. She also made some clay sculptures. Two of them are on a shelf behind me right now, above the rows of old R & B and Black gospel records I used to spin on my radio show. One of the clay sculptures is of a ballerina, sitting cross-legged. Or perhaps she is just a woman in tights. The other sculpture my mother made and I kept is of our dog Mousse. Mousse was a toy poodle whose pedigree name was Parquet Ralphy of Russell Hill Road. We called him Mousse. The sculpture has Mousse sitting, with one of his paws raised slightly, as if he is hoping to shake your hand, or as if you had just said, Shake, Mousse. Thats a good boy. Shake. The sculpture, like Mousse, is mostly white but with a black nose and black eyes, and some brown flecks in his fur. It is covered in a glaze.
When I was six or seven years old, my mother took me to the Art Gallery of Ontario to see a gigantic hamburger made of painted fabric. It was taller than me. This sculpture is called Floor Burger. It was created by Claes Oldenburg in 1962. A burger nestled within a bun, and a pickle perched on top. Some of the paint was already beginning to crack and flake, even in 1966, when I first saw the gigantic hamburger.
A hamburger can be art. That is the first lesson about art I ever learned.
Claes Oldenburg was born ten days before my mother. He is still alive. My mother died in 1995. David McFadden died in 2018.
If I was the kind of writer who worked hard, I would look through all the books Ive written, read over all my poems from the 1970s until the present, locate every mention of hamburgers, and tell you which of my poems have hamburgers in them. A lot of my poems have hamburgers.
But I do not work hard and my standards are low.
Also, my books are scattered everywhere throughout my home, and it would take me too long to find them.
Hamburgers are a device.
If my poems are getting too serious, I insert a hamburger. Hamburgers, like the word hamburger, make people laugh.
I havent eaten a hamburger since 1993. Thats when I became a vegetarian, but I forget why.
Oh yeah, I remember. I stopped eating meat and stopped adding salt to my food and stopped drinking coffee for reasons having to do with blood pressure. And then later my reason for not eating meat became that eating meat was not nice to animals.
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