I like to think there is something slyly appealing about books that are short-listed for awards, as opposed to those that win awards. The talent is evident in such books, but in one way or another they are a little too disturbing to be chosen as a vessel for the hopes and dreams of whatever institution is administering the prize. Or, as Ali Riley puts it in the title to one of her poems, “Always the Demonic Sorceress, Never the Bride.” After her nearly-award-winning debut Wayward, Ali Riley’s second collection of poetry from Frontenac House, Tear Down, is the winner of the first annual Corey Frost award for a book that might be too edgy to get past most poetry award juries but that unmistakably demonstrates how exciting the horrific imperfect world can be, and especially the world of men and women, when viewed through the lens of great writing. Like her first book, Tear Down is often about women who are outcast, persecuted, misunderstood, or simply complicated, particularly in the opening sequence entitled “My Sister, Guard Your Veil: 7 Easy Pieces,” which includes poems addressed to or in the voice of women as diverse as Courtney Love, Snow White, the controversial British artist Tracey Emin, and the 16th-century Saint Teresa of Avila.
Riley is also interested in boys, though, at least to the extent that they contrast with and intersect with girls, and the middle section of the book, called “The Boyfriend Sutras: 108 Performances” has some of the most dazzling, alive, up-and-down emotional writing in the book. My favourite poems are found here, including “Hausfrau,” a sharp and vivid story of deferred desire; the poem “One Woman Show,” which would make a great one woman show, stuffed with hilarious scenes and memorable one-liners like “We met cute, during a police raid” and “I see the penis as Post Industrial now;” as well as the simple, beautiful theorem of a poem, “Love is the Reason I Loathe Geometry.” This last one runs the risk of being corny, but the risk proves to be worthwhile in the end and the poem has the elegance of something not written but discovered.
Tear Down, as the title suggests, is also about Einstürzende Neubaten – not the industrial noise band from Berlin, although their name does come up, but the literal meaning of that phrase: tearing down new buildings. The penultimate section deals with dwelling places, and it seems they are mostly doomed. As a structure, though, the book holds together quite well because there is a thoughtful continuity in the kind of language used. Throughout, the poems are peppered with recurring lines that take on different meanings in different contexts, such as “I want your eyes on me,” and frequent references to music and art: “I feel like Joseph Beuys/ smothered in gold leaf and honey/ explaining pictures/ to his dead hare.”
Another reason why poetry juries would find Riley’s work impressive but perhaps not comforting is the surprising range of forms she uses, from prose poem to single-word lines. I’m particularly fond of the prose parts, especially those in the boyfriend section, when the poet loosens the admirable restraint shown in the earlier poems, and the result is a string of clever, daring lines one after the other. One gets the impression reading these parts that a life spent with Ali Riley, or even a short part of a life, would be always entertaining, always stimulating, and unpredictable: a poetic life in the most noble sense.
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