I sort of distrust Michael Palmer’s poetry the way I distrust goth kids wearing cowls on summer days. Is the world really so puzzling and impenetrable, language as full of smoke and aporia as Palmer’s image horde suggests? Or does he just like the clothes? While not exactly ersatz, there’s a feeling of something reverentially borrowed in his verse—from Celan, from the French modernists—and turned not to light a new room, but to mood-light the one others have already shown us.
Still, like those summer goths, there’s a tenacity in Palmer’s commitment to his pose, which he’s stuck to through every weather whatever the reigning fashion, that’s hard not to admire. What I think of as pretentious in his verse seems increasingly like a rearguard action against the loss of room for the serious in mainstream American culture and poetry. I’m coming to like the torn pages and flaming boats in his poems like I learned to like the elf songs in Tolkien; as assertions of a single-minded devotion to the interior world one’s created, charged with the plangent ambience of a vanishing age that never was.