CutBank
Volume 1
Issue 11 CutBank 11
Article 39
Fall 1978
On Quinton Duval
Thomas Mitchell
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Mitchell, Thomas (1978) "On Quinton Duval," CutBank: Vol. 1 : Iss. 11 , Article 39.
Available at: http://scholarworks.umt.edu/cutbank/vol1/iss11/39
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Guerilla Letters
Q u in to n Duval
Q uarterly West Press
Salt Lake City
$2.00, paper
Q u in to n D u v a l’s new c h a p b o o k , Guerilla Letters, is brief but
durable. The thirteen one-page poems are terse, straightforw ard and
honest. They e m body a real experience, an experience of words,
images. Then, som ehow , they go further. F ro m page to page, the
reader knows with increasing assurance th at a lively im agination will
surface again and again, each time with surprises that tu rn out to be
both marvelous and right.
A poet m ust begin somewhere, and Duval has the good sense to
begin with himself. “The Song of the W agon D riv er” is perhaps the
m ost lyrical and “telling” poem in the chapbook:
T hese th ou gh ts are here to keep the darkness
a lo n g the road aw ay. T he slim road that unrolls
like a soiled bandage to the end.
W hen it b ecom es ston es we can begin to soften .
W e can begin to sing out loud instead o f inside us.
T he h o rse’s so n g . . . he kn ow s w hat he m eans.
The driver’s son g is w hat he decid es it sh ou ld be
at the m om en t he sings.
I u sually sing abou t m y w ife in her room
w aiting for the present in m y pocket.
A b o u t m y son in bed, dream in g he hears us
in our peculiar b edroom chorus. A b ou t god ,
w h o believes he m ust be in my so n g or
it w o n ’t be an y g ood .
This reflective, soft, but tough, poetry comes across. We know the
poet is reached. We know that his thrust is tow ard the soul, the
timeless. The poem is deeply personal, yet accessible. It involves you,
me, and clearly Q u inton Duval.
Perhaps w hat moves best is D u v a l’s tenacity in being so straight, so
clear, so tru e -w ith a com plete lack of petulance. He sets things dow n
plainly and decisively. His images are highly imaginative, but they are
carefully chosen and are a p p ro p ria te to the poem, to w hat he wants to
reveal. Duval uses co m m o n , everyday words. The images are
generally of the m ost natural kind: bird and sea and stone. The
landscapes are as spare as the w ords.
M id stream , in “T h e River of B irds”, we realize th a t the poem s
becom e even lonelier an d m ore im aginative— a m an talkin g to
him self always, trying to m ak e sense, if only to himself:
T h a t’s o u r gu id e. I’m sorry to tell y o u
he is d ea d n o w . S h o t in th e heart.
H e w a s n ’t so lu ck y as I h ave been .
O n th e M o u n ta in w e find b a n a n a s an d
w e h ave a g o o d su p p ly o f c o ffe e an d flou r.
M y b o o ts are w ea rin g th in but I h a v e b een
p ro m ised th e n ext pair w e fin d .
D u v a l creates a new im aginative experience, a new w orld in which
o u r senses are seized with terrible an d yet w o nd erfu l ideas. T h e boots
of the dead becom e an im p o rta n t, even vital, m a tte r to the living. The
tropics, a strange and beautiful fantasy in themselves, nevertheless
becom e the setting fo r harsh reality. A gain, D u v a l brings us into
term s with this reality in “Angels o f the S u n ”:
R ea lity ! I w a n t th e se thin gs: 1 w an t m y w o m a n , on e.
N o . . . first a r o o f o v er m y h ead an d m y m o u th full
o f fo o d or lo v e . . . th en m y w ife. M y gu itar,
m y lo v er, m y frien d s . . . T w o . . .
It’s im p o ssib le . I stan d here p issin g air
in to th e d u st. T h e m o n th s are lik e th e p eo p le
w e bury, d ra g g in g their feet all the w ay.
D uval is intrigued w ith the so u n d an d shape o f words. He never
forgets th a t the poem should be w ritten for the ear as well as the eye.
T h o u g h fo r me, “T h e S o n g of T h e W a g o n D riv e r”, has the m ost
beautiful music in the v olum e, there are o th e r instances w o rth citing.
S o m e tim es the rh y th m becom es stacc ato as in “ I P o in t O u t A B ird ”:
T h is bird I’ve seen b efo re w a lk in g ou t
o f th e fo rest w ith his h ead d o w n . D o y o u rem em b er?
R id in g a h o t tra in , g u n s held o v er th e head
to m a k e m o re ro o m . H id in g in a cart u n d er a layer
o f stra w , lik e a b o ttle o f w in e an d q u ite as fragile.
C o m in g h o m e to an in v isib le to w n and
a w ife m a d e o f clear air an d sm o k e .
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“The Stone Bridge”, arrives appropriately enough at the halfway
point o f the volum e. In addition to the m elody, there is wit, m odest
wisdom , and an abundance o f sheer poetic pleasure:
Y o u will lau g h , I h o p e , w h e n I tell y o u
we h a d to b lo w the d a m n t h in g up.
N a t u r a l ly , 1 c o u l d n ’t help t h in k i n g
it w a s o u r love flying in e very d i r e c ti o n
like u r g e n t sto n e birds.
O f c o u r se . I ’m usin g this inciden t.
T h e fact y o u r letters g r o w t h i n n e r (like me)
i s n ’t a n influ ence. P e r h a p s y o u feel
differe ntly n o w I a m gone.
T h e d u r a b il i ty o f h o t lead d i s t u r b s y o u
t o o m u c h . Y o u a lr e a d y k n o w m y s h a llo w grave.
Adm ittedly, this poetry is pointed and painful. D u val has
extraordinary descriptive powers; it is a correctness and accuracy
that leads the reader to believe that D uval is genuinely concerned. In
“Just W aking U p ” he spells out this concern:
I will tell y o u this: I a m a f ra i d I will
n ever get to c h a n g e s o m e th i n g before
I a m c h a n g e d myself.
Thomas Mitchell
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