Print edition: 
“Vertigo: The Living Dead Man Poems” by Marvin Bell (Copper Canyon Press, 152 pages, $16)
1. About the Dead Man and the Book Reviewer
Book Reviewer: I will avoid the obvious opening question, and ask how does it feel to be the longest-running persona in contemporary American poetry?
Living Dead Man: Am I?
BR: Yes, more than 30 years. I can’t think of another comparable character, except John Berryman’s Henry.
LDM: Ah, Berryman. He is a Dead Dead Man now . . . a bridge too far.
BR: That remark is in poor taste.
LDM: The Living Dead Man is entitled to poor taste or to no taste. He is beyond taste. So what was your obvious question?
BR: How does it feel to be dead?
LDM: I am the living Dead Man. I live as though I were dead. Didn’t you read Marvin Bell’s famous Zen aphorism at the start of every Dead Man poem?
BR: How could I miss it? But every poem? Please. Wouldn’t once at the beginning of the book have been enough?
LDM: Ask the poet.
BR: OK. What is your function now in this, the fourth Dead Man book by Bell (I think)?
LDM: As always, I observe. I act. I comment on reality. I free-associate. I soar. I dance. I love life. I do not fear death. I am free, unattached. I am the egoless alter ego.
BR: Hmmm. Are you simply Bell’s mouthpiece to let him rant about politics (“a time of bush-league government”) or rhapsodize about nature (“Pour your heart into the dry arroyo to be nourished and run off.”)? Are you simply a grand literary conceit?
LDM: No, I am the real dead man Bell saw on a beach in Washington State in the 1980s. I am the origin of the poem, detached from all conceit. No masks. No pretense. Just pure presence.
BR: Well, you seem to be partial to order.
LDM: How so?
BR: Each poem is composed of two parts: “1. About the Dead Man and X (where X is the subject matter of the poem)” and “2. More About the Dead Man and X.” And X is arranged alphabetically, from “The Alleys” to “Zine.”
LDM: Yes, a very neat system.
BR: What is the relation of Part One to Part Two of the poems?
LDM: You tell me.
BR: Fine. Part One is more active: You plunge into an arroyo; you visit Mount Rushmore; you found a foundry. Part Two is more reflective and meditative, meatier with meaning: “The steam escaping from a wounded body is the foundry.”
LDM: And which part do you prefer?
BR: Parts is parts. You need both to make the poems work. But I generally am more surprised and pleased by Part Two.
LDM: Predictable.
BR: Now, let’s talk style.
LDM: I never go out of style. Living or dead. I know the unknown. I am here and not here.
BR: Yes, but I mean Bell’s poetic style, the way he writes the poems, “the undersong of the self, the subtext, the no-man’s land calling.”
LDM: At your service.
BR: The lines are long, often too wide for the page. Each line is a complete sentence. No exceptions. The cadence carries a biblical beat. The poems have the force of Whitman or Ginsberg, even Blake. At times, the beauty leaves me breathless: “Ah, but the dead man is more resilient than the grass, more recollected than the jalopy of first romance, more encrypted than the crypt.”
LDM: If you were truly breathless, you would be keeping Berryman company, not me.
2. More About the Dead Man and the Book Reviewer
LDM: We’re back. Now, let me ask you: Which is your favorite of the 54 poems in “Vertigo”?
BR: That’s easy. “About the Dead Man and Anubis.” Anubis, by the way, is an Egyptian god who leads the dead to judgment. I looked it up.
LDM: Good for you. Why is it your favorite?
BR: Bell brings the right touch of religious seriousness to the state of the Dead Man. (The question of death, as you know, is at the root of many religious teachings.) Consider:
The dead man will find you.
He has befriended the weigher of souls and keeper of tombs.
He is the I-Thou of what matters for a while, then less.
Brilliant.
LDM: Anything else?
BR: Bell’s imagination pulses with a young man’s vitality, but mines an old man’s experience. His imagination lets him straddle two worlds, coalesced into one art, which at its best is impeccable in diction, imagery and rhythm. Bell’s Dead Man poems will be his legacy, vast and untamable.
LDM: He is not dead yet.
BR: Not dead dead. But living dead.
LDM: Hey, that’s my role.
BR: Then thank Bell for it. “Vertigo” is his best book yet, vibrant and vital, ranging across the cosmos, overflowing with meaning. A Living Dead Man poem a day keeps the Dead Dead Man away.
LDM: I couldn’t have said it better myself.
BR: You didn’t.
