Saturnalia Books. 2017. 80 pages.

Reviewed by Brian Clifton 

Hadara Bar-Nadav  begins her latest book, The New Nudity (Saturnalia Books, 2017), with the line “Who means what it is to be human.”  (Full-disclosure: Hadara Bar-Nadav is a former professor of mine.) While contextually this line describes a thumb, it speaks to one of the book’s larger goals—to contemplate how objects participate in our lives, how things make us human. The New Nudity exists not so much within objects or those looking at the objects but in the relationship that develops between the looking and the looked at, and how that relationship creates the person in conjunction with the object.

This is not necessarily a new framework for Bar-Nadav, whose work frequently engages with visual art—like “Four Reds For Rothko” in A Frame Called Ruin (winner of the Green Rose Prize from New Issues 2012) and the title poem of A Glass of Milk to Kiss Goodnight (MARGIE/IntuiT House 2007). The New Nudity, however, eschews the art object for the more mundane things of the everyday. What links Bar-Nadav’s latest with her past work is her ability to pare an image down to its essential parts. Throughout the book, her extreme concision paradoxically gives her images more depth and nuance—most like the fragmented prose poems of her previous book, Lullaby (with Exit Sign) (winner of the Saturnalia Books Poetry Prize 2013).

Bar-Nadav’s extreme concision forces objects and people to occupy the same grammatical spaces. Likewise, the form of her poems, mostly couplets and monostichs, further brings together the looking and the looked at. While The New Nudity is formally less varied than Bar-Nadav’s other work, her surprising use of form is stark and fiercely insistent. She uses couplets to their maximum effect—whether that is shaping and then reshaping an image (“Ankle bone cut/like a jewel” from “Leg”), juxtaposing the actual and the metaphoric (“the spoiled cream/of soft teeth” from “Sugar”), or showing the interior tensions and ambiguities of our own language (“Inside the dead/people live” from “Chest”). No matter how Bar-Nadav uses the couplet, there is always an energy that radiates between one line and the next, which works to create an urgency that extends from cover to cover.

An example of this urgency can be found in “Ladder.” Bar-Nadav writes:

Carriage for meat.
the hands and feet.Cascade
of muddied ribs.We keep her
locked in the garage.

 

In six lines, the ladder progresses from what it can do, to what it looks like, to how it is like a person. The associative leaps from body to personification are quick, yet what happens between lines and couplets is controlled and considered—because we get images of the body, we can understand intuitively the need to refer to the ladder with a gendered pronoun. The gendering of the ladder continues to conflate the human and the object as it speaks to the ladder itself while implying violence and sexual assault (“Heels bound/by black rubber,” “Someone opens her,/someone holds her down”). In these finely attuned observations, through their concision and fragmentation, the poem extends beyond detail into image, so that they reference both a ladder and the grisly reality of gendered and sexual violence.

​Likewise, her concision allows her to step back from metaphor and personification quickly and surprisingly. “Ladder” ends, “We would not touch/the light any other way.” Stated as it is (and in the context of the poem), Bar-Nadav is able to show the mundane task of changing a light bulb as well the transcendental longing a person might be left with in the wake of trauma—the longing that their suffering might come with some deeper understanding. In this final couplet, the poem pulls back from its action and assesses that action without ever leaving the confines of describing a ladder and a person’s relationship to it.

But interrogating the relationships between people and objects is not the only thing The New Nudity does. Much like her previous books, death constantly hovers around these poems—sometimes at the fringes and sometimes at the center. That the book moves from how objects make us people to how death makes objects of us all seems especially apropos to the book’s contemplation of the Holocaust. While not always directly addressed, the concentration camps loom over Bar-Nadav’s poetry, as in “Oven”:

 

The hiss of history
ablates my face, blistersmy tongue and my name,
numbers me among millions.

 

In these two couplets, there’s a back and forth between the present moment of an oven in a kitchen and the past of the Nazi gas chambers, and the vacillation between these hinges on two words “history” and “numbers,” both of which evoke (with “millions”) Holocaust imagery. But “numbers” also creates the ghost word “numbness” that happens with heat and the contemplation of tragedy so large that it becomes unfathomable. It is not surprising that this poem is followed by “Box”—another poem referencing the