I had made up my mind to write a review of a certain book of poems. More accurately, I had an inclination toward such an endeavour. Why an inclination rather than a firm decision? I had second thoughts. I had doubts. I had a discomforting feeling of dread deep down in the pit of my stomach. Why? Some amount of blame (and no small amount, I should add, as it arose in me as the initial response and subsequent major impasse) was the fault of my mother, who told me repeatedly as a child: if you don’t have anything good to say about something or someone, don’t say anything at all. Hm.
Well, I did have something good to say, I think, though mostly — truth be told — it was more bad comments that I had gathered as notes on a scrap of blank paper. I mean, even couched in the present-day, culturally sensitive jargon of “objective/constructive criticism,” and “what worked and what didn’t work so well,” it would be clear to any reasonably sharp reader of average intelligence that the review (should it be written and ever appear in print) of the book, would come across as mostly — why pull any punches or beat around the proverbial bush? call a fig a fig, a spade a bloody shovel — [perhaps wholly, even] bad.
And how did I come about obtaining this particular collection of poems [for need of a concocted title in order to protect the identities of those involved and spare embarrassment to all and sundry, let’s call the book “The Imaginary ______” whatever [[not to be mistaken for “The Imaginary Invalid” — “Le Malade Imaginaire” — (though dealing with a similarly tragic theme and the close personal relationship of the writer to that theme), a three-act comédie-ballet written by the French playwright Moliere with dance sequences and musical interludes by Marc-Antoine Charpentier, premiered in 1673 at the Théâtre du Palais-Royal in Paris, originally choreographed by Pierre Beauchamp, which was, by all accounts, superb]] in the first place, one might curiously inquire. Well, I discovered it quite accidentally as I browsed among a small selection of Canadian poetry at my local BMV. The title rang a bell and I picked it up and read the blurbs, which were, naturally, stellar, and penned by notable writers, who shall, likewise, remain anonymous for the purpose: “In the true tradition of the surrealists, so-and-so’s voice captivates with calculated understatement, with the said as much as the unsaid, and with startling imagery.” “Poetry that deals with the tireless capacity of the human spirit to love, hope, & succeed, despite impossible obstacles.” There was also a gold sticker on the cover indicating that the book (hence, the poet) had won a recent major literary prize.
How could I pass up an opportunity like this? A chance to read an award-winning Canadian poetry book at a reduced cost. I purchased the used copy.
I read the poems in a single sitting. Then, as part of due diligence (as well as wanting to see if I missed anything of importance), I searched the internet and perused a few reviews and articles. They were fairly typical in that they dealt largely with the subject matter of the book and the poet’s personal relation to that specific subject matter, the main thrust being: how an individual overcomes tragedy and grief in a given situation*. There was very little comment about the actual skills of writing and I wondered: whatever happened to “art for art’s sake” and concentration on the techniques, form and style of poetry? Not extinct, I thought, but rare.
Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with the subject matter of the book at hand. In fact, I believe it to be totally worthwhile and topical, which would cover the “good” part of my, as-yet-unrealized, review, I guess — thanks mom! — though I did take a moment and considered: is it enough for a writer to simply (that is, perform a journeyman’s job of an adequate and understandable quality; stick to the rules; don’t trip over the furniture) to reveal their own personal connection to the subject matter, to describe their own tragedy, pain and self-realizations — the what apart from the how of the fetish object, i.e.: the book — in order to receive accolades and awards?
I mean, if I was to write a review of my own, I’d want to say that the poems are, as a rule, straight narrative prose pieces broken into short lines [one reviewer mentioned the use of “enjambment,” which is, quite simply, the elimination of punctuation at the end of line breaks, which fits my above-stated evaluation, and renders the term “enjambment” rather irrelevant as a literary technique, in this case, since all of the poems are comprised of run-on sentences with punctuation placed where necessary and obvious. Had the usage been more complex (more poetic), enjambment would serve to break with one’s expectations of where a line should end, creating a different feel to a poem, which is nowhere to be found within this collection].
Further, the poems have an overuse of similes, are rife with clichés, with many examples of “furrowed brows,” “beads of sweat,” “knitted hands” and people constantly moving about either “gingerly” or “furtively” through the landscape. In terms of “startling imagery,” an example such as “her hips grew like wildfire across a dry prairie” struck me as more confusing than startling, plus, there’s a predilection toward anthropomorphising to no clear intent beyond cheap theatrics: “The moon sat in the branches of a tree / jeering at my plight / like some demented jack-o-lantern.”
When I mentioned my intention to a friend, I was reminded that the book had been supplied with blurbs and reviews that were no less than glowing, written by established and recognized writers, and that it had been judged by a field of experts, and awarded a grand literary prize, so, who was I and what was I hoping to prove: that the emperor has no clothes? Ha! Bon chance. There was also the persistent echo of my mother’s words in my ear. Of course, my mother — may she rest in peace — also told me to wear clean underwear every day in case I get struck by a car and ended up in hospital, and to scrub behind my ears otherwise I’d be growing a fine crop of potatoes, which may have been sage advice to a child, but hardly the stuff that falls into the camp of astute literary acumen.
Still, she had a point.
Then there’s the politics of writing a bad review of someone’s work when you’re also a writer. Though, maybe I’m in a similar situation to that philosophical problem that asks: if a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Meaning, am I an actual writer, with a voice, if I don’t have a publisher? Do I make a sound apart from the click of the keypad, and beyond the four walls of my rat-infested garret? Does anyone hear me? Does anyone care? Maybe, which raises the possibility that if I was — for whatever bizarre motivation — rash enough to write the review, and if, indeed, it did somehow manage to get published, I would surely leave myself open to all variety of serious recriminations, repercussions, and accusations of jealousy and sour grapes, as well as threat of physical harm, from certain folks within the literary community. Especially those involved and specifically named in the review. After all, we are, at bottom, a sensitive and highly insecure group.
So, how can I, in all good conscience, and without consideration for my own personal safety and well-being (not to mention the very real fear that both me and my work will be ostracized and rejected out-of-hand from this moment on), write a review of this book? It’s obvious, I can’t. And I won’t. Instead, I leave it up to the unknown reader to experience this book (and others of similar ilk) themselves, and arrive at their own carefully considered conclusions: well-intended, well-constructed, well-presented, or merely another soap bubble, set afloat, catching the light, sparkling for a brief instant, set to burst at the first rude finger prick, reveal itself as transparent, insubstantial, and — ultimately — empty: c’est ça!
I leave the final appraisal(s) in their capable hands.
* Not that I have an issue, generally, with the subject matter of a poem or poems, or the poet’s close relationship to the subject matter, just that I expect the writing itself to attempt to approach the weight and intensity of said subject matter, especially if it’s imbued with personal, highly emotional content. As my pal Charles Bukowski said, the poems, the words, require “juice” to lift them off the page and bring them to life. Read Plath. Read Sexton. Read Berryman. Read Ito. Hell, listen to Lucinda Williams, Tom Waits or Leonard Cohen. Check out Moliere. The list goes on and on. There are touchstones, past and present.
Stan Rogal — along with his artist partner and their pet jackabee — operates out of the small hamlet commonly known as Torawna, just west of The Hammer. He is the alleged author of a handful of books, plus several chapbooks (some of which were published by above/ground press, thanks!) An autodidactic intellectual classicist [reformed]. Speaks semi-fluent English and controversial French. Also: personal confessor, truth teller, and psychic investigator — no job too small, cheap rates, call now for a free estimate.