Very rarely do I go through a collection (whether chapbook or full-length) in one sitting, but David Blaine's "The View from Here" (http://www.myspace.com/daveblaine) is among the exceptions. The best way to describe this is to imagine the collection as a house: each poem a separate room; and the imagery being just enough furniture for the reader to get around without squeezing through or stubbing a toe on bulky objects.
Funny and insightful, the poems in this slim, 23-page volume walk the tightrope of being narrative but not too wordy and imagistic without slowing down the narrative voice.
Reviewed by: Alan King
This review was provided by Alan King through Marissa Ranello!
Alan King has been published in Warpland: A Journal of Black Literature & Ideas, When Words Become Flesh: An Anthology of New Generation Poetry, Taboo Haiku, and The Hurricane Katrina Haiku Anthology among others. He is the author of his self-published books "Transfer" and "The Music We Are." His website: http://myspace.com/alanking81
For more information on David Blaine or to order your copy of "The View from Here," visit the writer's myspace page (http://www.myspace.com/daveblaine). Read additional work on his blog (http://davidblaine.blogspot.com) or on ARTIST I LOVE (http://www.artistsilove.com/davidblaine.html) where he's featured.
Very rarely do I go through a collection (whether chapbook or full-length) in one sitting, but David Blaine's "The View from Here" (http://www.myspace.com/daveblaine) is among the exceptions. The best way to describe this is to imagine the collection as a house: each poem a separate room; and the imagery being just enough furniture for the reader to get around without squeezing through or stubbing a toe on bulky objects.
Funny and insightful, the poems in this slim, 23-page volume walk the tightrope of being narrative but not too wordy and imagistic without slowing down the narrative voice.
The insight comes in the first poem Slip Covers, where clean clothes are the "slip covers/ for your child's soul" and the parents—a notch below God, but above the common man—have a role of protecting the soul of their offspring. Another poem that deals with insight is Under the Influence in which the speaker learns to let some things go.
Under the Influence
The length
of this road,
your girlish face,
time we've spent apart
drew me back
to draw you close, but
I've drawn the wrong conclusion.
It's the time of year
for heavy frost.
I'd scraped away enough
to find the yellowed leaves
of our past
yet knowing how way
leads on to way
I doubted if I
should ever come back.
It's the time of year
for killing things,
a duck, a deer,
a bottle of merlot.
So pull the cork;
let's make a toast
to a past that lies here ashen.
Here's to the cold embers
of a fire burned lone ago.
Humor is another quality that I appreciate from this collection. The poem Passing was not only funny but is something that I've come across from just being in the D.C. Arts Scene, or any other art scene for that matter. In every scene there are charlatans or people passing themselves off as artists of any medium for whatever reason. In the poem Passing, a wife watches her husband make a fool of himself at a dinner party to prove her point. The poem also deals with stereotypes associated with artists.
Passing
You ask your wife,
"Why must it always be
about perceptions?"
"Well," she replies, "they say
perception is nine tenths
of the law."
"No," you correct her,
"That's possession.
Possession is nine tenths of the law."
"You must be right," she sighs.
"You always have to be right."
Touché
This week you wrote villanelles
so that at tonight's party
you could pass yourself off
as a lyricist.
"A song writer? That explains
the black turtleneck,"
chortled your host.
"Thank God, I thought
you might be a poet."
That's how others think.
But you are lying
on your bed now,
comparing your life
to an obscure French movie,
one where the English comes
only in subtitles.
You resolve to write
an epic narrative
about the whole sordid thing.
Next weekend you will wear
a crew neck, and pass
yourself off as a film critic.
You are always passing,
it's forever about perceptions.
Another favorite poem is one, which brought a smile to my face. After reading it, I'm sure some would consider the speaker to be, just as its titled, a Lucky Son of a Bitch.
Lucky Son of a Bitch
There's a certain satisfaction to be had
planting one's ass in a rattan chair
on the front porch on a hot, June day.
It's ninety five,
but the humidity's bearable,
and there's a slight northeast breeze.
Your co-workers chased you off from work
early.
Now you're smoking a Grenadier
and drinking cold beer from a sweaty green
bottle;
a relaxing way to kill an hour
in the late afternoon
Inside you could sit in air conditioning,
but that's for dead people.
No, the heat on the front porch,
that is living la vita dolce.
Out there, you can't recall yesterday
you don't care about tomorrow,
there's just this afternoon,
the cigar, the beer,
a good book.
Hardly anyone gets to spend time
with Hunter S. Thompson anymore.
You're a lucky son of a bitch.
Last update : 20-04-2007 19:50
|
|
|
List All Content 
(0 vote)