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NOTHING BUT LOVE

Poems by Mike James: Pathway Press; $5.95

When I write a review, especially a review of the work of a modern poet, I often find myself asking the question just what is poetry. When younger I favoured Coleridge's definition; '...the best words in the best order.' But that is a difficult goal to achieve, and requires anyway a philosophical evaluation of that word 'best'. Also poetry frequently ignores grammar and punctuation and it has a right to do that, line-length is frequently a factor, and technical devices can be used; assonance, sprung rhythms, rhyme, metaphor, simile... it would take too long to list them all. I think that initially a poet is a craftsperson, a wordsmith, someone who makes an original contribution to our language perhaps. And so I ask you reader to examine these few sentences;

 

'Over coffee I watch you in your chair, you have one leg tucked beneath the other. Although we have said very little all morning you smiled thirteen times in the last seven minutes. You drink your coffee slowly. You wear a cotton bathrobe that is at least ten years old, still your least favorite color.'

 

Is the above poetry? A simple question is it not? Or at least not a difficult one. (I'm resisting here the temptation to say; 'Write me 500 words on that as homework!') I think my own homework essay might begin; 'I suppose it depends on what you mean by poetry; the sentences are grammatically correct and if you allow that they were written by an American the spelling is correct also...' etc. etc. In other words I would waffle. I would bluff my way through the question because although it appears to be a question with a simple answer it clearly is not. Let me rearrange those words for you, or to put it another way; let the poet Mike James rearrange them for you:

 

          Over Coffee

 

          i watch you

          in your chair

 

          you have

          one leg tucked

          beneath

          the other

 

          although we

          have said

          very little

          all morning

 

          you smiled

          thirteen times

          in the last

          seven minutes

 

          you drink

          your coffee

          slowly

 

          you wear a

          cotton bathrobe

 

          that is

          at least ten

          years old

 

          still your

          least favorite

          color

 

So what has happened? Well the first two words are given capital letters and the 'I' has become 'i', all the punctuation has been removed and the words have been arbitrarily set out in lines and then further divided into groups of two, three or four. Thus it becomes poetry.

 

Within the slim pages of NOTHING BUT LOVE you will find 46 similar poems not one of which is over a page long. You will find little punctuation except a couple of sets of speech marks and a few apostrophes (Did not George Bernard Shaw say 'Damn apostrophes!'? and refuse to use them?), no alliteration, metaphor or... oh what the hell. Who am I to criticise a poet for what he does not do? What Mike James does is to capture and encompass some snapshots of moments that may make you empathise, what Mike James does is express 'love' in a general sort of way. The poems contain little venom and may perhaps best be described as; 'harmless'. I am sure the poet's wife, children, aunt Flo and the dogs all love both the poems and their creator and why should they not?

 

I do however have a mischievous thought; maybe these poems should have been kept in a pale-blue leather-bound book, one of those with a lock clasp on and the title 'My Secret Diary' written in flourished gold so that they may be opened ages from now and the poet can smile and say; 'Hey yes, I remember that.' Or I have just had another thought, maybe I could write down the above sentence and make it into poetry thus:

 

          i do however have a mischievous thought

 

          maybe these poems

          should have been kept

          in a pale-blue leather-bound book,

          one of those with a lock clasp on

          and the title My Diary

          written in flourished gold

          so that they may be opened

          ages from now

          and the poet can smile and say;

         'Hey yes, I remember that.'

 

...or then again, maybe not.

 

© copyright  Alan Corkish 2004

Siriol Troup

&

William Oxley

 

Review 10

A review for Stride 2004