Showing posts with label mosaic press. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mosaic press. Show all posts

Sunday, July 22, 2018

Sinners Dance — Darrell Epp (Mosaic Press)

Today's book of poetry:
Sinners Dance.  Darrell Epp.  Mosaic Press.  Oakville, Ontario.  2017.

sinners dance by darrell epp

Today's book of poetry is willing to go down any road Darrell Epp chooses to take us.  Sinners Dance continues the hard driving standard we've come to expect from Mr. Epp.

Sinners Dance is the third title by Darrell Epp that Today's book of poetry has explored.  You can find links to Today's book of poetry and After Hours (Mosaic Press, 2016) and Imaginary Maps (Signature Editions) right here:


The only thing that has changed with Darrell Epp's new poetry, Sinners Dance, is that the beautiful bastard is getting better.  He's upped his game.  Sinners Dance brims with lovely movies and astonishing novels, all sorts of entertainments, disguised as tight, brief and illuminating poems.

Left Lung

the fuzzy black spot on the x-ray reminded
him of a dark star which reminded him of a
movie but this was no movie, the specialist
was very sorry, left lung he said but meant
right lung, the image was reversed, how odd
to be alive, standing in the hub of the world's
sweaty churning in a miami dolphins jersey
not knowing what to say, where to aim. he
thought of that end-times prophet preaching
in front of jackson square; the beast rising
from the sea, the woman with MYSTERY
tattooed on her forehead. he wished he'd
listened, he wished he'd hugged him, why
hadn't he hugged him, he thought of being
a kid, racing his bike up the ramp, catching
air, defying gravity, moments so pregnant
they were building blocks for every other
moment, like fighting against rush hour
traffic, the endless throbbing of it all, he
headed down main west toward james st.,
he'd find that guy waving his homemade
signs, he'd touch him, and as the stock
exchange wound down, as tanks moved
across the desert, confess everything.

💫💫💫

Darrell Epp's poetry often leads to fits of jealousy for Today' book of poetry, when what I really want is to share how fine I find these poems.  One of Epp's excellent tricks is to allow the reader instant access.  Epp doesn't put anything between the story he wants to tell and the reader.  The reader digests these poems on contact.

Another thing about Sinners Dance, Epp is getting wiser.  So many of these poems wrap up the frayed edges of our thinking.  Today's book of poetry isn't suggesting that Darrell Epp suddenly has the answer to everything, instead his poetry leads us, without impediment, to the right questions.

Winter Dream

'talking about shopping is not really talking,'
she said, that's why she didn't answer
jill's texts anymore, that's why she blocked
her on facebook. i said, 'there's an
alternative world where i'm an mvp,
a vip, with dozens of grandkids.'
she said, 'that's cool,' and carved
obscenities with her thumb into
the frost caked on the window.
that winter the world was our
idea, our boozy chauffeur, our
hunchbacked prankmonkey
somersaulting on command.
the spell lasted until the cat
got sick, the vet's disdainful
looks made us feel like guilty
truants, she gave him the finger
as i paid the pharmacist, then
the pipes froze on us and nine
months later she was teaching
english on the island of kyoto.

💫💫💫

Today's book of poetry has Pharoah Saunders on the box this morning and that should come as no surprise.  Our morning read was led, with brisk enthusiasm, by Milo, our head tech.  Milo suggested we come up with a name, a title, a designation of some respect, per se, for the poets we've visited at least three times.

Off the top of my snowy-white head memory would suggest that list include Nelson Ball, Sue Goyette, Stuart Ross and now Darrell Epp.  We will have to look a little closer to confirm our list.

Today's book of poetry is open to suggestion.  We threw Milo's idea around the room and liked it, then we agreed we'd wait until we heard what you readers thought.  We can't wait to hear what you think.

Once we started reading Darrell Epp's Sinners Dance, everyone on our staff entered Epp world and did our best to hammer these fine poems home.

Halo of Flies

i'm patrolling my turf, counting the windows without
glass, the bakeries and shoe stores turned into squats.
this is where ifrah hitched a ride on the handlebars of
my mountain bike, this is where lily informed me we
had nothing in common, she made it sound like she
was imparting the secret of the universe and i could
barely stifle a yawn. that's the first escape where we
looked for mars the war god through your brother's
telescope, had chin-up contests off the ladder. i give
it a tug and the metal groans and shakes, oxidation
takes no prisoners. rust always wins but he doesn't
have to be so smug about it. i'll come back with a
camera, i'll record all the fading signage before
the demolition crews make way for gentrification.
i'm in the dog house because i forgot valentine's
day, my wife says i seem distracted, my head's
an empty bag, my heart's a corroded cog, my
left brain trips up my right brain like a saboteur,
i see consciousness as a halo of flies, as the
900-pound gorilla on the other end of the
seesaw. i step on a crack, say a prayer, give
thanks for the men who poured the concrete,
laid the bricks and pipes we take for granted,
recall there's grace enough for everybody.

💫💫💫

"recall there's grace enough for everybody."  That is a great line and a fine end.

Today's book of poetry has always liked lists.  Darrell Epp is going on our list, the list we keep close for ready referral.  Sinners Dance will reel you around the floor, make you guilty-dizzy in parts, happy-dizzy in others.

That's some good dancing.

Image result for darrell epp photo

Darrell Epp

ABOUT THE POET
Darrell Epp’s poetry has appeared in dozens of magazines including Maisonneuve, Poetry Ireland, Sub-Terrain, and The Saranac Review. His previous poetry collection include Imaginary Maps (Signature Editions, 2009) and After Hours (Mosaic Press, 2016). Darrell lives in Hamilton, Ontario.

BLURBS
“Sinners Dance places the reader in a pre-apocalyptic world, clearly recognizable as our own …There is wit in Epp’s writing, but the overall view of life is bleak, the guardians of our civilization blind, the maps deceiving.”
     – Bernadette Rule, Hamilton Review of Books


“Epp’s poems have a distinct Hamilton flavour, he also says there are certain truths and experiences everyone can identify with, no matter where they live.”
     – Emma Reilly, Interview & Feature in the Hamilton Spectator



Darrell Epp
reads
Pregnant Fly Dead on my Windshield
Video:  Darrell Epp


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DISCLAIMERS

Poems cited here are assumed to be under copyright by the poet and/or publisher.  They are shown here for publicity and review purposes.  For any other kind of re-use of these poems, please contact the listed publishers for permission.

We here at TBOP are technically deficient and rely on our bashful Milo to fix everything.  We received notice from Google that we were using "cookies"
and that for our readers in Europe there had to be notification of the use of those "cookies.  Please be aware that TBOP may employ the use of some"cookies" (whatever they are) and you should take that into consideration


Thursday, June 29, 2017

After Hours - Darrell Epp (Mosaic Press)

Today's book of poetry:
After Hours.  Darrell Epp.  Mosaic Press.  Oakville, Ontario.  2016.

Hamilton Ontario Poet Darrell Epp

The best poems in Darrell Epp's After Hours remind you of the first time you got stoned.  The first time you felt dangerous.

You know how you felt the first time the veil came down.  The first time you saw behind the wizard's screen.  Welcome to a new Oz.

Epp has just the right amount of disgruntled dissatisfaction to fill these poems with the proper vigour. Hope doesn't come easily but it is buried in the seams of After Hours.  Maybe under an old car with a mad dog chained to the bumper, the hard-packed soil oil stained.

The Mongol Invasions

i have as of late acquired the ability to
turn myself into fictional characters,
it's an old man in a rent-controlled
basement today--no one suspects
he's really an eccentric billionaire
with a thousand years of memories.
i prowl the malls, laugh at the
baffled cluelessness of the
bargain-hunting taxpayers.
i seem to recall having
magic powers, a dozen
wives and x-ray eyes;
watching atoms knit
themselves into pairs,
then clans, then faces.
maybe a face will say
hi to me today, maybe
i'll make a new friend
who truly understands:
we'll trade war stories
about missing dorothee
and rampaging across
asia with genghis khan.

...

Today's book of poetry positively romped through Darrell Epp world.  I want to tell you that Epp made me think of Bukowski but in truth Epp is not a Bukowski cat.  So then I'm thinking somewhere between Johnny Rivers melancholy and Len Gasparini rant and maybe with a modernized Milton Acorn thrown in there for a touch of righteous rage.

How silly to be looking for comparisons when Epp can so clearly stand on his own.  These quick and sharp narratives cut clean as a razor.  Epp has found a voice just below the bellow of flat out rage and is comfortable roaming that dangerous territory.  It certainly makes for kick-ass poems.

Our morning read was like watching young kids with their first fireworks, setting them off one at a time.

Contraindications

an unpolluted pacific

a garden of eden sky

the man in the moon

a star's molten heart

a volcano's teardrop

put one of the above under your
tongue every 4 hours or as needed.

do not mix with food, do not answer
the phone, and if anybody asks, tell

them you haven't seen me, tell them
you haven't seen me for months.

...

After Hours is Darrell Epp's second book of poetry.  Today's book of poetry didn't have to go far to find his first book, Imaginary Maps (Signature Editions, 2009), we have a copy on shelf of "coming attractions."  Today's book of poetry will be looking at Imaginary Maps in the not too distant future.

When Milo, our head tech, put Imaginary Maps down on my desk I had an immediate flashback to the first time I read it.  Cue big smile.  Epp is a quick study because he allows the reader immediate entrance to his chaotic world, seasons it with kindness.

The Robert Crumb type front cover of After Hours has a Bukowski type "Hank" character with angel's wings sitting with other barflies as eternity sneaks up on them.  Rarely are covers so apropos.

Telephone Game

the message ran around the world; by the
time it came back to me i had a wooden
leg and lived in a castle made of bone.

my pet unicorn could sing like a bird.
i was a wanted man, one step ahead
of irs, kgb and other sinister acronyms.

i beat superman at arm-wrestling and
punished all who loved me. love's a
word poets use as a crutch, like 'very'

and 'and.' funny how love brought out
my inner martyr: a lesser man would
have broke both your arms. what was

it, that thing you thought you wanted?
sorry. but don't look at me, look at the
universe, downright peacock-y in its

nightly burlesque: supernovae like
popped corks; the milky way,
waving her spiral arms like shiva

herself; the gravity that pulled me
to you, indiscriminate, affirmative, it
felt like heaven, or the next best thing.

...

Maybe After Hours is an entirely coincidental title pick but Today's book of poetry is convinced Epp is giving a big nod to ol' Martin Scorsese's flick of the same name, After Hours (1985).  In the episodic flick, think of individual poems, the hero/loser is entirely over his head from one late night misadventure to another.  The character presents as though he were on top of things, as though he were in control whereas the movie is one continuous lesson in how he controls nothing at all.

Darrell Epp's After Hours discombobulates the reader in much the same way.  It is a great ride. Buckle up.

Image result for darrell epp photo
Darrell Epp

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Darrell Epp’s poetry has appeared in dozens of magazines around the world including Maisonneuve, Poetry Ireland, Sub-Terrain, and The Saranac Review. His previous poetry collection was entitled Imaginary Maps (2009). He lives in Hamilton, Ontario.

BLURBS
“In Epp’s second collection of poems, he explores diverse themes and imagery firmly rooted against a gritty postmodern backdrop.” 
     – The Hamilton Spectator

“A fun, sly jumble of poems that often tackle weighty issues”
     – Jonathan Ball, Winnipeg Free Press

“In After Hours, Darrell Epp proves himself as adept at bricolage as he is at ventriloquism. That he manages to not only interpolate discrete, oblique, and temporally disconnected texts and cultural signifiers into his poems, but does so while remaining consistently tethered to the visceral reality of his native Hamilton, a city he describes in “No Sweat” as “awesome and oblivious/and no help at all,” is no mean feat.”

     – Phillip Crymble, Hamilton Arts & Letters


“I enjoyed these poems immensely.”

     – William Peter Blatty, author of The Exorcist


“Lucid, raw and honest poems, refrains that slide with grace and wit from the particular to the general, from past to present and back again, authentic and absorbing.”
     – novelist and screenwriter Rudy Wurlitzer (Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid and Little Buddha)


“If you ever get caught in the subway between stations, try to sit beside a guy like the guy who wrote these poems.”
     – novelist David Gilmour (The Film Club, Back On Tuesday)


“Funny and fun to read, playful but also deadly serious…a depth of experience got at only in the best poetry.”

     – novelist Samuel Thomas Martin (This Ramshackle Tabernacle, A Blessed Snarl)

mosaic-press.com

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DISCLAIMERS

Poems cited here are assumed to be under copyright by the poet and/or publisher.  They are shown here for publicity and review purposes.  For any other kind of re-use of these poems, please contact the listed publishers for permission.

We here at TBOP are technically deficient and rely on our bashful Milo to fix everything.  We received notice from Google that we were using "cookies"
and that for our readers in Europe there had to be notification of the use of those "cookies.  Please be aware that TBOP may employ the use of some "cookies" (whatever they are) and you should take that into consideration.

Monday, February 2, 2015

Words for Elephant Man - Kenneth Sherman (The Porcupine's Quill)

Today's book of poetry:
Words for Elephant Man.  Kenneth Sherman.  The. Porcupine's Quill.  Erin, Ontario.  2012.  (Second Edition)

Words for Elephant Man was originally published by Mosaic Press, Oakville, Ontario, 1983.


Today is a special day for Today's book of poetry, so, a special book.  This is the 300th blog/review for Today's book of poetry.

I was lucky enough to see some of Kenneth Sherman's poetry before Words for Elephant Man was published in 1983.  I was already a big fan.  Words for Elephant Man was a game changer.  It is great to see this lovingly rendered second edition.  George Raab did some seriously fine etching to illustrate Words for Elephant Man but they never get in the way.  Raab's etchings work like the rhythm section of a good band, they hold it all together, make it all sound better.

I've always thought that Words for Elephant Man belonged on that same short list as The Collected Works of Billy the Kid by Michael Ondaatje, Sid Stephens' Beothuck Poems and anything that went through Milton Acorn's hands - as sacred material in the Canadian canon.

Sherman's take on Joseph Merrick's voice is so human, humane and tender it is sometimes hard to bare his kindness  -  knowing what he knows.

The Only Electric Lady

As a young man, Tom Norman paid a penny
to see the 'Only Electric Lady':
                                                sparks
flew like inchworms of light
                                             from her body.
When he touched her hand
                                            the shock of it
bolted him back.

Later, he discovered she was connected
(as was the metal plate under the damp
carpet on which the customer stood)

to an electric coil,
                              It was,
Tom said,
               like seeing the soiled underpants of God.

For his first show, 'Savage Zulus', he
hired unemployed seamen
It was not the show,
                               he used to say,
it was the tale you told,

though with me he never had to say a word.

I was beyond metaphor,
                                      my stench
cutting through the intricacies of fiction.

That is why when Treves came to see me
they had to fetch Tom in a pub,

                                                  he
was drinking,

                       he was dreaming

the Only Electric Lady.

...

These poems bare witness to a stunningly sad tale, moderated only by Merrick's gratitude and gentle wisdom in the face of such eternal horror.  There is no anger in Sherman's Merrick, and the melancholy is usually on delicate restraint.

These poems give splendid voice to a misunderstood and misshapen man sadly afflicted with burdens beyond our imagining - and for many more a myth than a man.

None of us are capable of imagining the true horrors Merrick endured.  But these poems give Merrick a voice of reason, Merrick has a great lesson of humility to teach us all.  These poems are deeply moving and the well researched Sherman makes them vibrate with the resonance of truth.

Nurses

The first one who saw me
dropped her tray and fled.
After that, I am sure it became a challenge -
compassion's final chalice.

                                           The faces
of the younger ones are nondescript
like puffed-up pillows. They mostly
hold their breath
and turn the other way.

                                         The older ones,
gaunt-faced, owl-eyed
from having seen
all there is to see
(so they thought)
                            turn
when I catch them staring.

                                           Lately
I have been wondering
what stories they tell
when they return to their homes

whether they have become famous
on their respective streets
for having touched my sacred flesh.

...

I chose Words for Elephant Man by Kenneth Sherman as our 300th post for Today's book of poetry because this elegant edition by Porcupine's Quill is lovely and absolutely necessary for today's generation of readers.  Sherman/Merrick's beautiful reason is the sort of kindness we should all embrace.

Nowhere

It is evening.
The eyes of animals peer out
from the forest,
shiny and wet.

Too exotic for even their world
I sit on a black rock
which took wind and earth
aeons to create.

I am closer to the moss, to the
fungus
            or perhaps to that flower
blown colourless
by today's storm

its stem bent,
it seems to be held up
by its crutches of thick leaves.

On the road back to the cottage
my moonlit shadow
                               limps ahead.

I will never catch
up with it,

it looks
like the figure
of another man.

...

I loved this stunning book when it was first published more than thirty years ago - it hasn't aged a day.  This is poetry that will fill your socks and then some.  Kenneth Sherman's Words for Elephant Man is a classic at Today's book of poetry.

Kenneth Sherman

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kenneth Sherman was born in Toronto in 1950. He has a BA from York University, where he studied with Eli Mandel and Irving Layton, and an MA in English Literature from the University of Toronto. While a student at York, Sherman co-founded and edited the literary journal Waves. From 1974--1975 he travelled extensively through Asia. He is a full-time faculty member at Sheridan College where he teaches Communications; he also teaches a course in creative writing at the University of Toronto.

In 1982, Sherman was writer-in-residence at Trent University. In 1986 he was invited by the Chinese government to lecture on contemporary Canadian literature at universities and government institutions in Beijing. In 1988, he received a Canada Council grant to travel through Poland and Russia. This experience inspired several of the essays in his book Void and Voice(1998). Sherman, author of the acclaimed Words for Elephant Man, and The Well: New and Selected Poems, lives in Toronto with his wife, Marie, an artist.

BLURBS
‘While the story of the Elephant Man may be familiar to many, Sherman’s poems take readers to the heart of understanding the intelligent, tender-hearted man who lived within his “bales of skin.’ Containing etchings by George Raab, Words for Elephant Man moves beyond the reach of poetry readers, making it an essential book for anyone interested in Merrick’s life and times.’
—Jennifer Fandel, ForeWord Reviews

‘Better than either the movie or the play, Words for Elephant Man delves under the pitted skin of John Merrick before emerging with a masterfully articulate portrait.’
—Poetry Toronto

‘Sherman’s subject has produced from him poetry as bare and original as Beckett’s best. Merrick is, by deft and and incisive association, a crucified Christ, a creator full of irony and power, victim and victimizer, ‘the age’s Doppelganger/its underside/its Hyde.’
—Canadian Forum


300


Poems cited here are assumed to be under copyright by the poet and/or publisher.  They are shown here for publicity and review purposes.  For any other kind of re-use of these poems, please contact the listed publishers for permission.