[REVIEW] By Some Happenstance by Dominic Albanese

(Poetic Justice Books & Arts, 2019)

REVIEW BY GABINO IGLESIAS

“these poems are letters

addressed to whom it may concern

general statements about life

the hereafter

the things that puzzle me

feelings I have

and can’t talk about

not from shame

but from ignorance

or unwillingness”

Those lines, which appear in the second poem of the book, serve as a perfect introduction to Dominic Albanese’s By Some Happenstance. Simple, straightforward, and heartfelt, Albanese’s work does away with any pretentiousness and instead focuses on trying to communicate complicated feelings and thoughts in the easiest way possible. The result is a collection that speaks from the heart directly into your heart.

Albanese’s life beats at the core of his poems. He writes about heartbreak, the memories of the women in his life, fishing, and fixing cars at a garage. He shares flashes of cities he’s visited and thing’s he has done. He talks about what hurts him and how “these words offer the medication/my soul needs to say what I mean.” Luckily for readers, he’s great at saying exactly what he means:

“the sameness of the days

is begging to wear on me

like old shoes, too long kept”

There are two things here that go above and beyond what Albanese puts on the page. The first is an inescapable nostalgia. When Albanese writes abut the river or New York or San Francisco, we feel his need to be there, the way those places and the events that happened there touched him. The second element is darkness. This is a collection about many things, and some of those things include death, living paycheck-to-paycheck, memories of Vietnam, broken relationships, and bad nights. Albanese tackles both things with the same candor, and that makes By Some Happenstance feel more like listening to an old friend that reading a poetry collection.

I first read Albanese’s poetry a few years ago when I read his collection of Vietnam poems Bastards had the Whole Hill Mined. His work stuck with me because it was gritty and brutally honest. It also seemed to be aware of how close we are to death. There is a bit of that here as well, and Albanese—now in his 70s—writes of what’s ahead while also talking about everything that came before, the things he loved, and the bad choices he made.

By Some Happenstance is part biography and part collection of vignettes dressed up as poetry. The economy of language here shows that Albanese cares about communicating effectively and getting as much as he can into a small a space as possible. This is a collection once can easily read in one sitting, but the heart of the poems will stick with readers for a long time after they turn the last page.

Gabino Iglesias is a writer, editor, literary critic, and professor living in Austin, TX. He is the author of ZERO SAINTS and COYOTE SONGS. You can find him on Twitter at @Gabino_Iglesias.

[REVIEW] Atomizer by Elizabeth Powell

(LSU Press, 2020)

REVIEW BY NANDINI BHATTACHARYA

What’s not in a scent? Fragrance? Perfume? Smells? Or the human condition itself? Elizabeth Powell’s brave new olfactory dispenser of poetry, Atomizer, suggests that what’s not in a scent is a knowledge we are not privy too, despite all our claims to ideation, reason, symbolization and transcendence. We are, instead, beings lashed to immanence, as in the ‘odor,’ as in knowing love is not just knowing the idea and word ‘love,’ but the thing—love— itself. You find out what Galbanum means and does. Through the senses.

It’s easy to fall instantly in addiction with the conceit of Powell’s poems when she writes,  “Indeed, our desire to smell pleasant things is from our lost garden” (4). How can a poet go wrong after such an invocation of Eden as the touchstone of all that is valued and always, forever, lost? Extending the lapsarian conceit, misogyny does smell of lily of the valley (4), or whatever tropical fruit of flower might be at hand depending on where the valley is. The associative quality of words that Powell’s  work relies on, of which syntactic and semantic reason know nothing, repeatedly beg this one question: how can a scent not be perfumed with desire? (19). Moreover, agonistically, the poetic qualities of conjuncture and disjuncture, dissociations, images harboring and hinting at sensibilities—“instamatic photos of oceans I was not invited to”—(19) make instant sense because, of course, all our girlhoods have  lighted knowing girls the way to dusty womanliness. Young bones litter the ocean floor. Reading these poems is like reading the retrospective journals of an old girlfriend, or prophetic letters from their future.

Powell’s poetry works on so many different levels—sensorial, intellectual, psychological, associative, dissociative, feminist, post-feminist, passional, intersubjective, intergenerational and trans-species—but the most intense effect it has is that of poetry in the best sense of unrhymed, unrestrained exclamations and ejaculations that form the ‘base notes’ (4) of ‘love.’ When the poems stop referencing olfaction repeatedly or exclusively as in the section Top Notes, they connect to the Atomizer prologue through the theme of rage (as frustrated love) at the Lesbian Mother emerging  powerfully, insistently, as in the poem titled “Escape”: “How can I make this be a feminist text?/ The oppressed Lesbian Mother should be the hero” (21). There is also ongoing iconoclasm beyond the rejection of the Lesbian Mother in rejecting old white men’s modes of entry into the world of the imagination and the fantastic, as in the reference to The Lion and the Wardrobe on p. 18.

But the ends are linked, the circle is rounded, with the exile from the Lesbian Mother’s household to that of the (presumably straight?) grandmother in whose farm lived “the old cow/Alice, on the urine-soaked hay that gave me a love/For ruinous colognes. For a pillow, Alice’s mighty belly/Where I’d listen to the wisdom of her sacred gurgles/During the milking hour at twilight, the time/Mother’s girlfriend called L’Heure Bleue” (21). And out of the abandonment by Lesbian Mothers that literally results in imprisonment via literal closeting of the young daughter at other times in an impossible urban space with younger siblings—a frightening, un-Edenic, small space—some of the most vivid and terrifying language about distillation, about being bottled like a captured scent, occurs only by fantasies of escape and return to the sheltering grandmother’s dairy farm:

“. . . .  I was here, out on good behavior

To this place my mother hated. Heifers jailed in a pen.

Later, she got another place in the city with her secret wife,

Left us sixty miles away in the old closet. I was in charge,

Used laundry quarters for candy bars for dinner.

She’d come back Tuesday/Thursday nights,

Take us for pizzaburgers. The silence was the gag rule,

For which there was no Heimlich.

She was just mother’s friend.

In an escape room you have to figure out

What in the room is a clue. In college, we talked

for days about Jane Eyre and attics. We played “Clue”

In a lounge with windows. I know how the need

To solve for X starts to influence how you perceive

Reality and the resulting adrenaline can be fabulous.

Why look for places to escape from? The room is not

A puzzle, it is a container for the puzzle. Back at the closet,

I was a glass bottle of distilled silence

In an ornate box made of Lavender Scare. My mother

And her girlfriend never abandoned their city apartment

Until they were carried out on long white stretchers

Where their bodies continued to hold that silence

Like a library. And after a long time, I saw free children

In the park playing with their two mothers, marching in freedom

Parades, and I cried. And the vacuumed silence in my head popped.

And one day a window in my heart opened, and I crawled out” (21-22).

Easily some of the richest, explosive, irradiated language about mis-parenting that can be imagined, this is also Powell’s haunting stare at the bomb-blasted ground of womanhood and motherhood as a noxious container, an atomizer, within patriarchy. That container gives off the stench of abuse stored in smaller containers like the ‘Matryoshka girl daemon’ (2) layered within it and called patriarchy, mother, closet, daughter, heifer, haystack, grass, and lastly the essential hidden and minute flower or herb in nature that, distilled and atomized, stands olfactory testament to the idea of ‘essence’ as often manipulated, boxed in, tactically and unscrupulously ‘dispensed,’ as perhaps in a certain narrative of feminist liberation long hailed as the best kind.

Being haunted by boxes and closets—little spaces—continues into “E.Diptych,” where men and potential ‘matches” live in “little” or “Magical” boxes (24), the box reference being, of course, to digital social interfaces like computer and phone screens, but also to the haunting states of isolation in apparent connectivity the ‘social’ interfaces are known to inspire: feelings of being ‘boxed in,’ ‘closeted,’ and ‘distilled’ to an unbearable yet unavoidable nostalgic memory of immediacy as ‘Olfaction’ (2), so phonetically akin to ‘old-fashioned’! The news out of televisions—boxes—sickens and haunts too: “The television is a liquor cabinet to which we will retreat/ after dinner. Change the channel, change your liquor:/ beer before liquor never sicker” (26). And the tyranny of ‘The TV’ is almost as bad as the tyranny of the Lesbian mother who just wants, needs, away, away, away (“The Box”). Indeed, “The Box” is dedicated to “The TV,” which appears forty-six times over 2 pages, not counting minor avatars, laying bare the enchantment with incantations that keeps society and children and women from not vanishing into the TV, the Box (and the boxes within the Box).

The images, conceits, cocktails and fusions uncontained in Powell’s Atomizer are elusive, nebulous and polymorphous—like scent, perfume, smell, odor, stench—but the overall assault of her language on the reader’s senses is to harness an arousal latent in a repressed cross-sensory spectrum revealing the world as ‘objectified’ and ‘commodified’ across a panorama and panoply of not one but many senses and sensoria, making ‘truth’ salvageable from not the triumphal achievement but the unstoppable “desire to smell pleasant things” which is “from our lost garden” (emphasis mine; 4). Though feminist and femino-centric, Powell’s poetry has transcended the boxing of words into political categories and schemas, opting instead for the explosive unmanageability, the smoky ‘perfume’ (‘second-hand smoke’ as in ‘per’ or ‘through’ and ‘fumus’ or ‘smoke’) of the human condition, and of poetry, whereby “We ingest each other through our nostrils” “86,400 times a day” (30).

Nandini Bhattacharya is a Writer and Professor of English at Texas A&M University. Her fields of expertise are South Asia Studies, Indian Cinema, Postcolonial Studies and Colonial Discourse Analysis, Women’s Studies, and Creative Writing. She has published three scholarly books on these subjects, the latest being Hindi Cinema: Repeating the Subject (Routledge 2012). Her first novel Love’s Gardenwas published in October 2020. Shorter work has been published or will be in Oyster River PagesSky Island Journal, the Saturday Evening Post Best Short Stories from the Great American Fiction Contest Anthology 2021, the Good Cop/Bad Cop Anthology (Flowersong Press, 2021)Funny PearlsThe Bombay ReviewMeat for Tea: the Valley ReviewThe Bangalore ReviewPANK,and more. She has attended the Bread Loaf Writers’ Workshop and been accepted for residencies at the Vermont Studio Center and VONA. Her awards include first runner-up for the Los Angeles Review Flash Fiction contest (2017-2018), long-listed for the Disquiet International Literary Prize (2019 and 2020), and Honorable Mention for the Saturday Evening Post Great American Stories Contest, 2021. She’s currently working on a scholarly monograph about how colonialism and capitalism continue to shape India’s cultural production, and a second novel titled Homeland Blues, about love, caste, colorism, and violent religious fundamentalism in India, and racism and xenophobia in post-Donald Trump AmericaShe lives outside Houston. You can find her on AmazonTwitterInstagramFacebook and her Blog.

[REVIEW] Witch by Philip Matthews

(Alice James Books, 2020)

REVIEW BY GABINO IGLESIAS

It’s probably impossible to read thirty poetry collections in thirty days and not come across a variety of voices, approaches, and styles. The beauty of such an exercise is that different styles jump at you and you learn to accept them all, to navigate whatever you encounter with the same attention. I’ve been reading poetry that tells clears stories lately. You know, the kind of poetry where you can easily identify slices of the poet’s biography or know exactly who shows up in a poem as well as when and where it happened. Philip Matthews’s Witch was a departure from the realm of clarity and straightforward storytelling in verse.

Witch pulls readers into a world of angels, demons, shells, and strangeness. In fact, more than a poetry collection that can be easily compared to other books, the easiest way to “explain” this collection is to compare it to arthouse films. Just like arthouse, we know we’re in the presence of art and enjoy the elements we’re able to fully grasp while rolling with—and often also enjoying—that which is beyond immediate comprehension. Sure, we know there’s a woman in many poems here names Petal and we know there is love, fatherhood, water, transformation, and pain in these poems. We also read lines like “I rinse her cock with/abundant energy” or “we are trying/to scry out/a gender” and understand there is a discussion of gender and queerness rippling right at the surface. However, the rest evades us. Witch is a festival of language and meaning waiting to be decoded. “The Five Shades in Her Neck” is a perfect example:

“Petal peels back you.

Bell stitched to her headskin.

Bicycle.

Chased through the eight sun.

She freezes.

She is a strict gun.

Stunning you with her hand.

Her hand immediately in your hair.

Sunni red.

Tined and constellated.

The targeting wind in her neck.”

Yes, some of the stuff in Witch is confusing, and that’s okay. Why is Petal 1,002 years old? What is the significance of being married to two angels? Why do women appear as tentacled in a poem? Why is the headless angel kneeling? Why do other angels “drift along the periphery/of sheep”? I don’t know, but reading about them is an exercise in poetry, a way to enter a different world and encounter words strung together in ways you’ve never encountered them before. This is one of the beautiful things poetry can offer, and it’s what the core of Witch is made of. 

Gabino Iglesias is a writer, editor, literary critic, and professor living in Austin, TX. He is the author of ZERO SAINTS and COYOTE SONGS. You can find him on Twitter at @Gabino_Iglesias.

[REVIEW] Green by Melissa Fite Johnson

(Riot In Your Throat, 2021)

REVIEW BY GABINO IGLESIAS

Melissa Fite Johnson’s Green is a box of memories that also contains a few bridges. Yes, I said bridges. The first one is between now and whenever the things she talks about—the death of her father, her running away at five years old, breaking her leg, a trip to the fertility clinic—happened. The second is between poetry and music. These are poems that have a unique rhythm, and undeniable musicality, but I mean more than that; these are poems that have open conversations with songs, most of which readers will know. The last bridge is between reality and the world Johnson’s filter creates. She was once sixteen, but she can be sixteen again here as she visits her past self or she can bring her father to the page despite the fact that he passed away in 1998. Every one of these bridges is worth crossing.

Poetry that tells stories has always been my favorite kind, and Green is full of stories. Some have a hint of comedy, some are memories shaped into poetry by words, and some are slices of Johnson’s biography presented without filter. Every line about her father, for example, cuts you to the marrow. “The Immediacy” is a perfect example:

Once my father wanted yogurt?

but couldn’t remember the word.?

Once he tried to carry his own cereal,

brace the bowl’s lip against his cane handle,

and my mother came home to flakes

crusted to the kitchen floor. When he

mouthed Elden again and again, I guessed

my brother had a new girlfriend, Ellen, but

it was the name of his dead uncle.?

So what? I asked, then left the room.

The day my father died,?

I smelled the cologne-tinged?

rubber handle of his cane, held it tight

in my hand, pretended it was his hand.

The say geniuses are those who can explain something complicated in a way that it’s easy to understand. The poetic version of that probably has to do with a poet’s ability to bring something to the page in a way that you understand it, but only the best of them can me you both understand and feel. Johnson belongs to this second group. There are poems here so full of emotion that they stick with you even after you’re done reading. There’s sadness and pain, but both are presented in ways that they become palpable, capable of jumping from the page and touching you with their painful straightforwardness. Just read “The Woman and the Wolf”:

He strangled little sounds from me

in his doorway. Later?

he called the word strangle

dramatic. You could breathe fine.

Hand over my mouth, he shushed

into my ear. Later he said,?

You can’t rape your girlfriend.?

I lay awake while he slept.

Easter morning I cried?

in church, quietly?

so my mother couldn’t hear.

Another bowed chin in a pew.

Sometimes I imagine wolves?

as wounded birds. From a distance,

they’re not so different, the howling

head, a wing puncturing the sky.

Johnson visits herself in the past and sees herself in the future. She imagines other realities while tied to this one. Throughout all of it, she chronicles, and the result of that is a fantastic collection that demands to be devoured first and then read slowly, savoring each trip in time regardless of the darkness that sometimes is waiting there.

Gabino Iglesias is a writer, editor, literary critic, and professor living in Austin, TX. He is the author of ZERO SAINTS and COYOTE SONGS. You can find him on Twitter at @Gabino_Iglesias.

[REVIEW] Thrown in the Throat by Benjamin Garcia

(Milkweed Editions, 2020)

REVIEW BY GABINO IGLESIAS

Benjamin Garcia’s Thrown in the Throat is one of those rare poetry collections that isn’t satisfied with tackling one important subject. Between growing up undocumented and processing the complexities of queer identity (“mom didn’t know I was gay/because she chose not to see”), this is a superb debut that explores identity in a variety of ways and heralds the arrival of a powerful new voice in contemporary poetry.

Garcia does a lot of things right, but there are three elements that merit discussion. The first is the use of Spanish. This is a collection that brings together being and belonging. Garcia is part Santa Muerte and part Marilyn Monroe, and the mix of languages echoes. In these poems, the use of Spanish is deliberate, a great reminder that sometimes usamos una palabra porque es la mejor palabra para esa oración o sentimiento y no porque no sabemos la traducción de ella. Y que conste: “If some words don’t belong in poems, then/I say some people can go fuck themselves.”

The second element, which is incredibly timely, is existence between cultures, in the interstitial space that is home to all migrants: 

When our mothers had no water for themselves?

we drank. When we had no bed we mapped a plot

in the dirt. We had to lie in the dirt of your country.

When we had no money we worked.?

When we had no license we walked.?

When we had no strength our mind kept walking.

When we had no passport our blood?

was our passport. When there was no train

we hauled the weight of our own body.

When we had no companion we remembered

God is our companion. When we had no

direction our family was our compass.

When we had no faith luck?

was our faith. When we have finished

death will be our luck.

Undocumented is our status, resistance

is our cause. Because we cannot sleep

we dream with open eyes.

Garcia explores family, poverty, love, queerness, and trauma through language. At once playful and precise, the writing in Thrown in the Throat operates on two levels. In the first, the words tell stories, explore memories, and chronicle important events. In the second, language is a vehicle for rhyme and rhythm, with cadence and alliteration popping up from time to time to remind readers that Garcia is in control at all times and that the way they’re reading the poem obeys the way the poet crafted it.

Of all the elements mentioned above, playfulness is perhaps the strongest and the least expected. Garcia has a sense of humor, and it dances with trauma and bad memories in this collection. The reader always stands on shaky ground, expecting a reversal, an explosive line, a shattering revelation, or a devastating truth, and Garcia constantly delivers. Here’s the first part of “The Great Glass Closet”:

“This is not a metaphor: when I say that I lived in the closet, it’s because I lived in the closet.

You might, too, if you shared a one-bedroom apartment with eleven other people and a pet: mother, stepfather, brother, brother, brother, uncle, aunt, cousin, cousin, cousin, cousin, dog. Then there’s me, the surplus.

You could have called our closet a walk-in closet in the sense that a child’s body could walk in. Mine did, and I called it home. It was comfortable enough, if you were willing to lie. I was.”

Thrown in the Throat packs a life and unpacks an identity. Navigating smoothly through the rocky terrain of immigration and Otherness, Garcia’s poems are declarations that stick to your ribs and convince you that you know the person behind the words because something so strong and personal can’t click with you so quickly unless there is some kind of kinship. This is a debut all poetry lovers should read, and then join in me in eagerly waiting for whatever Garcia does next. 

Gabino Iglesias is a writer, editor, literary critic, and professor living in Austin, TX. He is the author of ZERO SAINTS and COYOTE SONGS. You can find him on Twitter at @Gabino_Iglesias.

[REVIEW] To Emit Teal by upfromsumdirt

(Broadstone Books, 2020)

REVIEW BY GABINO IGLESIAS

Sometimes you read poetry that makes you think of a juggler throwing knives lit on fire into the night sky. You’ve seen jugglers before, but this one—the one you’re reading—is new, special, unique. Encountering poets like that means encountering not only words in orders you’ve never seen them in before but also words used to say things you’ve never heard them say before. upfromsumdirt is that kind of word magician (“i’m a shaman on the forward path/walking past-backwards to where the Ra also rises”).

I first encountered upfromsumdirt’s word last year when I read Deifying a Total Darkness, which blew me away and struck a chord with the Caribbean magic riding my veins. When I started putting together this National Poetry Month project, I knew I had to reach out and include some of his work. To Emit Teal was all I wanted it to be and more.

You don’t even have to go into the first poet to know you’re experiencing something strong, something that carries a message. All you have to do is read the dedication:

“TO EMMETT TILL

FOR

breonna &

ahmaud &

george &”

Simple, but it hurts. Three times; a history of racism, struggle, and murder. Then you start reading, and it only gets better. One of the things that make upfromsumdirt work unique is his balance of time and subject. He writes about now, but with always keeps the past present. He writes about the word, but in a way that’s filtered through his experiences and amplified and presented by his voice. This is poetry about the self that often is inextricably tied to the world and to other people.

Some things in this collection are easy to write about. You already know it deals with racism and history. Yeah, slavery is in there, and don’t you forget. There’s also a distinctive musicality and words that create their own rhythm: “you hafta be a butterfly to feel this tango,/electric bomba for our boneblack spirits.” Lastly, there is Blackness as upfromsumdirt sees it in a historical context: “our status as Nigerian bronze smith descendants/down to some ordinary yard bird—hustlers” Lastly, there is the stuff you read and then read again because it’s so timely (sadly) and so powerful:

“we coddle our kids in the genie bottle’s broken shards; we caress & dress our newborns in secondhand smoke & mirror with “make a wish” as body armor. born as batteries—their pained laughter the lithium for the very war machine come to kill them. for nostalgia’s sake, they’ll even kick in your door in the dead of night and brew tea for you under a hail of bullets; the keystone cops in a brutal ballet.”

You can understand that without much digging, but then there are poems that seem to bring messages that demand you dig deeper. upfromsumdirt seems to have spoken to the Orishas and they gave him a gift: to write with words we all know but in a way that strikes your chest like the sound of drums…and makes you understand it beyond language. This is something he does time and again, and it’s the reason why folks should read his work. Here’s just a taste you can feel and could have a hard time explaining because it contains so much:

“either way, i’m too ancestral to carry on as some

cold canon’s common cuck—i’m an old ass man

my knees ache from translating Earth?

to a telling-tongue (and from too much Splenda

to let a daughter tell it)—carrying a vesperous hurt

400 years too heavy – but walking around with your

ass on your shoulders is a definite cause for type-2

diabetes so i’ve backed down (somewhat) with

the mouth-frothing diatribe—i’m a faith-healing

black folk-art snake handler in 21st century coveralls

bidding you to come eat my magic yeast—beneficial

poisons to regrow lost youthhood these

mythic words are a load-bearing wall in the Temple

of Octavia—Patron Lady of the Thick Black Lip

each quip a ledger for our unborn legends and that’s

the real reason i’ve lured you here—human sacrifices

are needed—so surrender at once your throat to me let me

slice out a premonition with the edge of

an orange peel placing these long drawn out words?

on the sleeve of a t-shirt for e-bay every sentence

a gang sign for the Dark Gods Of Black Poetry on

pinterest—my stories hauled in egg sacks from

the center of the sun on the back of Anansi

i’m here because there is splinter in America

and now is not the time for withdrawing words

absconding from the up-or-down vote.

You’ve seen jugglers before, but from time to time you encounter one doing tricks you’ve never seen before. That’s what To Emit Teal does, and it’s what makes upfromsumdirt a poet you should read. Leave what you think you know about poetry at the door and enter his world. You won’t regret it.

Gabino Iglesias is a writer, editor, literary critic, and professor living in Austin, TX. He is the author of ZERO SAINTS and COYOTE SONGS. You can find him on Twitter at @Gabino_Iglesias.

[REVIEW] Love & Metaxa by Christina Strigas

(Christina Strigas, 2021)

REVIEW BY GABINO IGLESIAS

Starting a review with your own blurb is a weird thing to do, but here we are. I’ve been a fan of Strigas’s work for a while now, so when she asked me to read her latest and say something about it, I jumped at the opportunity to talk about her poetry outside of a review. Here’s what I said:

Love & Metaxa is a collection of feelings violently thrown against the page. Strigas’s work is intense and honest. This collection is a mirror that reminds us of ourselves: a little dirty, a bit sad, stained with coffee, questioning everything, remembering the things that turned into scars, craving booze, ignoring the way the heart aches. These poems are the equivalent of making out with a stranger in a parking lot as wild horses stampede down the street and you feel the weight of the ghosts of old lovers hanging from your lips. Ah, but there is fun and lust, locked rooms and books, the beach and the fact that death is not yet here. Forget reading these poems; feel them. They will probably kiss you in return.”

That blurb contains no lies, but I didn’t have enough space to say everything I wanted to say about this collection. Enter this review.

Love & Metaxa is a bizarre rollercoaster of emotions. Strigas makes love in one poem and then deal with her father’s death in the next. There are kisses and glioblastomas, a bit of music and a lot of booze, a few ghosts and a lot of pain. In a nutshell, these poems are a collection of feelings and experiences, all filtered through poetry, all containing a slice of Strigas, a chunk of her life:

I slept under crumbled bridges,?

car lights reflecting pothole prisms,

when I lost my soul to the?

gods of: drugs.?

wars?

alcohol?

dead poets?

sharp philosophers?

listless writers.

Our glowing graffiti—illegal,

Polaroids, opioids?

a tower of glossy tabloids—

Past inflated—dated bottles

majestic little lanterns

erupting enlightened.

You filled in a spotlight for me,

In neon bars I slaved in,?

smoky?

local

emptied, lonely rebel—?

just another female poet, a fitted slave

I became your Metaxa maid.

No more niceties.?

As the antihero you were made to be:

under a highway bridge?

ashamed?

stuffed inside a glass pillow, evoking

cult leaders.?

A revelation I named Vacant Lot.

The magic of Love & Metaxa resides in its balance: it’s beautiful and ugly, painful and happy, sexy and sad. These are poems are traveling, but also about things you want to forget and fridges full of hostility, of books but also of loss, of city lights and naked flesh. Strigas writers with her heart on her sleeve, and the writing here reflects that with poem after poem full of memorable lines, pointed questions, and sharp observations. Read that blurb again. Done? Now go get your kiss. 

Gabino Iglesias is a writer, editor, literary critic, and professor living in Austin, TX. He is the author of ZERO SAINTS and COYOTE SONGS. You can find him on Twitter at @Gabino_Iglesias.

[REVIEW] All the Violent Memories by J.B. Stevens

(First Cut, 2021)

REVIEW BY GABINO IGLESIAS

“I hope I don’t catch one,

But I know I’m due.

I know I’m due.”

J.B. Stevens is talking about a bullet in those lines. He is talking about the certainty of death, the fear of knowing that the more time you spend in front of heavily armed enemies, the bigger the changes of you catching a bullet are. A bullet is something you can touch, a tool you can use. Fear is different. Fear is something that touches you and not the other way around. It’s something you might try to use as a tool to stay alive, but it’s also something that can destroy you, haunt your dreams, make you insecure. In All the Violent Memories there is a lot of fear and bullets. However, there is hope and happy endings. This is a short poetry collection about war that digs deeps into the trauma of it and shows that violence has a way of hurting even those who survive.

There are times in which poetry is used to deliver veiled messages or to explore something using language in a way that makes it impossible to see the meaning of the work unless the reader spends time deconstructing the poem. That’s not the case here. Stevens writes about war as if he’s stabbing the page. In All the Violent Memories, writing is a way to cope, an exorcism, a way to perform self-surgery and put things on the page so that, maybe, they haunt Stevens a little less.

“Iraq took my soul,

Sleep required medication,

Death beckons peaceful.

Why can’t I relax,

The assholes all fucking missed,

I endure. They missed.

Motivation gone,

My novel consumes the world,

The memories call.

War is at the core of this collection. Several other elements are present, and they all come together to give this a noir feel. Guns, drugs, violence, and even a coffee burn to the crotch bring in a dose of gritty reality, but war and its effects are the heart of All the Violent Memories. The threat of death, suicide, broken relationships, loss, fear, bomb dogs, interpreters, and bombs; they make up most of the poems here, and they make for authentic, uncomfortable reading that everyone should experience.

All the Violent Memories is raw and emotionally gritty.  Stevens writes like he’s telling a story, and his clarity and straightforward approach help these short poems deliver a harder punch. This isn’t a happy book, but it’s an important one because it reminds us that some things aren’t over just because they came to an end.

Gabino Iglesias is a writer, editor, literary critic, and professor living in Austin, TX. He is the author of ZERO SAINTS and COYOTE SONGS. You can find him on Twitter at @Gabino_Iglesias.

[REVIEW] And God Created Women by Connie Voisine

(Bull City Press, 2018)

REVIEW BY GABINO IGLESIAS

The reasons a lot of literary critics opt not to write about poetry is that doing so is often to trying to explain the ineffable. Trying to come up with a few lines to describe Connie Voisine’s And God Created Women is like witnessing a religious ceremony from an unknown culture conducted in a language you don’t understand and then trying to explain exactly what was happening. The poems here are beautiful and Voisine is an I that keeps popping up, so at least we have some coordinates for navigation. However, besides those two things, the poems in this collection are about everyday things becoming elevated into something more via language.

And God Created Women contains known elements shaped into new things. There are babies and horses here, for example. People ride the bus and watch the news. Someone is angry and a wedding takes places after a murder. We know the world Voisine writes about, but we encounter a different version of it here. For example, we know the story of God creating Eve, but here we see it differently, and the retelling calls her womb a 3-D printer and includes Cheetos.

“Woman printed out two sons

in pain she bore them, and later,

much later, that fratricide, another

management fail. God gave her

other wonders, like the flaming

swords barring her from the garden,

a nice set of earrings, and the recent

regional victory of basketball team.

Much later, God’s son was very kind

to her, though she had slipped a bit,

what with the poverty and prostitution.

And God Created Women might be a guide to find beauty in everyday things. Or maybe it’s an exploration of how we can inhabit different spaces and how those spaces either shape us or adapt to who we are. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s neither. The only thing that’s clear here is that Voisine is a gifted writer with a knack for unveiling things using a unique lens that reveals them as new and makes us wonder about the details we might be missing.

Gabino Iglesias is a writer, editor, literary critic, and professor living in Austin, TX. He is the author of ZERO SAINTS and COYOTE SONGS. You can find him on Twitter at @Gabino_Iglesias.

[REVIEW] Hardcore by Mik Grantham

(Short Flight/Long Drive Books, 2021)

REVIEW BY GABINO IGLESIAS

I read a lot of horror fiction, which means I tend to take the term “hardcore” with a grain of salt because it’s something often used by writers who think gore or sexual abuse is enough to mask their lack of storytelling skills. That said, Mik Grantham’s Hardcore, which contains a fair amount of fear and bodily fluids, delivers on every implied promise made by its title. Funny, harrowing, personal, and dark, the poems in Hardcore delve deep into things most people would rather not talk about. In the first four poems, Grantham tackles pregnancy scares, losing her favorite underwear, vomiting on herself at the gynecologist’s office, drunk people, and being afraid of anthrax. And that’s just the start. Depression, the aftermath of abortion, the 2016 elections, and dark childhood memories are also present here, and Grantham’s straightforward approach brings them to the page raw and unfiltered.

Hardcore is a door into Grantham’s life. The poems talk about events with unfiltered honesty, and that makes the readers feel like they’re listening to a friend telling them about the stuff they experienced. Here’s “Stay”:

the dogs fucked all night long

we ordered chinese food

there were noodles?

covered in soy sauce

are you turned on??

you took my food away?

maybe you wanted to save some?

for later?

i always thought that was a weird move

do you remember this?

this was back when you disappeared

often?

here we are?

hey, where are you going now

While it might sound like a gloomy collection—and it is gloomy—Hardcore is unique and fun to read. Bizarre cohesive element like movies (especially ones with witches) and teeth (lost teeth, missing teeth, teeth falling out, ripping teeth out) emerge from the poems as testaments to the strange nature of the voice that created this book. Grantham’s style walks a fine line between deadpan gallows humor and the kind of honesty that comes out you without filter. Behind every poem here there is a story or a feeling, and the delivery often makes deconstruction or analysis unnecessary. I guess the word that fits here is blunt, but it’s a bluntness that’s strangely beautiful, that makes you nod your head in agreement. Here’s “riding my bike”:

wishing someone would?

hit me with their car while i’m

on my way to work

Hardcore is full of that weirdness that makes real life look scripted. For example, Grantham’s mom is a recurring character in the collection. She saw the devil and liked listening to Jewel. Her grandmother is also here, and the last poem, the longest in the book, is about spending time with her. And then there’s Grantham’s work as a waitress, which permeates the book and gives her stories to tell.

This isn’t a beautiful collection about perfect moments; it’s a rough, graphic, authentic, wonderfully humane collection about hating your job, eating eggs, past relationships, remembering your childhood, and peeing in parking lots. Grantham has a knack for bringing reality to the page with outstanding economy of language, and that makes this a must read for anyone who likes their poetry with a healthy dose of grit.

Gabino Iglesias is a writer, editor, literary critic, and professor living in Austin, TX. He is the author of ZERO SAINTS and COYOTE SONGS. You can find him on Twitter at @Gabino_Iglesias.