Book Recommendation: DOWN THIS CROOKED ROAD: Modern Poetry From the Road Less Traveled (Edited by RD Armstrong & William Taylor Jr) Lummox Press, San Pedro, 2009 (153 pages)

INTRODUCTION

I recently came across this old book  & found it interesting and entertaining to read and discovered some new poets working from the streets. In his Introduction writer and editor William Taylor Jr. says he was approached by Lummox guru RD Armstrong and was invited to solicit work from a handful of his favourite poets with the possibility of creating a book. It didn’t take Taylor long to draw up a list of writers and he says that they are not from any particular region or school of poetry:

“What connects these writers in my mind is obviously not location, or even style of writing, but more a spirit that I feel shines through in the work of all involved. All the poetry contained here is accessible without being mundane, well crafted without being academic…Poetry for people who might not realise they like poetry.

“It is my belief that your average reader can pick up this volume, open it to any page, read a bit, and think: This makes sense to me. This is a fellow human sharing their vision of what it is to exist, and it inspires me. Or, it could well be they’ll think something more along the lines of: This is some cool ass shit! That works too.”

The title poem ‘Down This Crooked Road’ is taken from Christopher Cunningham’s poem of the same name. It speaks of the uncertainty and daring of striking out on the road. The poem concludes:

we

are almost ill-prepared

but

there

is madness

and daring

in our eyes

as

we cut ties

and

stare back

at

the abyss,

laughing.

The collection includes seven poets:

Poet	pages
M.K. Chavez	11-28
Christopher Cunningham	29-48
Miles J. Bell	49-70
William Taylor Jr.	71-96
Christopher Robin	97-116
Father Luke	117-133
Hosho McCreesh	134-151
Bios	152-153

In this short summary of the book I will provide a brief overview of each poet’s work and will provide some links to their latest work, if available.

M.K. CHAVEZ

Chavez is the only female poet in the collection. As it says in her bio, she “writes about the beauty that can be found in ugliness.” ‘Ode to Methamphetamine’ is her strongest poem but ‘Mission Street Love Story’ and ‘Everything that I needed to Know about Writing I Learned from Being a Stripper’ are also highly impressive.

Her latest book Mothermorphosis (Nomadic Press, 2016) can be purchased here: http://www.nomadicpress.org/store/mothermorphosis

CHRISTOPHER CUNNINGHAM

Cunningham is a highly observational poet who compresses everyday experiences to often make metaphorical comments on life. The title poem ‘down this crooked road’, ‘GO’ and ‘bending, but not the other’ are some good examples. His writing is pared down, exceedingly clear and excellently conceived.

Find an old post on NYQ Poets: http://poets.nyq.org/poet/christophercunningham

A 2007 interview with Cunningham on Poet Hound: http://poethound.blogspot.com.au/2008/04/interview-with-christopher-cunningham.html

Blog: Upright Against the Savage Heavens 2006-2012: http://savageheavens.blogspot.com.au/

MILES J. BELL

Bell is an English writer and is probably best known for his 11 page poem ‘Icarus Rex’ which appears in this collection.

Some of the other poems represent threshold experiences which prompt the speaker to make a realisation, such as, the need to move beyond the expected & to surprise yourself, that feelings like pain and love are fleeting and “will eventually fade to shadow” and the like.

Find some of Bell’s work online:

http://www.wordriot.org/template.php?ID=801

http://www.alittlepoetry.com/vv05mbell.html

http://www.killpoet.com/issue_3/articles/21.html

Interviewed by Sean Kilpatrick in 2006: http://anorexicchlorinesextoymuseum.blogspot.de/2006/08/interview-with-miles-j-bell.html

WILLIAM TAYLOR JR.

Taylor who lives in the Tenderloin area of San Francisco, is the best known poet in the collection. In these poems he wanders through the local bars and cafes in the search of  sad woman and material for his writing. My favourites include ‘Slow’, ‘The Strangest’, and in particular, ‘It is Enough’. The poems are highly observational and chronicle the passing of time, in which Taylor shapes his experience to make some subtle but profound metaphysical statements about life.

His latest book To Break the Heart of the Sun (Words Dance Publishing, 2016) can be bought here: http://wordsdance.com/to-break-the-heart-of-the-sun-by-william-taylor-jr/

Follow William Taylor Jr.’s latest  writing on Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/William-Taylor-Jr-134877363275335/

CHRISTOPHER ROBIN

Robin brings to us the world of food stamps, of women with kids with foetal alcohol syndrome, of bathrooms which haven’t been cleaned for six years. He describes in blunt detail those who live at the bottom of the food chain. His best poems include the brilliant ‘Freaky Mumbler’s Manifesto’, ‘Infinite Joy In Spite Of’ and ‘Slingshot’.

Robin is a labourer from Santa Cruz, California. He has published  three chapbooks and is editor of Zen Baby zine, a self described “pseudo-literary train-wreck in print form since 2000.”

Find the zine here: http://www.christopherrobinzenbaby.com/415033576

FATHER LUKE

Father Luke Miljevich from his 2009 bio describes himself as a person who “waits with a woman he loves for a perfect world.” He writes about the pain and loneliness of living on the fourth floor of an old hotel in an up-beat, often humorous way.  His best poem is ‘With A Seagull For Company’ about the death of  Little Bob, his aquarium crab.

Find Father Luke on Facebook here: https://www.facebook.com/Father.Luke.Miljevich/

HOSHO McCREESH

In this collection McCreesh writes grand philosophical poems about the inevitability of death, the lack of purpose, our loss of innocence, the snuffing out of the light & the approaching darkness. He likes using long-winded titles which emerge into the poem, such as, ‘You Never Want To Say That/ We Owe It To Ourselves/ To Be Happy As We Can Possibly Be/ For All The Many & Nefarious Ways It’ll Be/ Taken Out of Context, Be Co-Opted/ By The Greedy., The Self-Important, The Gluttonous, & Idiotic & Insatiable…’ and ‘As Madness Abounds, As Brutality Trumpets & A Cold, Hard World Gets Colder, Harder, & The Death Of All That Might Save Us Increases…’

Hosho McCreesh hails from the American Southwest and more information about his writing can be found at his official page for his books of poetry: http://www.hoshomccreesh.com/poetry/

See also: www.nyqpoets.ner/poet/hoshomccreesh

For more information about purchasing Down This Crooked Road contact Lummox Press: http://www.lummoxpress.com/lc/

Book Review: John D Robinson WHEN YOU HEAR THE BELL THERE'S NOWHERE TO HIDE. Holy &Intoxicated Publications 2016 (84 pages)

John D. Robinson is one of many dozens of poets who operate just below the mainstream radar & who publish books of their own work. Robinson's poetry can be found widely on the net and some of the poems in the collection have previously appeared in magazines such as Red Fez, Mad Swirl, Your One Phone Call and the recently defunct Dead Snakes. Robinson, 53  is an exceedingly polite, working class bloke who has an interesting story to tell through his raw narrative & portrait poems.

This collection consists of 29 of Robinson's free verse narrative poems which recount in an unembellished, confessional way his take on some of his ‘every day’ experiences, such as having a day off work, being pulled over by a motorcycle cop, having a piss in a public urinal, waking up from an alcohol induced blackout & the perils of hitchhiking at 4 am in the morning.

As keenly observed are his portrait poems which focus on his study of eccentric & underclass people he comes across. ‘Getting To Know Each Other’, ‘One Of The Family’, ‘The Forgery’, ‘A Poem For Laurie’, ‘A Snap-Shot of Joanna’, ‘Hide And Seek’, ‘I Imagine’ and 'Neil and the Kitty Cat Scratch' are all clear & highly competent examinations  of crazy, often fucked up & drug dependent outcasts.

In John Grochalski's Foreword he notes, “John D. Robinson writes these poems with the experience and nerve to back it up. He passes no judgement on himself or his subjects, but just presents this cruel existence as it is lived in tough, plain language that hits you like a punch to the gut." Further on he writes, "What has always struck me about a Robinson poem is how stark and honest the language is, the grit that comes off the page and the life that is distilled into each line."

The poems in this collection are easy to read, and are often humorous, despite their bleak, down & out subject matter. They get you thinking about your own mishaps & follies & the dodgy people you have occasionally met & have tried to avoid ever since.

Here is a selection from John D Robinson's collection:

THE FORGERY

Her name was Clare, she was a few

years older than my I;

Clare had big breasts that

mesmerised me and she

would flirt with me, move in

real close and make me blush

and turn away –

“Would you do something

for me?” Clare asked

of me one day, “I’d really

appreciate it” she said

smiling and thrusting out

her chest.

“Okay” I said.

“Would you go and cash

this script?” she said

handing me a prescription

that was tightly folded

into small square;

as I took the paper from

her hand, her fingers

softly and briefly clasped

mine and she fluttered

her eyes and I looked

at her wonderful

cleavage and said

“Sure, okay”

The pharmacy was

close by, on the way

I unfolded the script,

a blind man could have

seen the obvious added

forgery

for amphetamine;

that didn’t stop me,

I thought of Clare’s

breasts and that

beautiful cleavage.

“It’ll take a few

minutes to process,

please take a seat”

said the pharmacist

smiling and friendly.

I sat down and just

a few minutes later 2

plain-clothed police

officers, a male and

female, approached me

and placed the hand of the

law upon me and took me

down to the station

where I was finger-printed,

questioned, to which I

responded with silence

and then placed into a

cell –

40 minutes later I

heard the wailing and

confessing, screeching

tearful tones of Clare;

On the day of our

court appearance Clare

wouldn’t even look

at me and her mother

believed that I had

forged the script and

looked at me with

disgust;

we received 12 months

probation each.

Several years later I

learnt that Clare had been

involved in an RTA and

was now in a forever

wheelchair,

but

I could only think of

those breasts,

of that magical cleavage

as she dances

free and child-like in

an amphetamine whirl

of sensual

eternal ecstasy.

ONE OF THE FAMILY

A few weeks previous

I had seen him, staggering,

falling and crashing

head-first into a parked

car and then laying upon

the cold concrete and

cursing and shouting and

then laughing as he

gathered himself upright,

blood trickled from his

head and he lurched

forward; all the while

muttering and whispering

to himself;

I crossed the road to

avoid any contact and I

hurt myself to do so;

a university educated guy,

we had many literary

discussions and he always

told me ‘Read Faulkner,’

which I never did;

he worked hard and had

married in the university

town, raised children and

bought homes and cars and

then it all went wrong; I never

did find out what but he

returned to his home-town

and committed himself

to alcohol; he married a

simple woman and fathered

3 children and very

occasionally  I would visit

the family home and

drink with him;

he’d sit and sleep in an

armchair in the lounge;

beside the chair was a fridge;

he never slept for more than

2 or 3 hours at a time,

he’d awake and open the

fridge door and pull out

a can; the tv was always

on silent; flickering;

something to stare at

in the early hours; the

house was sparse, naked

of comfort or

friendliness or attraction

but home for 3

young lives; following the

breakdown of this marriage

he lived alone in rented

rooms and was evicted

again and again until

no landlord would

accept him and he ended

up on the streets;

he was in his early

50’s and

was found frozen to

death one

February morning in

a seaside alleyway;

I never made his funeral

and I know for shit-sure

that he won’t make mine.

4am HITCH-HIKING

“Get the fuck out” she ordered

after I had performed some

insane and dangerous

drunken behaviour within the

speeding vehicle;

I did as she asked and climbed

out of the car, it was about

4am and we had been

hurtling through murderous

narrow, dark country-lanes;

and then she sped away and

I expected her to turn around

after a few minutes but she

didn’t and I watched the

red tail-lights fade and

vanish into blackness;

I was fucked; miles from

town and now I had no

choice but to stagger along

the treacherous roads

thumbing for a ride on a

deserted and lonely road;

but it happened;

a car pulled over and I

stumbled towards the car

and clambered into the

front passenger seat smiling

and feeling relieved;

the driver was a little older

than I and he was pleasant

and talkative and then I

felt something cold and wet

and soft push forcefully

against the back of my neck

and then I heard a low

grumbling growl;

I was startled and my body

tensed in fear.

“Oh yes, of course” the driver

said casually “I almost

forgot about Spartacus,

he’s so quiet, I really wouldn’t

make any quick movements”

“What?” I whispered

“Be still, you don’t want

to startle Spartacus” he

said

“Spartacus?” I said

“Yeah, Spartacus, a 3 year

old black Doberman Pincer,

a nervous and unpredictable

dog sometimes” said the driver.

From out of the corner of an eye

I saw a grin cut across his

face and I sat still, very

still and I felt trapped,

frozen and scared;

I could feel Spartacus’

breath roll across the

nape of my neck but I

could no longer hear the

growling;

“That’s enough now

Spartacus” the driver said and

the dog pulled away and

sank back down into the rear

seats; I relaxed a little and

slowly looked over my

shoulder; Spartacus was a

fine specimen, sleek and

dark and powerful; I breathed

in deep and looked over

at the driver; the grin had

transformed into a loud

laugh and then after a

few moments he quietened

and concentrated silently

on the roads like

nothing had happened.

When we reached the

edges of town he pulled

over, turned and said to me

“Get the fuck outa my car”

I didn’t hesitate and he

sped away and I watched

the red tail-lights disappear

and I began walking and

I thought to myself, there

can’t be too many people

who can claim to have

been told, not once, but twice,

 to ’get the fuck

out of my car’

within an hour in the
sleepy moments before sunrise.

The above poems have previously appeared in Underground Books, The Clockwise Cats and Your One Phone Call.


Bio: John D. Robinson was born in 63 in the U.K. Many of his poems have appeared in small press and online journals. For information about purchasing John's book contact him here: johndrobinson@yahoo.co.uk