Featuring Ivan Jenson

Physics for Skeptics 

 

Did anybody just see

me and my epiphany 

just skipping down 

serendipity sidewalk?

And is it coincidence 

or synchronicity 

this deja vu

over somebody 

that just looks like you? 

Because I did 

a doppelganger 

double-take 

and felt like 

the whole matrix 

make-up of my 

material world was fake 

a simulated reality 

contained within 

the blue or red pill

we all must take 

yet, if there were any more 

than three dimensions 

to your beauty

it would only exacerbate 

my hypertension 

and make me worry 

by keeping me 

always hanging 

by a string theory 

and that is far too deep

and I am not willing 

to make that quantum leap 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Now You Tell Me 

 

Now that I am 

out of tokens

and coins of 

fool’s gold 

now that I 

no longer have 

a warm heart

or hands 

or a cup that 

runneth over 

with coffee to hold 

I mean at this 

very moment 

when my clothing 

comfortable yet old

has been ripped from 

my body by the greedy

hands of angels and demons 

all because it is high time for me 

to wash away another decade 

and watch it cascade into 

golden memories 

to savor by some fire 

that heats this haunted house 

full of ghosts that were once

cherished parents or pets 

now that I just dread

the sight of yet another

picturesque sunset 

as they hike the rate 

of my insurance policy 

all I can do is 

accept that even babies 

of the family 

like me

eventually turn sixty 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Boho Honey 

 

I like quirky individuals 

of the female persuasion 

who wear Diane Keaton hats

sport funky boots 

have dimple indentations 

shoulders inked with tats 

and who own 

black cats 

and a vintage vinyl 

record player 

where you can hear

the needle scratch 

I consider them

with their hoop earrings 

and smokey mascara 

to be the best catch 

because they can 

adore Plath 

yet still know 

how to laugh 

at an offhand remark 

and they often

show great originality 

as well as ingenuity 

when we are

naked in the dark

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Repeat Customer 

 

Now that we have 

officially slow danced

horizontally and know 

each other fully frontally

physically and intellectually 

you would think 

we would not be blindsided 

by the swift 

mixed martial art’s punch 

of an argument over 

where to go for brunch 

that results in one of us 

huffing and puffing 

and storming out the door 

yet five minutes later 

turning around 

and coming back for more 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Out of the Blue 

 

She was the sort 

of bubbly 

that made minutes

taste like champagne 

and she could turn

an average Sunday

into a snow globe 

in a Jimmy Stewart flick 

and so it was written 

in blessed cursive 

in the sky 

that meeting her 

was like looking

at clouds beyond 

the sparrows 

and seeing an image

of cupid and his arrow 

aimed right at me 

an unsuspecting target 

you know, a single guy 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Latin Lover 

 

Like nails scratching 

on a chalkboard 

your words create 

a dissonant chord 

an atonal anomaly 

since most of the time 

you are sweet to me 

now I see your split 

personality 

and to think 

I thought 

being with you 

would be like 

coming in 

from the rain 

now, I see

that happiness 

happens mainly 

in Spain 

Ivan Jenson is a fine artist, novelist and popular contemporary poet. His artwork was featured in Art in America, Art News, and Interview Magazine and has sold at auction at Christie’s. Ivan was commissioned by Absolut Vodka to make a painting titled Absolut Jenson for the brand’s national ad campaign. His Absolut paintings are in the collection of the Spirit Museum, the museum of spirits in Stockholm, Sweden.  
Jenson's painting of the “Marlboro Man” was collected by the Philip Morris corporation. Ivan was commissioned to paint the final portrait of the late Malcolm Forbes.  Ivan has written two novels, Dead Artist and Seeing Soriah, both of which illustrate the creative and often dramatic lives of artists. Jenson's poetry is widely published (with over 600 poems published in the US, UK and Europe) in a variety of literary media. A book of Ivan Jenson's poetry was recently published by Hen House Press titled Media Child and Other Poems, which can be acquired on Amazon. Two novels by Ivan Jenson entitled, Marketing Mia and Erotic Rights have been published hardcover. His website is: http://www.ivanjenson.com

Ivan Jenson’s new psychological thriller The Murderess is now available hardcover and as an eBook on Amazon.

Book Review: Ian Lewis Copestick DETRITUS OF THE DRUNKEN NIGHT (Cajun Mutt Press, 2019) 122 pages

This is the first full-length collection by the 49 year-old English poet Ian Lewis Copestick. About half of the poems in the book have been previously published in shit-faced on-line small press publications, such as: Punk Noir Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, Outlaw Poetry (before they started charging a fee), The Dope Fiend Daily, Horror Sleaze Trash & several others. 

 

A thick wad of Copestick’s early poetry can also be found on ‘Hello Poetry’:  https://hellopoetry.com/u696303/?after=2018-05-18-22-41-54

 

Detritus Of The Drunken Night is a book of confessional poems- exploring credibly a wide range of emotions- including grief, anger & hope: but without the bullshit of regret & false contrition. Copestick covers the usual gambit of the small alternative press- the tedium of mind-numbing labouring jobs (‘The Trains, ‘Coming In’), the euphoria of drug taking (‘Dream Time’) & its accompanying dependencies (‘A Curse’, ‘Out On The Piss’), alcoholism (‘Drinking Again’), relationship failures (‘It’s Over’, ‘A Lover’s Tiff’), serious health issues (‘A Stroke Of Genius’), rehab (‘Hospital Blues’), loneliness (‘Time Crawls’), and the power of language and the ability to transform oneself through words.  

 

With a few exceptions, Copestick writes from experience. He quit school at 16 and later developed drug problems which led him to a series of shit jobs and eventually to a major stroke at age 33 and its debilitating effects on his long-term health and employment prospects. 

 

His extended interview ‘13 Questions, a C.M.P. Interview Series (Pt. 1)’ with James D. Casey IV, Editor-in-Chief of Cajun Mutt Press is particularly revealing:  https://cajunmuttpress.wordpress.com/2019/04/11/13-questions-a-c-m-p-author-interview-series-pt-1-ian-lewis-copestick/

 

The opening poem in the collection ‘I Know That’s Not You’ is a powerful introduction to Copestick’s raw & unembellished poetry. It is directly addressed to a former lover who has died of a heroin overdose. The poem brutally expresses the shock, the incredulity and the utter devastation which comes with loss:

 

 

                                I Know That's Not You

 

I know that's not you

A marble headstone on a

Scrubby patch of grass

Trite rhyme chiselled into

Cold, black stone

Always seeming grey and cold

Even the summer sun can't permeate

The ghosts of grief that hang around

But, I know that's not you

A bag of bones in your sister's dress

Six feet down under cold, damp mud

Where’s the warmth, the sex, vitality

The laughter, the love

The insane jealousy ?

That's what's left of you

That's what lives on, always remains

Not remains

A piece of meat on a coroner’s slab

Or the blue faced ghoul

That I tried to breathe life

Back into 

But I know that's not you

Your spirit, the brightest I've ever known

Burning with a sweet intensity

All of those beautiful times in bed

Yes, great sex

But not necessarily

Laughter, easy, nothing between us

No need for clothes or self-consciousness

Now.

The most relaxed I've ever been

Life had a sheen, a confident glow

So, yes I cried

Almost died at your funeral

The thought of you rotting

Under dirty, black earth

I've almost died a few times since

Struggling to go on

When life’s light has gone out

So, yes

I'll come to your grave

And leave flowers

A Holly wreath at Xmas too

Walking back to the car

I”ll stifle a sniffle

Try to stop a sob

The tremors in my chest

But also

I know that none of it matters

Because

There in that graveyard

I know that's not you

 

Copestick started writing poetry around 2001 but didn’t start to publish his work until 2017 when he posted dozens of poems on ‘Hello Poetry’ which is a web-site open to any writers who want to publish their work for peer review. In the interview which follows this review, Copestick says he took a long time to publish his poetry because he lacked confidence and had to actually learn how to use a computer and figure out where to submit his work. 

 

A major turning point occured when he submitted to John Patrick Robbins, the editor of the websites Rye Whiskey Review: https://ryethewhiskeyreview.blogspot.com

and Under The Bleachers:

"Then I came across a poet called John Patrick Robbins, aka Gonzo. He'd already been published, he told me that I was a true poet, and more than good enough to be published, even more, one of his friends was starting a poetry website, and loved my work!!!

"Gonzo gave me the confidence to start sending my work to any poetry website I could find, when my book was published, I dedicated it to 3 people, my missus, my publisher and Gonzo."

The titular poem ‘Weekend Mornings’ is emblematic of Copestick’s content and style of poetry. He describes a morning “after a night at the bottle”, severely hungover, rummaging through pockets for “a bit of loose change”- and hopeful there is enough cash to buy some food and “a couple of beers.”

 

 

                                  Weekend Mornings

 

To wake at 11 a.m.

Head and heart pounding

An evil, dry, murderous mouth

I look, see the empty space in the bed

She is downstairs

Taking painkillers and coffee

I stumble to the fridge

It's beer for breakfast

And a roll up cigarette

 

She looks at me through lank hair

Pain filled eyes

“ Sorry about last night “ she says

“ What ?”

Oh nothing”

It's O.K., I don't remember and

Both of us say some shitty

Hurtful, unkind things

Especially after a night at the bottle

 

This life could kill a man

Has done

Many, many, too many times

But it's life, not death

We think of now

Rummaging through pockets

Scouring the table tops for money

A bit of loose change

Detritus of the drunken night

If

There's enough for bread, eggs

A couple of beers

Then on we go

Waiting

Borrowing

Praying on pay day

 

The poems are typically written in first person, free verse but Copestick also includes a dozen or so rhyming poems to add diversity to his work. The more effective of these are, ‘A Writer’s Prayer’, ‘A Price Of A Hit’ and ‘Once More.’ 

 

Asked if he a favourite poem from the collection, Copestick nominates ‘The Pawn Shop’: 

 

                  The Pawn Shop

 

Gold that glitters under toughened glass

Once gifts of love and all that entails

The love dissolved now, gone like the past

Now just rings, awaiting a sale

 

“ MUM “ lettered in gold, to whom was that given

What kind of trauma must have brought this thing forth

Drugs to get high, or food needed to live on

I can't help but wonder what that money was for

 

Staring at all of the small velvet boxes unnerves me

A sadness inside me, it twists and it churns

I hear a “ Next please “, so I take off my jewellery

Step to the counter, and then it's my turn

 

He says of the poem, “I’ve got a few favourites, one is ‘the Pawn Shop.’ One of the reasons is that it was Karen’s (my common law wife) favourite. Another is that if I tried to write prose it would probably take about 12 pages, but as poetry I managed to do it in 12 lines. 

 

“Also I love how it raises almost as many questions as it answers. You never find out why I am there, pawning my goods. I love how concise it is, there are no lines there just to get to the next one. Not a single syllable is wasted, there’s no flab at all.”

 

In rereading the collection, I find particularly compelling Copestick’s poems about writing. They range from his reflections on the writing process & its orgasmic appeal (‘Bring It On!’, ‘An Invitation’) to playfully imagining living as a successful rich novelist at a beach house at St. Tropez until the reality sets in (‘It’s Not A Bad Life’), to the fading dream & realization in ‘Waking Up’ that his poetry will not ultimately transform his life:

 

You're nearly 50 years old

And you've got nothing.

Just worthless words on

A thousand pieces of paper

That somehow you thought

Would be your salvation.

 

Ian Lewis Copestick’s poetry is raw & sometimes crudely crafted- more like prose shoot-ups on the page. But he is an honest & a credible English working class voice. Copestick is best when he puts down “the tough, true line” in describing his fucked-up life. For now, he remains postive and sticks to his booze & keeps the local dealers of hard drugs at arms length.  

 

 

Buy the book here: https://www.amazon.com/Detritus-Drunken-Night-Lewis-Copestick/dp/1092511148

INTERVIEW WITH IAN LEWIS COPESTICK  18-19 December 2021

 

Why did you originally take up writing poetry and attempt to get your thoughts and feelings onto the page?

Originally, I wanted to be rock’n’roll star. From the age of 14 to 30, I wrote about 5 albums worth of material. Then I realised that I wasn't a real musician, and never would be, so I turned to concentrating on the words. I discovered the massive freedom of not being tied down to metre, rhyme and so on. I LOVED the freedom of just slamming the words on the page, like Jackson Pollock with paint. 

You started writing in 2001 but did not really start to submit your work until about 2017. Is this accurate? Why the delay? What eventually prompted you to publish your stuff?

I tried to come through in a transitional period, another poet told me to go to my local library, and check out the Writer's Handbook. I did and sent my poems to several of the poetry magazines. The ones that got back in touch told me that they were moving onto the internet and told me to submit my work via e-mail. At the time, I didn't know how to turn a computer on, they might as well as asked me to send my work to the moon. The Job Centre sent me on a computer literacy coarse in, I think, 2015. So eventually I worked out how to send my stuff out. I began to send my stuff to a website called 'Hello Poetry'. The other poets praised my work, giving me confidence.

Then I came across a poet called John Patrick Robbins, aka Gonzo. He'd already been published, he told me that I was a true poet, and more than good enough to be published, even more, one of his friends was starting a poetry website, and loved my work!!!

 

Gonzo gave me the confidence to start sending my work to any poetry website I could find, when my book was published, I dedicated it to 3 people, my missus, my publisher and Gonzo. 

Where did some of the poetry in the collection first appear apart from ‘Hello Poetry’?

About half the work in my book had already been published, I read a poet somewhere recommending that. The ones that had been published were in Punk Noir Magazine, Outlaw Poetry (who put out loads of my early work, then they started asking for a $10 "donation" with every submission, I haven't been in touch since, which is a shame, because at one time I had HUGE respect for them). The Rye Whiskey Review, The Dope Fiend Daily, Medusa's Kitchen, who were also a huge help in my early days, Synchronised Chaos, Horror, Sleaze, Trash...it's a long list.

In reference to the title of your collection, what do you see as the “detritus” of your life so far, particularly as it is reflected in your poetry and your attempt to confront it?

There was no deep meaning why I called my book that. Originally, it was just a line in a poem called 'Weekend Mornings'; and it related to how you get home from the pub drunk. You throw the loose change from your pockets onto the nearest flat surface, but the next day, that change becomes really important, when you're broke. Afterwards I began to think that maybe my poems were the detritus.

I just live my life, getting drunk, having fun, and the poems are the detritus, what I leave behind.  

Do you have a favourite poem in the collection which particularly resonates with you? If so, can you describe its origins, construction and why it appeals to you?

I've got a few favourites, one is 'The Pawn Shop'. One of the reasons is that it was Karen,my (common law) wife's favourite. Another is that if I tried to write it as prose it would probably take about 12 pages, but as poetry I managed to do it in 12 lines. Also I love how it raises almost as many questions as it answers. You never find out why I am there, pawning my goods. I love how concise it is. There are no lines there just to get to the next one. Not a single syllable is wasted. There's no flab on it at all.

I also love 'Come Take A Walk' mainly because it's total fiction. Most of my writing is about true events that have actually occurred, so I really enjoyed writing a poem that was completely made up.  

Are you still cranking it out? Do you write every day? Do you have any new projects or interests?

No, I really wish that I was writing frequently, but unfortunately, I'm not. I was but nearly seven months ago, my common law wife of 18 years died suddenly. Then less than two months later, my Dad died of cancer. As I'm sure you can imagine, this really fucked me up. I couldn't write a single word for about 4 months.

I've written one poem and one short story in the last few weeks, which gives me some hope for the future. I was never one of those writers who could write to order, anyway. I read that Philip Larkin used to write for two hours every night. I couldn't ever do that. I can only write when inspiration strikes. 

 

What tips would you be able to pass on to a fledgling poet?

My advice to any poet would be read, read, read and write, write, write . The more you read, the more you get a feel for words. 

I don't think it matters too much what you read, I read the classics of literature, I also read a lot of thrillers, they all teach you how to put words together. The more you write, the better you'll become- pretty obvious, really. Although I would never go to a gym, the more you use your muscles, the easier it becomes to use them, I guess. 

Thanks Ian, for taking the time to answer some questions about your work.

Thanks again.

Featuring Ian Lewis Copestick

   Six p.m. Saturday Evening

 

It blows my mind to think of all of the

Human lives with all of their own private

Sorrows and joys, even in this little town

Six p.m. on a Saturday evening, just think

Of all of the different slices of life

Happening right now in all of these

Small houses. People getting ready for

A night on the town. The women

Putting on their make- up and curling

Or straightening their hair. The men

Drinking a couple of cans to help them

On their way, rubbing their hands

Together with glee at the thought of

A real good piss up. Or the poor

Lonely souls, watching crap prime time T.V.

Sadly looking forward to Monday

Because at least there are people

At work they can talk to.

Then there's me, writing poetry

In a £1 notebook, writing down

All of these worthless thoughts

There are thousands of other

Stories too.

I can't help but wonder, and I wonder

Why don't you

 

     Far Out, Man !

 

It's a late summer evening

It's close to 10 'O’ Clock

I hear the birds singing

With the pleasure that they've got

 

I am 48 years old

And life is getting rough

All the beliefs which I've been told

Are nowhere near enough

 

Christ on the cross

Buddha in the lotus position

To me, it's all lost

All just superstitions

 

We're just floating on a ball

In the middle of nowhere

If there's any miracle at all

It's that there's any life there

 

I don't believe in any deity

I think that is cosmic enough

And it blows my mind for me

When this life is getting rough

 

          The Real Realities

 

I was reading Lorca, and about his poetic theories

The difference between ‘ imaginative poetry ‘

And ‘ inspired poetry ‘. I was feeling pretty good

Thinking about writing a long, stream of consciousness

Poem. I went downstairs to get a coffee

Noticed that the cat's litter box needed changing.

 

Well, if there's one thing to clear your head

Of poetic fancies, it's changing your cat's litter box

You're thrust into the real realities

Of life. Piss and shit.

I forgot about a stream of consciousness

As a stream of cat urine ran down my hand.

Instead, I came upstairs and wrote this

The literary equivalent of what I've just thrown away

 

                 

          My Nightmare

 

Every writer thinks they're writing great stuff

If they didn't, why on earth would they bother

Each one thinks they're a genius, craftsman or seer

That they're better than all the others

 

Who wants to think that they are mediocre

To admit that they are no good

When they feel art in every heartbeat

And literature flow through their blood

 

At least 90% have to face up to the fact

That they never got it quite right

No, they weren't what they thought

They weren't quite good enough

Their names will disappear into the night

 

It is one of the saddest things about humanity

To live a full life, yet get nowhere

To be born at the bottom of the mountain

And a lifetime later to be still standing there

 

To never make a mark upon the Centuries

When you see the rubbish the public is fed

The  morons get rich and move 

To L.A.

You're stuck in Stoke and might as well be dead

 

 On Poetry As Flower Arranging

 

Reading a slim book of poetry

On life and it's mutability

Poems written from inside of

A safe, cosy, middle class cocoon

The words have no sharp edges

To burst the balloon

Poems about flowers

To while away the hours

Between the visit of the vicar

And the next pot of tea

Not poetry for you and me

Or anything like reality

Poetry as a gentle hobby

Like baking

Or flower arranging

Not poetry from the gut

That comes raging

Like fists planted upon the page

Poems of loss, or love, or rage

But tenderly placing

Each word on the page

Like a delicate flower

To be arranged

I don't hate the woman

Who wrote this stuff

For her this obviously is enough

I envy her easy life

It's lack of struggle

It's lack of strife

Perhaps one day it will be me

Writing of such superficialities

When I'm fat, well fatter

Rich and content

And all of my life force has been spent

I'll sit in my garden

And smell the flowers

Then, while away my hours

In my hobby, writing poetry

Between the visit of the vicar

And the next pot of tea

        

         Thrown Away

 

I remember when I was young

Much younger, just left school

In fact. I was in college, I was

Supposed to be studying to be

An engineer. I had no interest at

All in engineering. The only thing

About college that was fun was

Going to the pub at lunchtime.

Eventually, they threw me out

For turning up two hours late

For afternoon classes so drunk

That I could hardly stand.

Anyway, I remember the main

Lecturer as he kicked me out

Of there. He gave me a real

Bloody lecture. He looked down

At my file, open on his desk and

Told me how I had thrown away

Every opportunity I had ever had.

I think he meant the scholarship

To a posh, private school that I

Was given aged eleven.

I absolutely hated it and left

After a year.

“ Every chance you've been given

You just throw them all away.”

Perhaps that's why now, all

These years later, I find myself

So often rooting through the

Rubbish of life.

I'm trying to work out just what 

It was I threw away, and seeing

If I can find it again

 

 

 

           Browsing

 

Browsing through my phone today

I saw something ;

‘ Click HERE for a free pdf

Of Charles Bukowski poetry ‘

So I clicked and

The next thing I saw wasn't poetry

But hardcore porn and messages

Supposedly from women who live

In my area who are desperate for

No strings sex with any man

Available and willing.

Obviously these women don't exist

I hope these women don't exist.

That attach such little value

To themselves.

I only wanted to read  some poems

Perhaps a few I hadn't seen before

My God !

Is this what they do now

To lure people in ?

I must be getting old

I really wanted to read those poems

 

                    My Motorbike

 

My wife often asks me

“ Why do you have to write

So often ?  Every day you

Sit there tapping away.”

Well, if you had, for example

A huge, fast motorbike

It doesn't cost you a penny

To ride it, and no matter

What hair raising stunts

You do on it you are

Guaranteed to never get

Hurt, and if you practice

Enough then, you never

Know, you may end up

Being a professional

Motorbike rider. Then I'm

Sure you'd ride it as much

As you possibly could.

This is my motorbike.

Watch as I slide it into the

Bends, in a minute or two

I just might attempt a huge

Death defying leap, over 15

Double decker buses placed

End to end. Yes this is my

Motorbike and I am never

Ever going to stop riding it.

Garlic Bloody Sausage

 

for the last week or two, 

my wife has had a craving 

of some sort for garlic sausage, 

and cheese slices. I've tried 

every shop, and nearly every 

supermarket in town. today, 

the first shop I tried, an absolutely 

huge supermarket didn't have any. 

So I tried the new one, a supermarket 

that's only just opened. victory !!! 

Internet found it straight away, 

not a problem, not a problem at all. 

so then I looked at the cheeses, 

there we're two types of cheese 

slices. surely I couldn't go wrong 

here. how wrong I was ! they were 

the wrong type, so then I had to 

go back into the supermarket, 

Istand in line, waiting to be served. 

when I was seen, eventually, 

by a bored and surly black woman, 

I had to ask her if I could get a 

refund of one pound, and forty 

nine pence for a packet of the 

wrong sort if cheese slices.. 

then I went back into the shop 

for the THIRD time, to buy another 

brand. of course, these were the 

wrong ones too. by now I was 

beginning to lose my cool. 

So off to a third shop we went. 

in this shop luckily they sold the 

type my wife was after. I say luckily, 

because if they hadn't, I think that I 

may have strangled her. 

It's not the big things in life that will 

finish you off. it's the little, petty 

stuff that you never thought were 

of any importance. it's the garlic 

sausage, and the cheese FUCKING 

slices that drive a person insane. 

 

 

Ian Lewis Copestick is a 49 year old writer from Stoke on Trent, England.

He started writing around 2000, but due to a lack of confidence, and the lack of a clue where to send his work, he wasn't published until 2018.

Since then he's had over 350 poems, and several short stories published.

His book " Detritus Of The Drunken Night " was published in 2019 by Cajun Mutt Press, he's also been in several print anthologies, and nominated for the Pushcart Prize.